children and will be careful of their grief. I thought, perhaps, as you are familiar with everyone in the village, you could suggest someone I could interview?”
She drew her gaze from the sadness in his eyes and gathered her thoughts. Who was available who would also understand the special needs of the Calvert children? “I believe Bertha Franklin might suit. She’s a lovely, kind woman, an excellent cook…and no stranger to sorrow. And she definitely understands children. She has raised eight of her own. If you wish, I can stop and ask her to come by and see you tomorrow. Her home is on my way.”
“I would appreciate that, Miss Wright.” His gaze captured hers. “And thank you again for watching the children this afternoon. And for helping Joshua remember how to play.”
His soft words brought tears to her eyes. She nodded, spun about and hurried down the wood walkway toward town.
* * *
Willa dipped her fingers in the small crock, rubbed them together, then spread the cream on her face and neck. A faint fragrance of honeysuckle hovered. She replaced the lid, tied the ribbons at the neck of her cotton nightgown and reached up to free her hair from its confining roll. The chestnut-colored mass tumbled onto her shoulders and down her back. She brushed it free of snarls, gathered it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon and stepped back from the mirror.
The touch of her bare feet against the plank floor sent a shiver prickling along her flesh. She hopped back onto the small, rag rug in front of the commode stand and rubbed her upper arms. The nights were turning colder, the air taking on the bite that announced winter was on its way. Thank goodness the company loggers kept her mother well supplied with firewood. And the parents of her students provided wood for the stove at school. There was already a large pile outside the back door.
She sighed, stepped off the rug and hurried to the window to push the curtain hems against the crack along the sill to block the cold air seeping in around the frame. Tomorrow morning she would start her winter schedule. She would rise early and go to school and light a fire in the stove to chase away the night chill. And then she would make a list of boys to help her keep the woodbox full throughout the winter.
She stepped to her nightstand, cupped her hand around the chimney globe, blew out the flame then climbed into bed. Two boys working together in weeklong rotations should be sufficient. Joshua and Billy would be the first team. She gave a soft laugh, tugged the covers close and snuggled down against her pillow. Those two boys would probably race to see who could carry in the most wood in the shortest time.
An image of Joshua’s happy, lopsided grin formed against the darkness. He certainly looked like his uncle. And so did Sally, in a small, feminine way. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Those poor children, losing both of their parents so unexpectedly. She had been devastated when her father left, and she’d had her mother to comfort her. Of course, Joshua and Sally had their uncle. He had looked concerned for the children when he talked with her. But that didn’t mean his concern was real. Her father had seemed concerned for her before he turned his back and walked away never to return. But why would Matthew Calvert bother to put on an act for her? The children were not her concern.
Once again I must appeal to you for help, Miss Wright.
Oh, of course. Her facial muscles drew taut. She was a teacher. The pastor must have reasoned that she cared about children and played on her emotions to enlist her aid. And it had worked. She had been so gullible. Because of the children? Or because she wanted to believe there was truth behind Matthew Calvert’s quiet strength and disarming grin?
She jerked onto her side, opened the small wood box on the nightstand with her free hand and fingered through the familiar contents, felt paper and withdrew the note Thomas had left on her desk the day he deserted her. There was no need to light the lamp and read it, the words were seared into her mind. Willa, I’m sorry I haven’t time to wait and talk to you, but I must hasten to meet Jack. He sent word he has funds for us to head west, and I am going after my dream. Wish me well, dearest Willa.
Her chest tightened, restricted her breath. Three days before their wedding and Thomas had forsaken her without so much as a word of apology or regret. A man’s concern for others was conditional on his own needs.
She clenched her hand around the small, folded piece of paper, drew a long, slow breath and closed her eyes. When her father abandoned her he’d left behind nothing but a painful memory and a void in her heart. Thomas had left her tangible proof of a man’s perfidy. She had only to look at the note to remind herself a man was not to be trusted. Not even a man of the cloth with a stomach-fluttering grin.
Chapter Four
“Thank you for coming by, Reverend Calvert.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Karcher.” Matthew inclined his head in a small, polite bow. “I find making personal calls is the best way to get acquainted with my parishioners. And it is beneficial to do so as quickly as possible.” He included the Karcher daughter, who’d had the misfortune of inheriting her father’s long-jawed, hawk-nosed looks, in his goodbye smile.
“Well, Agnes and I are honored to be your first call.” A look of smug satisfaction settled on the woman’s face, one of her plump elbows dug into her daughter’s side. “Aren’t we, Agnes?”
“Yes, Ma.” Agnes tittered and looked up at him, her avid expression bringing an uneasy twinge to his stomach. “I’m pleased you liked my berry pie, Reverend Calvert. I’ll make an apple pie the next time you come.” Her bony elbow returned her mother’s nudge.
The next time? The expectation in Agnes’s tone set warning bells clanging in his head. “Indeed?” A lame reply, but there was no good answer he could make to her presumption. He looked down at his hat and brushed a bit of lint from the felt brim, then stepped closer to the door. Perhaps he could get away before—
“Agnes’s pies are the best of any young woman in Pinewood. And she’s a wonderful cook.”
—and perhaps he couldn’t. He braced himself for what he sensed was coming.
“Mayhap you can come for dinner Saturday night, Reverend? I’m thinking those wards of yours would be thankful for some of Agnes’s good cooking.”
And there went his chance for an uneventful leave-taking. Mrs. Karcher’s invitation could not be ignored. He looked up, noted the eager, hopeful gleam in both women’s eyes and held back the frown that tugged at his own features. Both mother and daughter seemed to have forgotten his visit included Mr. Karcher and decided he had come because of Agnes. He cleared his throat and set himself to the task of disabusing them of that notion without hurting their feelings and damaging the pastor-and-congregant relationship. “I appreciate your kind invitation, Mrs. Karcher, but I’m afraid I must decline. My Saturdays are spent in prayer and preparation for Sunday. As for the children, I have hired Mrs. Franklin as housekeeper and cook. She feeds us well.”
Surprise flitted across their faces. They had apparently not yet heard that piece of news. He hurried on before Mrs. Karcher recovered and extended another, amended, invitation. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Karcher. I regret that I had so little time to spend visiting with him. I shall make another call on him when he is less busy at the grist mill.”
His slight emphasis on the word him dulled the hopeful gleam in the women’s eyes. They had understood. He dipped his head in farewell, stepped outside and blew the air from his lungs in a long, low whistle. He was accustomed to the fact that young ladies and their mothers found bachelor pastors attractive as potential husband material, but he’d never before
