Free Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by Sharlene MacLaren Page B

back where he’d found it.
    She handed him a dainty china cup and saucer, which he took clumsily in hand, his big, earthy fingers easily encircling the whole thing.
    “What’s your favorite genre?” she asked.
    “My what ?” He’d never heard the word before, and he was irked by his own ignorance. Old Beauchamp had probably read every book ever published—Christian, that is—and he no doubt knew his Bible from front to back, perhaps even had whole chapters memorized! What chance did he stand against someone like him, never mind his rather sagging appearance? She obviously saw deeper than the man’s exterior. He took a swallow of tea and nearly scorched his tonsils.
    “What is it you like to read?”
    “Oh.” The newspaper . “The Bible, o’ course.”
    There went those lovely brows, forming two inverted Vs, and he knew by the spark in her chocolate eyes she didn’t for a minute swallow it. “Is that so? Then I’m sure you won’t mind sharing your favorite Scripture verse.”
    She had him there. “Uh, sure. It’s, um… ‘Jesus wept.’ My mother used to say it when I disobeyed. She’d say, ‘Jesus wept—and I know why.’” He grinned. “I guess she thought it was funny.”
    Mercy didn’t smile.
    He sobered. “But it wasn’t, of course.”
    She gave a slow shake of the head and narrowed her eyes to slits. “Are you going to tell me the reason for your visit?”
    His heart took a dive, its fast tick pounding loud in his ears. He took another nervous swig of tea, this one slower. Where had his courage run off to, anyway? The lady’s fine looks put him in a regular dither. “Are you gonna sit?”
    With a shrug, she moved to one of the wing chairs next to the fireplace. It was then that he took note of her bare feet peeking out from beneath her skirt. How could he have missed them when she’d gone into the kitchen? No wonder he hadn’t heard her return to the parlor. Small, pretty, and nicely shaped they were—and a pure distraction. As if he needed anything else to divert his poor, slow-thinking head.
    She must have noticed him gawking, for she quickly drew her feet under the blue fabric of her skirt. “Now then, tell me what brought you to my house at this hour.”
    He swallowed more hot liquid, then set the cup in the saucer in a less than delicate manner, sounding a loud clunk . “I…well, I’ve come to make you a proposal.” “Make you a proposal”?
    She stared, saying nothing.
    “That didn’t come out quite right. What I meant to say is…well, I know you’ve been on this husband hunt, and I wondered if, well, I might throw my name in the hat…as a contender.”
    “You want to what ?”
    “Don’t worry; I understand it wouldn’t be a real marriage. I wouldn’t put any demands on you, and I could help out with the boys and fix things around the house. There’s always one thing or another that needs fixin’, right?”
    She blinked three times, but no other muscle as far as he could tell even flinched.
    “So, what do you say? You want to get hitched?”
    She scratched her temple and sat there, mouth slightly sagging, but as for answering, nothing came out.
    “We could visit the preacher next weekend…unless that’s rushin’ you too much. But then, it’s Judge Corbett that’s rushin’ you, not me.”
    She cocked her head and eyed him warily. “You’re serious? You want to marry me?”
    He was beginning to think she might say yes. “Sure. What do you think?”
    As if a fire had just lit beneath her, she stood to her pretty little feet in record speed, causing a bit of tea in her dainty cup to spill out onto the saucer. She set them both on a side table and faced him. “What I think is that you’ve fallen off your rocker, Mr. Connors, and it’s time you left.”
    “We’d make a good team,” he hurried to say. “The boys already like me. Shoot, they think I’m an angel.”
    “I don’t give a skunk’s ear what they think about you. I am not marrying you.”