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Everett didn't come read to her in the library the following afternoon.

Callista hadn't really expected him to, not after she'd rebuffed his courtship proposition.

She smoothed the endpapers over the glue on her last cover of the day, her heart aching.

If only she could write an ending that would allow her and Everett to be together.

Like Jane and Edward. Elizabeth and Darcy.

Cinderella and her prince. But those who lived outside the pages of novels could not craft their futures with pen strokes and wishful thoughts.

They must bear the fetters of reality as they hobbled forward one step at a time, making choices that affected not only themselves but those they loved.

Not all endings were happy in this fallen world. Papa lost Mama. Everett bore scars. Society withheld acceptance. Love was a powerful force, but it couldn't conquer every problem. Not until the day Jesus returned and took them to the perfection of heaven.

She checked for any stray glue then, after finding none, closed the cover and placed a stack of finished books on top so it would dry without bubbling or warping.

Callista glanced at the handful of books on the corner of her worktable, waiting for their final fitting.

Four. Only four books left until Everett's collection would be complete.

Tomorrow would be her last day at the manor.

How she would miss this place! Mrs. Potter's tea parties.

Mr. Lightfoot's funny anecdotes. Mr. Timens's precision.

And Everett. She fluttered her lashes in a desperate bid to wave off the tears that rose to flood her eyes.

No! She would not cry. She had too much to be thankful for.

The blessing of new friends. Earnings from an important commission that would keep the Rosenfeld Bindery financially afloat.

A reunion with her dear papa. The honor to have experienced love with an amazing man.

A man who taught her to dance and who read to her in a voice as deep and silky as melted chocolate.

A man who poured his soul into his paintings, holding nothing back as he used the talent God had given him to convey woundedness alongside hope.

A man who loved books as much as she did and could appreciate a woman's professional skill.

A man who valued her heart more than her face.

A man she would never forget.

Drat. At this rate she was going to take flight from all this lash flapping.

Lifting her apron to swipe it across her eyes, she glanced at the mantel clock. Dinner wouldn't be ready for another hour. Plenty of time for a nice, long walk. The fresh air would do her good. Clear her head, if not her heart.

Callista pasted a smile on her face before entering the kitchen. Mrs. Potter glanced up from chopping potatoes.

"Finish early today?"

"I did." Callista slowed as she passed the stove, taking a moment to breathe in the tantalizing aroma of baking yeast rolls. "Mmm. I never tire of that smell."

Pleasure lit the housekeeper's face. "The rolls will be ready in about ten minutes. Hang around, and I'll let you snitch a warm one."

Callista gasped in feigned shock. "Why, Mrs. Potter. What would Mr. Timens say? Snitching rolls before dinner?"

Mrs. Potter pointed her knife as if it were a finger. "My kitchen, my rules."

"Well, in that case, I'll be sure to cut my walk a little short. A warm roll sounds absolutely heavenly."

The housekeeper winked. "I'll set one aside for you."

"Thank you."

"Be sure to take Spartacus with you," Mrs. Potter called as Callista pulled open the back door and stepped outside.

"I will."

Or she would have, if she'd been able to find him.

She called the dog several times as she set out on the path that meandered down to a small stream about a half mile from the house, but he never came.

Must be off chasing a rabbit or facing down a feral hog.

He did love to exert his dominance over the local wildlife.

Callista smiled, though her lips wobbled a bit.

She was going to miss him too. Her gentle giant.

Fierce on the outside and tender on the inside, just like his master.

Who she was not going to cry over.

Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and lengthened her stride.

To further distract herself, she began singing a hymn in her mind, matching her steps to the marching beat of Fanny Crosby's To the Work.

The lyrics proved an excellent reminder of the satisfaction to be found in a life of kingdom work.

Laboring for the Lord, for family, for the benefit of others was a noble endeavor.

A life with purpose. A life she'd always assumed would be hers.

Meeting Everett didn't change that. It might have changed her, but it didn't have to change her path.

