he needed. “That’s not something I care to talk about, especially with a stranger.”
“I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought wrong. I need a job done. Nothing more.” That had come out harsher than he’d intended. She was only trying to help. Even so, he didn’t trust himself to talk about Trudy without choking up. Silence was safer.
“I’ll pray for you. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one and feel that vacant ache.”
He bit back a retort. How could she possibly understand what he was going through? She’d never been married and left with two children to raise alone. “Pray if you like but no more questions please.”
She bowed her head.
For some reason her gesture comforted him. He’d reached the point where he no longer knew what to pray and trusted the Spirit to intercede for him “with groanings which could not be uttered,” as it said in Romans. If Miss Grimsby’s prayers could help, he wouldn’t turn them down.
When she opened her eyes, they held unasked questions, but the compassion he’d seen before was there, too. She smiled, and the future didn’t seem quite as bleak as it had. Perhaps she was as capable as she’d said and would solve his immediate problems. He’d know soon enough.
* * *
Tess remained silent the rest of the way to Mr. Abbott’s place. He’d made it clear her attempts to offer sympathy were unwelcome. She could understand. Each child who’d come to the orphanage handled grief differently. Some wept. Some talked about their losses, while others kept their own counsel. Some blamed themselves and suffered guilt, while others lashed out in anger. And there were those like her soon-to-be employer who did their best to go on with their lives despite the near-crippling pain.
As she’d prayed, a sense of peace had descended on her—along with a sense of purpose. She wasn’t here to get what she wanted. She was here to give of herself to this hurting family. All those years comforting others had prepared her for this. She would offer the care and comfort Mr. Abbott’s motherless children needed, and she would lift some of the burden their grieving father carried.
Above all she would guard her heart. Even though she was drawn to him, she mustn’t let herself care too much. This was a job like any other, and she would do well to remember that.
They approached a two-story ranch house painted bright red with white trim. All the windows were open, curtains peeking from beneath the raised frames. A wraparound porch beckoned her to slip into one of the ladder-backed rocking chairs gracing it and spend time sipping lemonade with a friend. She’d often dreamed of having such a house, although the one in her dreams was blue—a lovely slate blue with burgundy trim.
Mr. Abbott parked the wagon, and she was on the ground in a heartbeat. He held out a hand toward the stairs. “After you.”
She passed through the open front door and nearly gagged. What was that horrid stench? It smelled worse than the rotten eggs some of the more daring boys at the orphanage had hurled at Mr. Grimsby’s carriage once—before he’d meted out the swift punishment he was known for.
“Luke!” Mr. Abbott bellowed and charged inside.
That didn’t bode well. Tess followed on his heels. They reached the kitchen where a full-figured woman with white hair attempted to wipe a squirming baby girl’s jam-spattered face. Mr. Abbott’s four-year-old son ran circles around the dining table in the adjoining room, whooping like an Indian on the warpath.
Everywhere Tess looked, chaos reigned. Soiled shirts had been draped over chair backs, newspapers and toys were strewn about and a path had been worn through the dust coating the floorboards. Although she’d only been there two minutes, she itched to get to work restoring order and a sense of harmony.
Mr. Abbott addressed the older woman, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “What happened?”
“That boy of yours snuck up behind me when I was checkin’ the fire and chucked some salve in the stove.”
“What next?” He raked a hand through his thick blond hair, causing a swatch of his long locks to stand on end. Tess suppressed the urge to smooth it for him.
The older woman lugged the baby upstairs, and Mr. Abbott strode to the cookstove. Tess tore her gaze from him, entered the dining room and stepped in his son’s path. She caught the little fellow’s raised arm as he passed. “Whoa there, young man.”
He came to an abrupt stop and stared at her with eyes as big and round as washtubs. “Who are you?”
“I’m Tess, and you must be Luke.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Your papa is going to see if I’m the right person to look after you and your sister.”
He shook his head wildly. “No! I don’t want you here. Go away.” He flew out of the house.
She took off after him, hitching up her skirts with one hand, holding on to her hat with the other and running as fast as her high boot heels would allow. He dashed into the barn. She found him crouched in the corner of an empty stall, tears flowing over his flushed cheeks, and her heart went out to him. She approached slowly on tiptoes, but she bumped into a shovel leaning against the wall and sent it crashing to the floor.
Luke prepared to bolt, but she caught him by the shoulders and held him tightly as he twisted and turned. She squatted so she wouldn’t tower over him. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I won’t let go until you settle down. You can’t run off like that. A ranch is a big place. You could get hurt.”
“No, I couldn’t!”
The little fellow showed no signs of giving up his struggle. He flailed his arms as he attempted to break free. “You’re coming with me, Master Luke.” She planted him on her hip and headed to the house. His fists flew, coming uncomfortably close to her face. Her ears rang from his shrieked protests.
She reached the kitchen, where Mr. Abbott knelt in front of the stove filling two metal pails with glowing embers. He’d shed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing muscular arms. She had little time to take in the unexpected—albeit pleasing—sight because he turned toward her, exasperation etched in every line of his attractive face.
“Quiet down, Luke,” he said in a firm voice. “Do something, Miss Grimsby. Please.”
The mischievous boy ceased shouting long enough to send her a triumphant smirk.
She’d had enough of his antics. No four-year-old, however unruly, would keep her from securing the position. She’d dealt with his kind before and knew just what to do. “I guess you don’t want to see what kind of candy I brought. I won’t give it to a boy who’s pitching a fit. I’ll set you down—if you agree to stay put. Will you do that?”
He crossed his arms over his chest in such an adult manner Tess hid a smile. She rummaged in her reticule with her free hand and withdrew a small package. He followed her every move, his eyes glued to the peppermint stick she unwrapped.
“Here. Why don’t you smell it?” She placed the striped sweet under his nose, pulling back when he attempted to snatch it. “You may have it if you’ll sit quietly while your papa cleans
