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“ H ow could she?” As he trudged homeward, Daniel steadied himself against the sharp, cold wind. He must not be afraid of the power Clara held, though it faltered before her. Wasted, beautiful, helpless, selfish thing.

He’d carried Clara’s slight, limp body to her bed. Watched her breathing to the slow rhythm of her sorrows. Would she never accept her fate? When she woke, hot tears spilled from her eyes.

Mrs. Ramshaw left her with food and tea, but locked the door. “I’ll not risk it,” she mumbled. “We can’t confine her for long. She may decide to betray us.” Worry wrinkled around her eyes.

“I don’t believe the slaves matter a whit to her, doesn’t care whether they escape. She hurts too much.” He buttoned his coat, pulled on his gloves.

“Are you so sure of that?”

He nodded. “She only cares for herself. Seeing again.” The knowledge of it made him feel empty inside. Such beauty, wasting away on a fairytale dream. He tried to envision her as God might—the pain increased exponentially. What could she be, if only she allowed the light in?

Eyes smarting, he reflected that there were consequences for every deed, both good and bad. Would he ever be free of these worldly traps and entanglements?

He entered his home to the succulent smells of beef roast. Downright fortifying.

“Francine! You are the best sister that ever lived, have I told you?” He attempted cheer, but Clara held his focus—her wants and fears tumbled with the awful truth he’d revealed.

How could he blurt such damning news about her father?

What was he thinking? He should have dealt with her childish bargaining with grace, but he’d been driven to say what he must.

Francine waved a note in front of his face. “Sleep walking, brother?”

“Who is it from?” He reached out.

“Mrs. Kilgore expects you to dinner. Immediately. Feels sorry for you, I believe.” Her brows rose in humor. “Doesn’t believe I can cook apparently.”

Daniel groaned. Tonight, of all nights. The afternoon had been exhausting. Still uncertain of a positive outcome. Clara, the fool-hearted, desperate creature.

Francine untied her apron. “Have a little roast now, and if your meal is unpalatable, I’ll have some warm on the stove to eat upon your return.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Mrs. Kilgore apologized. Seems I would make an odd number at the table, and she is afraid of odd numbers. Superstitious.” Francine rolled her eyes.

“For heaven’s sake.” No doubt, his sister needed to get out more.

The corners of her mouth lifted. “She reports that Miss Gray will be there.”

“Yes?” Had his voice gone up a pitch?

A seat by Miss Gray? Easy to look in her direction again, after Clara’s cutting comments. As if her words had any bearing on his courting.

An hour later, dressed in his nicest suit, Daniel prayed over Mrs. Kilgore’s spread with an eloquence that might woo a nun. Of course, he stuttered the “Amen” and knocked a spoon to the ground as he finished .

Miss Gray met his eyes with a generous smile, directly across the wide table.

He was satisfied with her seating arrangement.

Thank God for not answering all his prayers.

Surely most of his nervous transgressions might be unseen at this safe distance and his manhood spared of his own sarcastic imagination.

The supper plodded on and he reminded himself to smile. His mind a-twist with the day’s doings, each bite of food, tasteless. Clara’s stunned face before him, Morrie’s plight ever-nagging at his sleeve.

Daniel forced a laugh, hoping Miss Gray’s statement was meant to be comical. She laughed too. Good. Forget Clara. He needed to listen more closely.

He perched on a wide settee while she sat on an ottoman close by. The other guests were busy with his hosts, and glory of glories, he had Miss Gray to himself for a moment. Now was his chance.

She leaned forward. “Why did you leave New York?” Her rosy cheeks belied no nervousness on her part. “I hear you presided over a large, beautiful church.”

Oh, how had she heard that? “I go where God sends me, doesn’t matter what the church looks like.” Surely, she hadn’t heard the slanderous rumor. His pulse quickened.

She cocked her head to one side. “I hope you do not think our place of worship is lacking?”

“You put words in my mouth, Miss Gray. I think nothing of the sort.” He allowed himself to smile brightly.

She cocked her head. “Your accent isn’t too strange.”

“Thank you. Yours isn’t either.” In the long-term, her humor would brighten the darkest days in the parsonage.

“I find it intriguing. New York has everything and yet you come here.” She leaned in. “I want to go there someday...” Her dreamy eyes focused on something beyond him. Definitely far beyond him. They turned restless, then shaded. As if the night itself had put out the last candle .

