Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by Sharlene MacLaren Page A

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Authors: Sharlene MacLaren
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the saddle, sputtering to himself. “What in tarnation do I care who she marries?”

6
    T he next few days went by in a storm of male callers. Apparently, news of Mercy’s infamous ad had spread beyond Henry County. Oh, how she’d beseeched the Lord to lend her wisdom. The biblical command “Pray without ceasing” had taken on a literal meaning. She knelt at her bedside each night; prayed while she dutifully performed her job in the doctor’s office, with the boys playing next door at the home of Etta Parsons, a grandmotherly type with a world of energy and love; and pleaded to the Father as she went about her household chores, both kids talking and sometimes bickering in the background. She needed a whole wagonload of wisdom, but, so far, God had not shed one particle of light on what she should do or whom she should choose as a life mate. About the only words she got from Him were gentle reminders to wait and trust. Wait and trust? Really?When the clock kept ticking?
    A flicker of attraction to at least one of her callers would’ve helped, but none quite measured up to the standards she’d set for her future husband: (1) Must love God, (2) Must love children, (3) Must have a sense of humor and enjoy life. It went without saying that “Must have front teeth intact” ranked rather high. Her list went on, even as she questioned whether her extreme pickiness had slowed the process. Her mind kept skipping back to Harold Beauchamp, the kindhearted, highly respected, even godly, Paris postmaster. Surely, she could grow fond of him over time, despite his being so much older than she. Perhaps she might even encourage him—tactfully, of course—to lose the bulge that hung over his belt.
    As it turned out, Mercy and the boys had waited exactly one hour at the train station the day after her encounter with Sam Connors, only to be stood up by the one man she’d hung her last hopes on. According to Caroline Hammerstrom, her brother had lost his nerve in the final minutes before boarding his train in Chicago, claiming he simply wasn’t ready to make such a commitment. Well, fine. Mercy didn’t want to marry a coward, anyway, so it was best he hadn’t come. Still, it had been a deep disappointment not to at least meet him. Surely, he would have loved the boys and immediately sensed their deep need for a father’s care. On the other hand, perhaps he had an even bigger breadbasket than Mr. Beauchamp.
    She had decided to tell the boys about the judge’s decree. With all the talk around town, not to mention the stream of male callers, they’d figure it out soon enough, anyway. Best they hear it from her, even though their young minds wouldn’t fully grasp it. Of course, they’d bellowed to the treetops and cried rivers at the thought of having to live with anyone other than her, and nothing she’d said had consoled them, until she’d finally promised it wouldn’t come to that. And she wasn’t about to break her promise. Even if it meant that she had to marry her least appealing candidate—Festus Morton, a toothless farmer who’d traveled seven miles by mule to offer his hand that very day in exchange for lodging at her house and all the food he cared to eat. He’d even promised he’d give up farming and spend all his time with the boys so she could keep on working full-time, or even overtime, if she had a mind to. In a word, he wanted room and board for life.
    She’d shooed him out the door as quick as she could, but now she told herself that if it came down to it—if marrying Festus Morton was the only way to keep the boys for good—she would go crawling to him on her hands and knees.
    Her cousins Frieda Yeager and Wilburta Crockett, daughters of Uncle Albert and Aunt Gertie, paid her a visit to tell her how sorry they were to hear of her plight. “Marriage ain’t always what it’s cracked up t’ be,” Frieda said. “I shore hope y’ don’t get y’rself into a fix you’ll regret f’r the rest o’

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