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She rubbed her hands down its length, her fingers lingering on the delicate vines trailing around the top. This man—so unusual, so kind. “Thank you. I don’t deserve such a gift.”

“Are gifts ever about deserving them?”

She shook her head. “I suppose they aren’t.” She stood and tested the stick against the floor. Perfect. As though he’d considered her height—the size of her hands. Unlike the bulky, silver-topped cane Father had purchased. This one had been made on purpose. Only for her.

“I wish I could see you. I wish you’d arrived before my accident so that I might have some point of reference.”

“Didn’t Mary Winters provide sufficient description?”

“How did you—?”

“Never mind. I was in the wrong place, wrong time.”

Warmth filled her cheeks. “Did they exaggerate and you’ve blonde hair all this time?”

“Not at all. Black as coal, as advertised.”

Her face flushed warm, and hated that he could see her reaction. Maybe, though, he’d let her see him, the only way she knew how. “Dr. Rosenthal showed me how to see people with my hands,” she swallowed, “I’m terrified to try.”

He stood before her, set the cane aside, then held her hands. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Let me help you.”

She hesitated, but he lifted her fingers to the crown of his head and guided her along the landscape of his face.

Her heart thudded as they moved down his cheek bones, across his nose, and found the shape of his lips.

Her breath caught as he held her fingers and kissed them as gently as before.

She stilled as he moved her hands down his clean-shaven chin, and then, trapped them between his own.

She tipped her head, but darkness swam. She didn’t want to let go.

His warm hands, his presence had come to mean so much to her.

His breath flowed across her face as he released her and then cupped her jaw.

This kiss, so soft, flooded her being. Could he love such a broken woman?

Cast off by everyone who mattered? Her hands slid atop his chest and rested there, he moved away. “Clara,” he whispered, “I—”

Mrs. Ramshaw’s voice echoed in the hall. “The feast is ready! ”

Daniel released her. She didn’t want that. She wanted to be held, and held forever. If she had to endure darkness, then maybe she could survive knowing he stood at her side.

He cleared his throat and placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

DANIEL BIT THE INSIDE of his cheek. He felt like a naughty schoolboy.

“In here. I want to talk to you.” Mrs. Ramshaw shut the door firmly, a grim expression he’d come to know sent a foreboding down to his toes.

She threw her right hand across her bosom and tossed her glance to the ceiling as though in a drama.

“That was the most romantic conversation I’ve ever been privileged to overhear.

..” she coughed, “and oversee.” She looked at him with a wrinkled grin and shimmering eyes.

“I knew you’d be the man for our Clara.” She rubbed her hands together with expectation. “The moment I saw you, I knew.”

Daniel swallowed at a lump in his throat. Had he heard her correctly? “Mrs. Ramshaw, I didn’t know—I—” Should he apologize? With a sickening realization, he’d actually done what Effie had accused him of. Only this time, his actions were true. Not some sopping gossip.

Mrs. Ramshaw’s face turned dead serious. “You will do right by Clara.”

He nodded. “I plan to.”

“I don’t think you understand,” she enunciated his name, each syllable crisp and direct, “Reverend Daniel Merrick.” Her mouth twitched.

“Mrs. Ramshaw, I’ll have you know that I’ve never embraced another woman before in my life. I swear it.” A trickle of sweat slipped down his temple .

“Why would you have to swear such a thing?”

“Because Clara is important to me.”

“Why?”

“She...blast it all, I can’t think straight. She just is, you ought to understand.”

“She’s lost too much, Daniel. Far too much. I don’t think she could endure losing you too. After what I saw before our feast, I think you better get your ducks in a row.”

He hadn’t considered the change in stations—what caring for her on a daily basis might be like.

“You should also understand that I own a shotgun and know how to use it.”

“Mrs. Ramshaw, I was nearly forced to marry a twit of a girl by the point of a shotgun because she threw herself at me. The scandal damaged my career, my family’s position in society,” he threw up a hand in exasperation, “and Francine, she...”

Mrs. Ramshaw pointed her gnarled finger at him. “Don’t touch Clara again until you’ve placed a ring on her finger.”

She was right. “Yes ma’am.” A serious reminder.

Compassion swept away her stern expression. “I was young once too. I know what I’m asking you. I watch over her as if she were my own daughter. I see how it is. Clara is a deeply wounded soul. Wait for her to heal a little more. Let her faith grow stronger.”

He looked at his hands that had guided Clara’s down his face, to see him. “To back away so coldly now will hurt her more.” And yet...

Mrs. Ramshaw struggled. “Save your lips for preaching, Daniel. That is all I ask.”

He grinned like a fool. Couldn’t help it.

The old woman pulled him into an affectionate hug. “Now. We have other business to discuss.”

Her plans to send Morrie north might well be the end of any courtship, if he were caught in the middle of it .

Before he took his leave, he squeezed Clara’s hand as he used to do. Spoke through his fingertips. What was she thinking? Would she have him if he offered?

CLARA LAY ON HER BED dreaming of Daniel’s kiss.

She’d marry him on the spot if allowed. If he asked.

But she wasn’t good enough for him—not nearly.

