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D aniel took off his coat and hung it on a hook. He tossed his hat to the table and unbuttoned his vest. No doubt his nose was red as it burned from the biting cold. The blustery day was a sign from God for people to stay indoors, lest they be swept away as the lingering leaves.

“Mrs. Kilgore? What have you in store for me?”

“Reverend, you’re back. Is Old Ruby Anders still on this earth?”

“She lingers, it won’t be long.”

“Well. Your stew is in the pot—the tea is brewed. The cat caught two mice while you were out.”

“Thank you. Perhaps I should keep a tally of his victims.”

“If y’ wish to do so.” She looked at him as though his mind had snapped. “I must be off, Mr. Kilgore is waitin’ for his dinner. You’d think the man might learn to boil water by now.”

She exited the back door with a whoosh of wind. Daniel put a spoon into the pot and lifted hot beans to his lips. Mercy, they were chewy.

His stomach growled.

He poured a cup of tea and tried it. Lukewarm and bitter. He’d been expected sooner. But how did that explain the beans? The bread and butter on the sideboard did not look appetizing either. Odd.

“I must be thankful, but I’m too overdone and miserable. Is it too late to ask for manna? A few thousand years too late.”

Cat mewed .

“At least you had a decent meal today.”

Had he even eaten lunch? As soon as he made rounds at the clinic, he’d been called to Old Ruby’s bedside, a few miles out of town. Esther had not cooperated, and he’d been forced to walk again, pulling her behind him like a balking mule.

As soon as Mr. Stanton returned from England, perhaps the man would have mercy on him and let him trade Esther in for a horse that actually liked him. Return this one to its rightful owner.

He’d stayed for a few hours at Old Ruby’s bedside praying, comforting, and finally breaking up a brawl between two old brothers who ought to know better. Forgiveness could be hard to come by.

He still had trouble forgiving Miss Stanton for her ungracious words.

Dreadful indeed. How very unlike her. In all probability, it was a jolly party and she was swept into the moment by the others.

But still...it stung. As a result, he’d declined the last two invitations to Mrs. Ramshaw’s, and tossed the novel aside.

He’d lost interest. Was his offense her punishment?

Did she care about the story and was too embarrassed to say so?

He tore a crust of bread and chewed. People either flung themselves at him or avoided him altogether, as if he carried a ridiculous plague. Mrs. Ramshaw was the most normal friend he had at the moment. And that was saying something.

He laughed at the thought. Who said a young preacher and an old lady couldn’t be friends? Good friends shared food. His spirits lifted. What simmered in the Ramshaw pot tonight? Time to find out.

Mrs. Ramshaw always asked him to stay for supper. He would observe Miss Stanton and see if she seemed outrageously bored by his presence. Then he’d know for certain...and forgive accordingly. Strike that. He needed to forgive her right now.

Did one need an excuse for showing up ?

“No, I’ll be honest and say that I am hungry. Nothing wrong with being humble once in a while, Cat. Does a man good.”

CLARA HELD THEM, UNCERTAIN . Two letters from England had arrived an hour prior. Mrs. Ramshaw had not been home when they’d come. Jenny handed them to her and had returned to the kitchen.

Clara basked by the parlor fire, humming a tune. She might simply toss the letters in and let the flames have them. What did it matter? Her mother’s letter, she could guess at without knowing the content. Lucy’s letter was thick. She had news to tell. Oh, but did she want to hear it?

Could she bear to hate Christian more? Love Lucy less?

She hummed another tune, her thoughts swallowing what little peace she’d found. She had already decided that Mrs. Ramshaw must not see the letters. What if Mother wrote distasteful instructions? If so, she wanted the option not to follow through. Blissful ignorance.

Morrie could not yet read well enough, nor did she want gossip to circle among the slaves and into other houses, to the families she’d once called friends.

Mary Winters would read them with great interest, no doubt, and have a good laugh at her expense. Not to mention share every detail.

Clara feigned that she’d had a good time, and for a portion of her outing, she had.

The next Sunday, she had been standing where she wasn’t expected, and overheard them.

Her pretend friends. Turned out, they had tested her blindness by dangling all manner of items in front of her face during the tea.

A necklace. A bit of lace. A glove...Cruel cattiness .

Like a Stanton girl would, she’d flicked them off like unwanted bugs. She would not accept another invitation from anyone. If only Annie still lived close. Had anyone bothered to write to her?

It had been a year since her last letter, at least. She’d married when at seventeen and moved to Missouri. Perhaps she had a child by now...

