To Win Her Heart Page 6

  Today, however, the sound of her voice greeted him as he trod up the walkway toward a door that stood ajar.

  “Please go outside. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

  Levi pulled up short.

  “No. Not toward me. To the door. The door!” She squealed, and Levi bounded forward, taking the stairs in a single leap. He threw the door wide and brought up his fists, ready to take on the unseen threat.

  “Get it off! Get it off!” She held her skirts away from her body and twisted her head to the side as if trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the invader clinging to the dark green fabric of her dress.

  A cockroach. A big ugly one—three, maybe four inches long, its wings still slightly askew.

  “Please.” Miss Spencer whimpered, and the sound galvanized him to action.

  Levi opened his hand and swiped the oversized beetle from her skirt. Then, before the thing could scamper into a dark corner, he crushed it with a stomp of his boot, wincing at the audible crunch that echoed in the now-quiet hall. He scraped his sole over the carcass like a horse pawing the ground, and sent the bug sailing out the door.

  “Did you have to squish him?”

  Levi jerked his eyes to Eden Spencer’s face. What had she expected him to do? Tie a leash around its neck and take it for a walk?

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, as she raised a shaky hand to fidget with the button at her collar. “I appreciate your removing that beastly insect from my person.” She shuddered slightly, and her gaze dropped to the darkened spot on the hardwood floor that evidenced the roach’s demise. “However, I can’t abide violence against any of God’s creatures. Even horrid, wing-sprouting behemoths.”

  “I don’t like it, either,” Levi said, recalling the vow he made in the Huntsville chapel the day he chose to hand his life back over into the Lord’s keeping. “But if . . . I need to take violent action to . . . protect another, I will.”

  Not for himself. Only for another. Never again would he fight for sport, pride, or self-defense—only if the well-being of someone else hung in the balance. Although, the speed at which he’d clenched his fists and charged when he thought Miss Spencer was in trouble concerned him. Old habits died hard. The fighting impulse had taken control of his body before his mind had a chance to piece together what was happening.

  Sending the Lord a silent plea for more self-discipline, Levi ducked around Miss Spencer, not wanting to see any more condemnation in her eyes. Crushing a bug was no sin, but her accusations prodded his guilt. If the woman was upset at him for killing a cockroach, he hated to think what her reaction would be if she ever discovered what he used to do for a living. Or what happened during that last prizefight . . .

  Never again, Lord. I swear, never again.

  After he hung his hat on its customary top hook, he strode into the reading room and collected his book from the shelf. The quiet rustle of a woman’s skirts echoed behind him. He didn’t turn. In fact, he lengthened his stride until he realized there was something different about the corner he usually sat in. The vacant space had been filled with a large leather wing chair. A sturdy chair. A masculine chair. A chair he’d never seen before.

  He did turn then.

  “I thought you might prefer it to the floor.” She met his eye briefly, then looked away. “Harvey brought it in from my father’s study. Since Father rarely visits, I doubt he’ll mind if we borrow it for a while. I can use it for my story time, as well.”

  Levi stared at the woman before him, her thoughtfulness pouring light into a place inside him that had long been darkened. A place that reminded him of family and acceptance, of belonging. His mind scoffed at the tender reaction stirring in him. It was just a chair—leather, wood, some stuffing. It wasn’t new or even really his. But the gesture left him shaken nonetheless. He’d not received such a gift since he left home so many years ago.

  Miss Spencer waved her hands in the air as if his response was unimportant to her, but Levi caught the sidelong glances she shot his way as he kept silent.

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll ask Harvey to move it back.”

  He tried to shape his gratitude into words, but before his sluggish tongue could spit them out, she exhaled a heavy breath, and her arm flopped to her side.

  “You know what? I’ll just go fetch him right now. He’s probably in the kitchen with Verna.” Her face flushed as she spun away from him.

  She didn’t understand.

  Levi tossed his book onto the seat of the chair and lunged forward. He snagged her hand and tugged her to a halt. Still, she didn’t look at him. He wanted to call to her, to urge her to face him. Using her given name would be too presumptuous, though, and calling her Miss Spencer would embarrass them both. So, letting go of her hand, he cupped her shoulders and gently forced her around.

  He waited, his hands holding her in place.

  Finally she looked up, her bottom lip trembling slightly. Perhaps he should have smiled to ease her nerves, but he couldn’t. That sort of surface smile would only cheapen the sentiment he wanted to express.

  “I like it. Very much. Thank you.” He gazed into her eyes while he spoke, hoping that somehow she would comprehend the depth of his gratitude despite his inadequate words. Those mossy green eyes peered back at him, and for a moment the chair, the library, the house—all of it—disappeared. All he saw was her. Then she blinked, and the world returned.

  Levi released her shoulders and stepped back, dredging up the very smile he’d rejected earlier to cover his own sudden bout of nerves.

  “Well,” she said, “enjoy your book.”

  He nodded, and a strange look passed over her face, almost as if she were trying to contain a giggle. What in the world did that mean?

  As he settled into the leather seat, he opened to the page where he had left Phileas yesterday, but his gaze kept drifting over the edge of the book to follow Miss Spencer as she wandered about the room, straightening shelves that were already tidy.

  A man could get used to such a view. Levi looked his fill until Miss Spencer swiveled to inspect a bookcase near his corner. He ducked his head so fast, vibrations ricocheted down his spine. After that, Levi maintained continuous visual contact with Mr. Verne’s pages, but when he took his leave thirty minutes later, he couldn’t recall a single word he’d read.

  Chapter Eight

  Later that afternoon, Eden asked Verna to watch the library for her so she could run the errand she’d been putting off all week. Tomorrow, the Ladies Aid Society would expect a report on the progress of the fund drive. Eden had yet to solicit a single penny beyond the twenty dollars she’d withdrawn from her own account.

