he paced through the house, locking the doors, checking the windows, turning out the lights, feeling empty inside. A verse came to him, quiet as the night. So if you are suffering according to God’s will, keep on doing what is right, and trust yourself to the God who made you, for He will never fail you.
The frustration and pain raging inside him eased, and he no longer felt alone in the dark night. Father, I’m struggling. Please show me the way.
Nanna looked old, older than Hope had ever seen her. Bright, fresh morning light teased at the window and tossed lemony rays across the foot of the old four-poster bed. Heart heavy, Hope lifted the breakfast tray laden with untouched food as Nanna curled on her side, pale with pain and still from the effects of the medication.
“She overdid it yesterday.” Kirby tried to reassure Hope in the kitchen, where she sat at the table bent over her paperwork. “Nora isn’t young anymore, and an injury like this is hard on a woman her age. Try not to worry so much. The new dose of painkiller seems to be working, so let’s hope she sleeps through the morning.”
Hope prayed that Kirby was right as she filled the coffee carafe at the sink, the spray of water into the empty container ringing in her ears. She shut off the faucet and looked down at the smooth, shiny handles Matthew had installed, and the worry eased away, which made no sense because she was still angry at the way he’d treated her in the restaurant. His behavior toward her had been so different from when he’d helped her to the top of the McKaslin’s barn roof, when he’d held her safe and kept her from stumbling.
He didn’t want his sons near her, and he didn’t want to be seen in the same café as her. Well, that was perfectly fine. She wasn’t looking for a man, especially not a settling-down widower with three kids in tow. Really, that’s not what she was looking for. And it didn’t matter how cute those little boys were. Not one bit.
She didn’t need a family. She didn’t need love. She didn’t need to start seeing a fairy tale where none could ever exist. At least, fairy tales didn’t happen to her and she was wise enough and old enough to know it.
After spooning ground gourmet coffee into the filter and turning the coffeemaker on, she grabbed an old knife and headed outside. The sweet gentle warmth of morning breezed against her as she hopped down the steps. She then knelt alongside the flower bed that ran the length of the house.
Untended since Nanna’s injury, weeds were taking a firm hold in the rich soil. Tulips vied with dandelions and thistles, and Hope vowed to do some weeding, maybe later today when Nanna was doing better. The thought strengthened her, but even as she cut flowers, her mind kept drifting back to Matthew Sheridan and her heart clenched.
Yesterday, as he worked to keep his little boys from playing with their food, he’d handled them with tenderness and patience. Something she wouldn’t have thought a man, even one as good as Matthew, could have possessed. And this was the man who hadn’t wanted her befriending his boys, and the man who didn’t want half the town thinking he was with her.
Good, fine, get over it, she told herself. But part of her felt hurt and angry. Hurt because she wished he didn’t look at her and see her mother’s daughter. Angry because it was easier than admitting the truth.
She gathered the cut flowers, arranged them in a vase and carried them upstairs. Nanna slept on her side, one hand curled on her pillow, her gray hair swept back from her eyes making her look as vulnerable as a child.
Yesterday had been tough on Nanna, although she would never admit it. Hope had seen the look on her grandmother’s face when Helen had walked into the café with her hand on Harold’s arm. There had been a brief flicker of sadness and regret, and then she’d invited Helen to sit down next to her. Nanna had let go of her hopes, just like that, for the sake of her lifelong friend.
There had to be a way to make her happy. But what? Feeling lost, Hope scooted the vase onto the edge of the nightstand and nudged it into place, bumping into a gold-framed photograph.
Hope’s heart melted when she saw her grandfather’s picture, a man she’d met only twice as a child, and Nanna’s love. They’d met in grade school, Nanna told her, and they played together in the creek that bordered their family’s properties.
He’d been her true love, one that didn’t fade even after his death. Nanna had been newly widowed when Hope had visited the year she’d turned seventeen—it felt so long ago now, but the memories filled her with emotion. She remembered how two females, one old and one young and both hurting, forged a bond of love that summer.
She looked at the kind man in the photograph, taken at a summer picnic, maybe the town’s annual Founder’s Days celebration. It was easy to recognize the love in Granddad’s eyes as he danced with a younger Nanna beneath an endless azure sky.
For the first time, Hope let herself consider that maybe Nanna meant what she said about love. That sometimes, it was honest and true. It didn’t hurt or belittle but made the whole world right.
Sometimes.
With Kirby’s words of warning, Matthew negotiated the narrow staircase as quietly as he could in his work boots. A few boards squeaked as he reached the top, and he felt odd prowling down the hall, drawn by the splash of light through an open doorway.
No sounds of conversation came from the room at the end of the corridor. No soothing music or low drone of a television broke the stillness. There was only Hope perched on a chair at her grandmother’s bedside, head bowed as she read from the Bible held open on her lap, the light from the window pouring over her shoulder to illuminate the pages.
In the span of a breath, he saw the depths of her heart as she turned the page, searching for passages. Every opinion he’d formed of Hope Ashton faded like fog in sun.
“Matthew,” she whispered, startled, and closed her Bible with quiet reverence. “What are you doing here?”
He gestured toward the bed, where Nora barely disturbed the quilt. “I have the cabinets.”
“Now isn’t the best time.” Hope laid her Bible on the crowded nightstand and padded across the wood floor as quietly as she could manage. “Where’s Kirby?”
“Downstairs on the phone speaking with the doctor,” he explained once they were in the hallway. “She said her call might take a while and that you might be up here all morning, so if I wanted you, I’d better fetch you myself.”
“She’s right.” Hope led the way down the hallway. “I wouldn’t be able to bribe you into coming back another day, could I?”
“If it’s a good enough bribe,” he teased, wishing he could mend how he’d hurt her.
She almost smiled, but it was enough to chase the lines of exhaustion from her soft face. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the bright morning light accentuated the bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes and surprised him.
He followed her through the front door and onto the wide old-fashioned porch where flowering vines clutched at the railing. The morning’s breeze tossed back the dark curls escaping from Hope’s ponytail and ruffled the hem of her T-shirt.
It was only then he realized what she was wearing—an old T-shirt with the imprint faded away and a stretched-out neck, and a pair of old gray sweatpants with a hole in the knee. She ambled to the old porch swing on stocking feet and sighed as she eased onto the board seat.
“Rough