New York had conniving Effies, prickly social columns, and a society to dance around. Such falsity would discourage her. “Maybe you can go someday.”

She turned from him to stoke the fire.

He recognized her restlessness. A passionate desire for more. If his presence failed to keep the glow in her face, there was nothing for him here. The fact hit him like an unexpected snowball encasing a rock. Not that he’d tried very hard...

His anticipation soured and his thoughts returned to the unsavory events of the day and the choices set before him. Three women. One that dreamed, one that desperately dreamed, and the other that hardly knew how.

He thanked the Kilgore’s, bowed to Miss Gray, and walked home with a distracted heart. The nation, the church, the people that filled it...

Daniel had a fitful night. Mr. Stanton’s face rose before him. A father ought to be the epitome of greatness, an honorable example of Christ, like his own had been. How would he feel if such news landed at his feet? Unthinkable!

He needed to go to Clara. Forgive her. Regret had swept over her with unexpected depth submerging her self-loathing.

Not just for herself, but for her father’s evils.

As though they considered her part of the problem.

She hadn’t thought through the implications of that hastily made bargain.

With all her might, she wanted to see again. Only recovering her vision mattered.

Plain to see she’d not experienced real love—faithful love, at least. Her abandoned heart merely grasped at flimsy straws. She needed leverage. She needed love. Could he do it?

His heart pounded. Could he love her in such a way that she could actually see Christ?

Could such a thing happen? He rolled the idea around in his mind.

He’d be putting his heart at risk. He recognized his interest in Miss Gray for what it was.

A distraction from what he tried not to feel towards Clara.

Christian Grant was a fool to break his word.

Daniel grinned. But all things work for those that love the Lord, and the Lord knew he loved Him.

He fell across his bed praying as never before, that she might trust Him, and love him too. If that indeed was His will.

CLARA FELT AS THOUGH she could weep no longer. Father, don’t do it. Father! Her dream had danced with scenes from her old life. Christian and Father blended into a hulking brute of a man. They dragged Morrie behind them, bound by a tight rope. Crying, stomach protruding.

She nearly screamed for the dream to stop. Whether the nightmare had been Morrie’s reality or not, the girl was too young to be with child. Much too young. Tears dripped. Her father’s last embrace before his departure seemed tainted with a darkness worse than blindness.

Mrs. Ramshaw had led her to her room hours ago. Story after story fell from her lips in disgust. “All life is sacred, Clara. All of it. You and your plans don’t scare me. I’m too old to be scared.” It sounded like a promise.

“You spoke with Daniel.”

“I eavesdropped. The Reverend is right, you bargain with life and death, only more is at stake than you realize. Such is the price when you tempt darkness.”

Clara squeezed a soaked handkerchief. “I thought—hoped—you might quickly agree to my plan.” Mrs. Ramshaw was supposed to respect her position.

Feel the weight of obligation. Understand what must be done.

No one gets hurt, everyone gets what they want.

She had no idea her offer would lead to a sickening revelation .

Mrs. Ramshaw left without any of her usual administrations. Clara had clutched her blankets over her head and wept herself to sleep. When she woke, she had no idea of time. She rolled on her side, trying to think but her head pounded.

No, no, no, no, no! She’d gone about everything wrong.

Then she realized. No one else need be involved.

She’d go alone. No threats, no dependency on anyone.

Somehow, she’d get help. After the holidays, she’d make her move.

She’d write a note in pencil to Dr. Rosenthal.

Ask him to meet her at the station. Surgery, sight, new life.

Away from everything and everyone. That could work.

Clara sighed with relief and was finally able to relax beneath her goose down comforter. She’d get out of old Mrs. Ramshaw’s way. Daniel and Morrie—and her baby—needn’t worry. Her bluff had been called. Poker was not her game.

Meanwhile, she’d somehow live out an apology. Yes, soon she’d move on. For everyone’s sake. Reverend Merrick had urged her to pray...she barely had words. So much to repent for, so much... Forgive me, God...

It was a start.

DANIEL ARRIVED ON MRS . Ramshaw’s doorstep as early as he dared. He waited by the parlor fire. Clara entered the room, dressed in drab gray. Dark shadows stained beneath red rimmed eyes. Raw with grief.

He reached out, held her hands. Her head dipped down, her long streaming hair hid part of her face. “I am so sorry.” Her voice, scratchy. More tears.