pressing down on her heart.
She wanted a family.
She’d always wanted a family, wanted it more than anything. She hadn’t had one, even as a child.
But there was no way she could form a family with any man worth the having. She just wasn’t the type. She was shy, and awkward, and unappealing. She wore thick glasses and read books all the time and didn’t know how to flirt or giggle.
So the part of her that looked around the table and wished for something like this, forever, just needed to be tamped down.
She couldn’t have it and she needed to stop wanting it.
Abruptly, she stood up. “I’ve got to go feed the dogs.”
“But, Mama Fern, I want to come see the dogs.”
Fern hesitated. The animals were generally good, but they were just so big and strong. The idea of having a four-year-old—her own precious four-year-old—in their vicinity was a little too scary.
Carlo put a hand on her arm and she jerked away at the burn of it, staring at him.
His eyebrows went up and he studied her. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m jumpy.” Awkward, awkward.
“Let’s finish breakfast, and then we can all go out together.”
“Yeah!” Mercedes shouted.
Oh, great. More pseudo–family togetherness. “That’s fine,” Fern said. “I’m going to start the dishes.”
“But you haven’t finished your—”
“I’m not hungry,” she interrupted, and it was true. Her appetite had departed the moment those feelings of inadequacy and awkwardness and unlovableness arose in her.
She carried her dishes to the counter, fuming. Why had he shown up? Why hadn’t he left her there in peace, to do her art and create some kind of family, even if not the real or the best kind?
You couldn’t have handled the dogs alone, a voice of logic inside her said. Maybe God’s looking out for you. Maybe He sent a helper.
But did He have to send a helper who was so handsome, who woke those desires for something she could never have?
She scrubbed hard at the pan that had held the bacon and eggs. Looked out the window toward the kennels, and breathed, and tried to stuff her feelings back down.
“What were you working on in there?” Carlo asked.
“What do you mean?” On the defensive.
“Your easel. Your art.”
“I...I do some writing and illustrating.”
“Really? Can I see?’
“No!” She grabbed a towel to dry her hands and hurried toward the easel, bent on covering her work.
Carlo scooted his chair back to watch her from the kitchen. “Hey, it’s okay. I wouldn’t have looked without your permission.”
“I’m just... It’s silly. I...I don’t like to show anyone my work before it’s done.” Truth to tell, her stories and illustrations were the one place she felt safe to delve into her own issues, to the challenges of her past. Sometimes, she felt it was all too revealing, but she was so driven to do it.
She could do her children’s books and raise a family just fine. But to have a handsome man looking through her stuff, making fun of it maybe, asking questions—that she couldn’t deal with. No way.
The wall phone’s ringing was a welcome respite. She tucked the cover over her easel and hurried over to it.
“Hello?”
“Fern, it’s Lou Ann Miller. From church?”
Fern vaguely remembered a tart, smiling, gray-haired woman who often sat with Troy and Angelica. “Hi, Lou Ann.”
“Listen, I had an email from Angelica waiting for me this morning, and she let me know you have some unexpected company. Are you all right? How’s Mercy?”
“We’re doing fine.” Fern looked at Mercedes. Carlo had found a clean dishcloth, wetted it and was washing off the child’s messy face and hands, making silly faces to keep her from fussing about it.
“That’s great. And don’t worry about your new helper. He has a good heart.”
“You know him?” She heard her own voice squeak.
“Oh, yes. I’ve known that boy most of his life.” Lou Ann chuckled. “Pretty rough around the edges, isn’t he?”
Fern looked at the man who’d invaded her safe haven. Even playing with an innocent little child in front of the fire, he looked every inch a mercenary: thick stubble, bulging biceps, shadowy, watchful eyes. “Yes,” she said, swallowing. “Yes, he is.”
* * *
Carlo sat on the floor building a block tower with the child he was almost certain was his daughter. He studied her small hands, her messy curls, her sweet, round cheeks.
His daughter’s foster mother was talking to someone named Lou Ann on the phone. Probably Lou Ann Miller, who had to be getting old these days. He remembered stealing pumpkins from her front porch with a big gang of his friends. She’d chased after them and called all of their parents.
All the other boys had gotten punished. Not him, though. His parents had thought it was funny.
As he’d grown up, he’d realized that their neglect wasn’t a good thing, especially when he’d seen how it affected his younger sister. When he’d had to take up their slack. He’d judged his folks pretty harshly.
But they’d been there at least some of the time. Unlike him, for his own daughter. How had it never occurred to him that Kath could have gotten pregnant during their brief reconciliation?
He wanted to clasp Mercedes tight and make up for the previous four years of her life. He wished he could rewind time and see her first smile, her first step.
But no. He left his wife pregnant and alone, and even though she’d kicked him out without telling him the truth about the baby she carried, had pressured him into signing the divorce papers, he should have tried harder. A lot harder.
Kath’s letter, which had apparently languished for a couple of months before reaching him, had just about broken his heart. She’d found the Lord, and moved to Rescue River because she’d liked the way he’d described it and wanted to raise their daughter there.
Apparently, she’d even thought there was a chance they could remarry and raise Mercedes together. Sometime later, after he’d sown his wild oats and come back home to the States.
But it had turned out they didn’t have the time for that. Kath had found out she was dying, and that was when she’d written to him, telling him about Mercedes and urging