All she’d ever known, all she ever did were the results of her parent’s opulent lifestyle.

Before the accident, she’d been happy enough.

Christian had asked for her hand. She felt pride in the beauty of her youth, the privilege of her station.

The heady fulfillment of being wanted by a man who professed nothing but love to her.

They’d talked of the world beyond them. Enjoyed intelligent conversations about literature and politics.

He seemed the perfect candidate. His gallantry had been unmatched.

His desires, though, were ultimately entirely dependent on her wholeness.

Her beauty with nothing lacking. And of course her weighty dowry.

Clara scrunched her nose. Her family was rich. Daniel would never require a piece of her heritage to call her wife. No one should ever have to be tempted by dollar signs to marry.

How had she not seen past this? She’d accused her sisters too often for falling for young men without knowing their character. Now Lucy was set to marry such a man.

If only there was a way to stop her. Not for her sake, but Lucy’s. Her sister deserved true love. Not Mr. Grant. Not a man whose promises blew away like dust.

Maybe Francine would help her write a letter. Maybe, if she convinced Lucy, she’d save her future. Convince her of Christian’s inconstancy.

Clara slipped beside the window and pressed her face to the cool glass, remembering the stars. How they gleamed at night. If her eyes were healed one day, she’d live a very different life than before. If she could see, she’d never go back to being the woman she’d been. Never.

Strange, how her worst moment had turned her life around on a dime. Each and every desire revolved around a new purpose—one she didn’t fully understand. Not yet.

DANIEL THREW ANOTHER log on the kitchen fire while Francine stirred their Christmas cider, a recipe handed down through generations.

They’d never celebrated without the cider—in truth, they’d never celebrated away from Mother and the boys.

He missed their rambunctious antics and helping Mother with their Christmas surprises.

Francine handed him a steaming cup. “Thank you, dearest sister of mine. I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you certainly don’t.” She grinned and sat down at the long kitchen table.

“I’ve something to confess.”

Her tone was teasing. “I’m all ears.” She sipped from her cup.

Did he dare tell her? Even when his feelings were still so new? He must. “I will ask for Clara’s hand soon.”

She sputtered cider, choking on his words. “What?”

“I plan to marry Clara.” Saying it out loud made it seem real, to the depths of his being. Every time he was near her, she fit into his heart like she was always meant to be there—no matter her wounds or blindness.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Francine blinked in the candlelight as though he’d grown an extra head.

“No joke, Francine.” He sipped his cider. “It’s like God put her here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “And I can’t help but love her. I really can’t. ”

“I admit, she is very beautiful, Daniel, but she’s also blind as a bat.

Are you sure your ministry can withstand such a.

..substantial disability? A man of your caliber will be back in a higher pulpit soon.

I’d hate to see you shackled by a woman who’d struggle to keep up.

” She put her hands on her hips. “Or worse yet—hold you back.”

Daniel set his cup on the table. “Shackled? A higher pulpit, Francine? Are some pulpits more worthy than others? More esteemed?”

“You know they are.”

Daniel stood and crossed his arms. “No. They aren’t. The most important pulpit is the one God bids me preach from, no matter the numbers or level of society.”

“You’ve fallen far. If you keep this attitude, then you’ll live in poverty. Marry the girl, children will arrive soon. Do you make enough to provide for a brood of them?”

Daniel swallowed. He had savings. Money she knew nothing about. They’d be alright for a few years. “God provides and I am not afraid.” Did Francine not hear what he’d said? “God put her on my heart. I know He did. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. You cannot change that.”

“She comes from wealth, I hear. Odd that she should be placed with Mrs. Ramshaw.”

“I call it providential.”

“Will you be allowed to marry her?”

Daniel closed his eyes briefly. “I must be.”

“I suppose there would be a dowry—don’t look at me like that. Surely you thought of it too.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Either way, you’ll need consent. If she’s agreeable, of course. Has she agreed?”

“I haven’t asked. She needs time.”

Francine puffed with irritation. “If she isn’t selfish, she’ll reject you.”

“You wound me. How can you behave this way? Don’t you care about my feelings?”

Francine bit her lip and set her cup on the table.

“What do you have against her?”

“Nothing. I feel as though I could love her as my own sister.”

“Then why this fuss?”

“Love can be so blinding—and exacting. I don’t want to see you caught in a trap again.” Her voice caught. “Or rejected either.”

He sat on the opposite bench and spread his hands before her. “What, dear sister, do you know of love?”

She broke into a sob and bent her head to her arms.

Suddenly he saw. “You’ve been in love. With someone you thought—Francine. Did a man do you a wrong turn?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. He never knew I cared.” She gulped, “Mr. Crawley scared them away. He behaved as my suitor. And Edward, he...”

“Edward? Edward Harrington?”

She blushed.

“Just as well.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“He thought Mr. Crawley and I were engaged.”

Daniel understood his sister’s need to flee New York. He’d performed Edward’s marriage before he’d left. “Keep hoping and praying, Francine, for the love of your life. God knows who he is meant to be. Meanwhile, pray for me too, as I sort out my future.”

Francine looked at him with such doleful eyes. “I suppose you’ll need a ring.”