A cool breeze blew against her face, refreshing and invigorating her spirit as she strode toward the copse of live oaks that marked her destination.

She brought Papa's face to mind and focused on how happy she'd be to see him again.

To hear his voice. To feel his embrace. They'd been apart far too long.

Bending beneath the branches of the nearest oak, Callista stepped into the shade, but before she could fully straighten, a scratchy burlap sack jerked over her head. She screamed and grabbed at the oversized bag, but whoever held it forced it down over her arms, pinning her hands to her sides.

"No! Please! Let me go!" She struggled, desperate to break free.

But her captor refused to relent. In fact, he hauled her straight off the ground and flung her over his shoulder. She landed so hard, the air was knocked from her lungs. Stunned, Callista fought for breath as the man ran through the brush, carrying her as if she were no heavier than a toddler.

Once she could breathe again, she kicked and writhed, but all that earned her was a stinging slap across her backside.

"Quit squirmin', or I'll have to knock you out."

She stilled. Not out of obedience, but out of shock. She recognized that voice.

Ambrose Batton.

His desk full of wadded-up epistolary rejects, Everett read over his eighth and, hopefully, final attempt.

Mother and Father,

I have done you both a disservice by neglecting to write for such an inordinate length of time.

Please forgive me. I fear my spirit was wounded more deeply than my face, and it has taken me quite some time to climb from the mire of self-pity to consider what pain I might be causing others by my actions. Or inactions, in this case.

Alex has kept me informed of some of the family news. I understand your first grandchild is set to arrive this autumn. How strange to think I will soon be an uncle! Mother, I'm sure you've been buying out the stores on the Ladies Mile to prepare for the blessed event.

Father, congratulations on securing the Jefferson contract. Alex mentioned in his last letter that society buzzed over the news for a week. I'm thankful the Griffin name is in the papers for all the right reasons this time around.

As it turns out, I have some news of my own to share.

I've met the most extraordinary young woman.

One who possesses a blindness to scars and an immunity to beastly manners.

How she came to enter my life is a miracle I still don't fully comprehend, but one for which I thank the Almighty on a daily basis.

She has the most cheerful, courageous spirit I have ever encountered and a heart so warm it has thawed the ice within my breast. I feel things for her that I have never felt for another, and I have reason to believe she holds some level of fondness for me in return.

Unfortunately, she is reluctant to accept my suit because of the difference in station between us.

She worries that my family will not accept her humble pedigree, and being very close to her own father, she will not pursue a relationship with me if doing so would worsen the estrangement between me and my family.

Her name is Callista Rosenfeld, and she is a book binder, a talented one. Mother, you would appreciate her artistry. She has recovered my entire literature collection. She and her father own a small bindery in Denton, Texas—the Rosenfeld Bindery. (I'm sure Father will conduct inquiries.)

I plan to seek her hand in marriage. I don't know if she will have me, but I am asking for your approval as a gift I may present to her to demonstrate my dedication to removing the barriers that stand between us. I invite you to pay a visit as well, should your schedule allow.

I've included a sketch of Miss Rosenfeld so that you might more easily picture her in your mind. You will note that she is quite a beauty, but her character and temperament outshine the fairness of her face.

I look forward to your reply.

Your son,

Everett

His gut churned as he folded the letter and sketch together and slid them into an envelope.

Would his parents give their consent to his marriage plans?

Would they even respond? He doubted they would deign to visit.

They hadn't done so in the last five years, after all.

Father's schedule didn't allow for time away, and Mother likely believed Texas to be overrun with warring Commanche, brazen outlaws, and despicable desperados.

A smile twitched at the edge of Everett's mouth.

Even contemplating a visit to the Wild West would likely send her into a fit of the vapors.

Of course, his parents might have written him off by now.

His smile flattened. A son stained by scandal, best left forgotten.

Even if that were the case, he hoped they would at least send a letter to inform him that they didn't care what he did with his life so long as it didn't touch theirs.

That would suffice for his purposes. Surely, they would afford him those few crumbs.