Courting Miss Adelaide. Janet Dean

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      Without a doubt, her main appeal to Jack had been the income from her shop. Adelaide lifted her chin. If marriage offered no more than that, she could manage nicely without a man. But a child…A child was different.

      

      Charles watched Miss Crum leave. What had she seen or heard that upset her enough to challenge the committee? With his own misgivings needling him, he followed her. “Miss Crum!”

      She pivoted. His heart stuttered in his chest, a warning that when it came to Miss Crum, he was fast losing his objectivity. “I need to ask. What made you say the Drummonds wouldn’t make good parents?”

      She met his gaze with an icy stare. “I’ve seen Ed’s temper. Frances appears heartbroken, unable to care for two children.”

      “That’s understandable. She lost her mother—”

      A light touch on his arm cut off his words.

      “Have you ever had a bad feeling about anyone, Mr. Graves?”

      “Sure.”

      “Then you can understand my concern. I have a bad feeling about that man.”

      As a newsman, he might use intuition to guide him, but he needed tangible evidence, not the insight of one disgruntled woman. “With nothing to base it on—”

      “I know the committee’s position. They made it clear the day I applied.” She gave him a curt nod. “Good day.”

      Watching her leave, he regretted the committee’s decision. No point in getting sappy about it. He wasn’t in the business of securing everyone’s happiness, even the happiness of a woman with eyes the color of a clear summer sky.

      Crossing the street, he slipped between a buckboard hauling sacks of feed and a dray wagon. The image of Adelaide Crum nagged at him with a steadfastness that left him shaken.

      Yet, the lady saw things as black and white, right or wrong, while he found areas of gray. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of getting involved with her, with anyone.

      He had all he could do running the paper and helping his brother’s family. He didn’t want another complication in his life, in particular a complication of the female sort.

      Yet something about Adelaide Crum made him question his decision.

      Chapter Three

      Tuesday morning Adelaide sewed pink ribbons on to a child’s bonnet, each tiny stitch made with infinite care. On the table beside her, her Bible lay closed. Unread.

      As she worked, she pictured Emma Grounds, the little German girl, wearing this hat as they picked daylilies out back. She imagined bending down to gather the girl to her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the scent of warmed skin, the scent of a child.

      Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting tears, then knotted the final thread, snipped off the ends and laid the finished hat on her lap. In reality, a customer would buy this bonnet for her daughter or granddaughter and it would be gone, out of Adelaide’s grasp as surely as Emma.

      She removed her spectacles and laid the hat on the counter. The bell jingled over the door. The sight of Laura Larson brought a smile to Adelaide’s face. Laura’s youthful spirit might be encased in a plump, matronly body, but her laughter lit up a room like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Without her help, Adelaide couldn’t have managed the shop during her mother’s illness. “Hello!”

      Laura strolled toward her, her gaze sweeping the shop. Slicked back into a bun, some of her salt-and-pepper curls escaped to frame her round unwrinkled face. “My, my, haven’t you been busy.”

      Leaning on the counter, Adelaide viewed her surroundings through Laura’s eyes. Hats lined every shelf and perched on every stand. Already full when she’d become work-possessed, display cabinets burst at the seams. “I guess I’m overstocked.”

      Laura giggled, sounding more like a young girl than a grandmother in her fifties. “I’d say so. Do you have some hat-making elves tucked away in the back?”

      Adelaide smiled. “No, I made them all.”

      “Why so many?”

      What could Adelaide say? She’d been drowning her sorrow in hats? That for the past two weeks she’d been sewing, rather than praying about her problems? “Would you like some tea?”

      “Tea sounds wonderful, if you have the time.”

      Adelaide headed to the kettle on the tiny potbellied stove in the back. “One thing I have plenty of is time.”

      “What you have plenty of, dear, is hats,” Laura said, following her.

      Pouring steaming water into a prepared teapot, Adelaide chuckled. For a moment, the sound stopped her hand. How long had it been since she’d laughed?

      Adelaide gathered two cups with saucers and added a teaspoon of sugar in each, the way she and Laura liked their tea. She carried the tray into the showroom.

      Laura joined her at the table, a cozy spot where her customers leafed through copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book while enjoying a restorative cup of tea.

      “Why not mark them down and run an ad in the paper?” Laura said. “You’ll need the space when it’s time to display wools and velvets.”

      Running an ad meant seeing Mr. Graves. She would like to strategically poke a hatpin into every member of the committee, even The Ledger’s editor. Of course, she’d do no such a thing.

      Filling Laura’s cup, Adelaide sighed. “I’ll run an ad.”

      Laura took a sip, and then rested her cup in the saucer. “You missed Wednesday night’s prayer meeting. Again.” Laura touched her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

      Adelaide lifted her head, meeting Laura’s gentle and accepting, ready-to-listen eyes. Her gaze skittered away and settled on the bonnet lying on the counter, then over to her unread Bible.

      She considered telling Laura about her struggles, but it might sound as if she blamed God. And she didn’t. It was her fault she resisted His will for her life. Or was it the committee who refused His will? Her mind had been so full of hurt and discouragement she no longer heard with certainty the quiet, inner voice that had guided and sustained her.

      Laura gave her hand a squeeze, but said nothing, simply waited. Tenacious as a bulldog tugging at a trouser leg, Laura wouldn’t let go until she got the story.

      “A couple weeks ago, I asked to care for one of the orphans coming to town on the train, and the committee turned me down.”

      “Oh, no.”

      “Afterward—” She bit her lower lip until she could continue. “To keep busy, I made hats.”

      Laura turned over Adelaide’s hand. “Which explains your rough palms СКАЧАТЬ