Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by Sharlene MacLaren Read Free Book Online

forehead.
    Joseph raised his chin to engage the woman, but he didn’t appear to have a remnant of a smile in him. It had been awhile since he or his brother had shown even a hint of one. “A whole lot of folks been stoppin’ by with clothes an’ such, ’cause ar house burned down.”
    She shifted her position and frowned. “I know, and I’m ever so sorry about that.”
    John Roy looked up at the woman. “Yeah, and we ain’t seen ar mama and papa since. Mercy says their souls is with Jesus. Do you gots a soul?”
    “Why, I—” A strained and pallid expression washed over the woman’s sun-crimped face. She produced an accordion fan from her skirt pocket and set to waving it, then cast a hurried glance at Mercy. “I suppose I do, yes.” The inquiry certainly seemed to have unsettled her. Most people hadn’t a clue what to say to the newly orphaned boys, and many of those who thought they did would have been better to keep their mouths shut. Why, just yesterday, Mrs. Mortimer, the Watsons’ neighbor, had told the boys, “I certainly will miss your parents. The Lord must have something more important for them to do up there on them golden streets than raise you two boys.” Mercy had wanted to kick the woman right in the shin for saying such a rude thing. Why couldn’t people think before they spoke? Thankfully, neither boy had brought up the remark again, and Mercy hoped that meant it had sailed straight over their heads.
    Mrs. Whintley’s gaze lifted from the boys to Mercy. “And how are you doing, Miss Evans?”
    “I’m managing at the moment.”
    “Ah, yes, ‘at the moment.’ I heard about the judge’s decision.” She chewed her lower lip, and Mercy could about imagine the stirrings going on inside that feather-topped head of silver hair. “Also heard tell you’re lookin’ for a husband. I didn’t read your advertisement, mind you, but I’ve heard plenty of talk. Why, you’re the main topic of conversation about town.”
    Mercy didn’t doubt her for a minute. Ever since she’d placed the ad in the Paris Post-Intelligencer , her ears hadn’t stopped itching, nor had folks stopped staring at her like she’d lost her last scrap of common sense. She suppressed a sigh.
    “Any, uh…”—the woman leaned in close and lifted her graying eyebrows so high, they disappeared under her hat, her greenish eyes twinkling like twin stars—“promisin’ prospects?”
    Having grown fidgety in their waiting, the boys let go of Mercy’s hands and went in search of sticks. Keeping a close watch on them out of the corner of her eye, she muttered under her breath, “I don’t know that you’d call them promising, no.”
    Oh, she’d gotten plenty of calls—in fact, her door knocker had taken quite a beating of late—but her options were limited. Paris plain lacked eligible bachelors, and the ones who did qualify were either missing a front tooth or two, had a gnat-sized brain, or, sorry to say, hadn’t learned the finer skills of bathing. Granted, there were some not so hard on the eye, but they were lacking in either personality or proper motives, drawn in by the appeal of a nice house over their heads and caring not one smidgeon about the boys. Worst were the clowns who got the wrong idea about their sleeping arrangements, assuming she’d welcome them straight into her bed.
    “So, you’re sayin’ you’ve had no luck?”
    She really didn’t care to discuss her private life with Mrs. Whintley, the woman dubbed “town crier” by many. Still, giving her a few crumbs would make her feel important, as if she had an edge, and keep her busy sharing her privileged information—for the next few days, at least.
    “Well, if you promise not to say anything….”
    Mrs. Whintley’s eyes went round as pennies, as she bobbed her head up and down several times.
    “I will tell you that I do have a few possibly good prospects. One is”—the poor woman held her breath and looked ready to fall over—“oh,