Free When the Heart Heals by Ann Shorey Page A

attire of plain calico. “Miss Graves’s situation need not concern you further. I came to collect my share of the payment from Mr. Haggerty.”
    His eyebrows shot upward. “You’re not coming back?”
    â€œNo.” She kept her voice steady, but her throat tightened. Spending the days with him had been educational as well as pleasurable. If Jacob were correct, she’d gained the respect of some of the townspeople in the process. She prayed their favorable regard wouldn’t disappear along with her employment.
    â€œMiss Saxon . . .” He held out a hand toward her, then dropped it. “How about two weeks?”
    The pleading in his deep brown eyes unnerved her. He looked like a boy—quite a tall, burly boy, but a boy nonetheless. She straightened her shoulders, determined not to weaken. “Miss Graves will remain with me as long as necessary. Now, I’d appreciate my wages, if you please.”
    â€œOf course.” He strode to his office and took a small envelope from his desktop. “Here’s your share from Mr. Haggerty. I set it aside last evening.” He placed the sum in her hand, but held on to an edge of the envelope. “You’re sure?”
    â€œI am.” She kept her tone brisk and dropped the money in her handbag, hoping her uncertainty didn’t show on her face. The next stop would be the mercantile for a talk with Faith. She’d find another way to remain independent. She had to.

9
    R osemary stood on her back porch, wearing an apron and wrapped in a shawl. She held a wooden spoon over a large glass bowl half-filled with water. “Be careful. Pour slowly,” she said to Jolene.
    â€œI know. I did this for my ma all the time. Just never had store-boughten lye—we always made soap from stove ash.” Holding the container close to the surface of the water, she poured the concentrated lye while Rosemary stirred.
    As the mixture dissolved, the sides of the bowl warmed. Rosemary wrinkled her nose as she set the water aside to cool. “Let’s go in. The lard should be melted by now.”
    Once in the kitchen, she removed the pot from the stove and carried it outside, placing it on a bench next to the glass bowl. When the liquefied fat cooled, they’d be ready to combine ingredients for her special shaving soap.
    Jolene sank into a chair and sniffled. “I miss my ma. Wish I’d never left home.”
    Understanding pierced Rosemary’s heart. “It’s the little memories that pain us the most, isn’t it? I remember my mother teaching me about herbs and plants. She loved growing things.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry!” Jolene’s eyes filled with compassion. “I didn’t know your ma had passed.”
    â€œShe hasn’t.” At least, not that she knew.
    â€œBut you said—”
    Rosemary replaced her shawl over her shoulders. “I need to check the lard. We can’t let it get cold.” She escaped out the door, berating herself for letting memories run away with her. Her own mother might be unreachable, but surely Jolene’s would welcome her daughter back. The next time she saw Curt she’d ask to borrow his buggy.
    Jolene trailed her onto the porch, carrying a second glass container. She cast a curious glance at her before raising the pot and pouring the cooled lard into the empty bowl.
    Grateful for her help, and her silence, Rosemary lifted the lye mixture. “Ready?” This time she poured while Jolene stirred. When the spoon left traces in the white compound, she uncorked a vial of sassafras oil and tipped in two teaspoonfuls, then placed a square wooden box on the bench. A sweet licorice aroma rose when Jolene poured the soap into the mold.
    â€œNow what?” she asked. “Ma always made soft soap, nothing fancy like this.”
    â€œWe’ll let this cure for a few days, then cut it into circles to fit shaving