Clara resumed humming, recalling dancing lessons with Annie by her side. They had laughed and fallen in an unladylike heap on the floor, taken long rides, and attempted French studies with far less enthusiasm. Such carefree days long over.

Mrs. Ramshaw came rushing through the hall. “Prepare an extra place, if you will, Jenny. Reverend Merrick has come to my rescue. Why I decided to run to the grocer’s at this hour is beyond me. Nearly smashed the eggs and the Reverend here almost stepped on the bread I didn’t know had fallen.”

Clara tucked the letters beneath the bench pillows, heat rushed to her face. She must look a fright. Never matter.

She smiled and held out her hand like she’d been trained to do. “Reverend Merrick, we haven’t had the pleasure for three weeks, at least.”

His hand clasped hers. “Many of my parishioners are unwell.”

Clara snorted. “They all believe they are dying, no doubt.”

“Well they are dying, Miss Stanton.”

She nodded. “I am sorry to hear it. You must be weary. How is Esther?”

“Ornery. How did you ever manage to ride her? I don’t think she likes me.”

“I was the only one who rode her, Reverend. Perhaps she is not used to your weight—I beg your pardon, I do not mean to insinuate that you are heavy, I mean...” Drat.

The picture she’d carried of him in her head grew from the bulging eyes and hooked nose to a large paunch.

But she knew that wasn’t true. Hadn’t Yvette said he was tall?

“You are right, perhaps my height is a problem, though I’m not sure I want a larger horse.”

Clara nodded and they were quiet. The reverend sounded especially stiff. She sat on the bench and heard the creak of the rocking chair not far from her.

“I should have thought to bring David Copperfield...or is my reading to you overly boring? I do not want to waste your time, Clara.”

“Not at all, I appreciate it very much. If I have scowled in the least, it is because I prefer to read things for myself. I apologize if I have not seemed grateful.”

“My sister arrives in a few days.”

An abrupt subject change. “Does she?”

“I hope you will find a good companion in her.”

Clara knew she had to ask him to read the letters for her. Weren’t ministers bound to keep secrets? “I have a favor to ask...”

“I can’t take you riding. Though I wish I could.”

The heat came back to her face. “I wouldn’t dare ask that again. I know what I ought to be, I will strive not to dissappoint.”

“And what is it that you ought to be? How do you get there from here?”

“Compliance. My lot in life.”

“Compliance, Clara? Doesn’t suit you.”

She heard a dry chuckle. “What would you have then?”

“God calls us to obedience. Sometimes one has to break from compliance in order to fulfill His call.”

She didn’t understand. She had resolved to do what was asked of her until such a time she might find her own freedom. Until then, was that not the same as obedience?

“Forgive me the sermon, you had a favor to ask? ”

Clara lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mrs. Ramshaw mustn’t know. I’m not asking for you to do anything wrong, I merely wish privacy. I received letters from my family today...”

“I see. You want me to read them to you?”

“I couldn’t think of anyone else whom I could trust to keep them private. You are a man of God and bound to it, I think?”

“I’d be honored to read them to you.”

“Bring Clara in, Reverend, and eat the dumplings before the gravy grows cold.”

“It is fourteen paces to the dining room, see, I can manage without help.” She stood.

“My mother would pull my ear if I did not give a young woman a proper escort.” He reached for her hand and loosely placed it on his arm. He leaned over and whispered. “I’ll read them to you after supper.”

Clara felt his warmth through the sleeve of his jacket and faltered as he gently led her to the dining chair. So different from Christian’s possessive grip, her attraction to him a diversion from the man he really was.

THERE. NOTHING IN HER demeanor suggested that he was boring to Clara. Trusted him enough to read her personal letters. She had playacted before her friends, that was all. Girls could be so silly.

As relieved as he felt, the weariness from the day fed his exhaustion. The chicken and dumplings and green beans had soothed his empty stomach. The fresh pot of tea would do him in.

“Jenny and I will see to the dishes. Morrie, will you put bricks into our beds? And the Reverend will be put to work by reading to our Clara. ”

“How did you know I planned to do just that, Mrs. Ramshaw?” He winked at Clara and realized she didn’t see that. Good thing, he hadn’t meant to do it.

“My father told me that I had brilliant intuition.” Her chin rose high and her eyes sparkled with intent. “Rather like Morrie, if you ask me.” Morrie lowered her head and scurried off to do her job.

“You are rather like a prophet of old, I think.”