  As she moved to the hall, she glanced through the window to judge the weather. The sun had been shining most of the day, so she doubted she’d need a cloak. Her pleated shoulder cape should offer sufficient protection. Besides, it was more flattering to her figure. Not that she was trying to impress anyone. It was simply a matter of properly representing the Society.

  Eden collected the short black cape from the closet beneath the stairs, swung it over her shoulders, and fastened it under her chin. She checked her appearance in the hall-tree mirror, pleased with the way the cape complemented the dark green of her dress and the jet buttons at her cuffs. Taking down her black straw bonnet, her gaze strayed to the empty top hook, the one belonging to Mr. Grant. Or rather, the one he tended to use. Eden cleared her throat and jabbed a hatpin through the knot of her chignon. Just because the man was habitual about where he hung his hat was no reason for her to consider the spot his. On impulse, she yanked an umbrella from the cylindrical stand beside the hall tree and slapped its curved wooden handle onto the hook in question.

  There. That was better.

  She gave the umbrella a sharp nod, then spun and marched toward the front door, snatching her handbag and black kid gloves from the hall table as she went.

  As Eden made her way down Main Street, the smithy loomed large in h
er peripheral vision. Nevertheless, she kept her focus straight ahead. She would visit the saddle shop and livery first, hone her pitch on men she’d known for years—men who didn’t look at her with penetrating gray eyes or rescue her from mammoth-sized beetles.

  Turning her back on Mr. Grant’s place of business, Eden took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the saddlery. The smell of new leather and harness oil filled her senses. It wasn’t an unpleasant aroma, just stronger than she preferred. Trying not to inhale too deeply, she made her way to the counter.

  Alex Carson set down the shoe leather he’d been stitching at his worktable and rose to greet her. “Good afternoon, Miss Spencer. Ready for that new pair of walking boots? I got some pebbled goatskin in that would make a handsome pair of gaiters.” He stepped around the counter and started moving to the adjoining room, where his boots and shoes were displayed. An expert in all things leather, the man served as the town cobbler as well as saddler.

  “No, thank you.” Eden stopped him before he could get too far. “I’m afraid I’m not shopping today. I’m here on behalf of the Spencer Ladies Aid Society.”

  “Ah, I see.” The man smiled and strode back to the counter. “Time for the annual fund drive, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Carson reached behind the counter and brought out his till. “What deserving cause have the good ladies of Spencer chosen this year? Orphans again?”

  “No. Although the reconstructed shoes you sent along with your cash donation last year were a true blessing. My contact at the Seeds of Hope Orphanage was delighted at the gift. Children outgrow their shoes so fast, and the ones that are handed down are worn to shreds. Having several new pairs makes a big difference.”

  The man’s face reddened a bit, but his smile widened as he opened the till and fingered a ten-dollar greenback. “I was glad to help, miss. Will you be needing shoes again this year?”

  “No. We are raising money for prison Bibles this year.”

  Mr. Carson looked up from the till, the corner of the bill he’d been holding sliding back into its slot. “Prison Bibles?”

  Eden silently sympathized with his reluctance. But her opinion was not what mattered. She was there for the Society, not herself, and she would do her best to honor the ministry the Lord had led them to, even if it was not one that spoke directly to her heart.

  “I know it seems an odd choice,” she said, setting her handbag on the counter next to the till. “However, our preacher and his wife fully endorse the idea. The Cranfords are personally acquainted with the chaplain in Huntsville who will be receiving the Bibles, and they assure us that Mr. Willis is a godly man of sound judgment who knows what he is about. The Bibles will be distributed only to convicts who attend weekly Bible classes and worship services. Those who demonstrate a spiritual commitment will receive a copy as a gift upon their release.”

  Mr. Carson scratched at his beard. “I can’t rightly say that buying Bibles is a bad idea, but I’m not sure I want them going to criminals. My brother, the one up in Jewett, was robbed last year. The thief shot him in the arm and made off with a week’s worth of earnings. His arm ain’t worked right since. If he didn’t have that boy o’ his, he would’ve had to close up shop.” The saddler dropped his hand from his chin to massage his shoulder as his gaze swept over his merchandise. “It might seem un-Christian to you, but I can’t see my way to helping men who would steal from decent folk and not think twice about shooting them for their trouble.”

  Eden couldn’t blame the man. She hadn’t been in favor of the idea either. Yet, instead of thanking him for his time, she felt an inner urging to make a final plea.

  “What if your donation led to the conversion of one of those criminals? What if he repented of his past sins, and after his release, did his best to ‘go and sin no more’? Then, because of you, there would be one less man who thought stealing acceptable, one less man who would turn a gun on another. One less soul in Satan’s grasp.”

  Mr. Carson shook his head and released a small huff of disbelief. “Do you really believe that’s possible, Miss Spencer?”

  “ ‘With God all things are possible,’ ” she quoted softly.

  “Possible,” he allowed, “but knowing human nature the way I do, I’d say it weren’t very probable.”

  Eden shrugged. “You may be right. I’ve found myself thinking much the same thing. But giving these men Bibles certainly won’t cause any harm, and if there’s a chance that one or two of them might actually commit their life to Christ as a result of our fund drive, well then, I consider it money well spent.”

  Her words hung in the air between them, and Eden was surprised by how much she meant them. It was no longer salesmanship on her part; somewhere in the midst of her defense, her heart had changed. Maybe Mr. Carson needed time to adjust, as well.

  “If you’d like to think about it, I could come back tomorrow.”

  “That’s all right.” He smiled at her and reached back into the till. “I know you ladies do good work, and you’re right—giving Bibles to prisoners will do no harm. I’d be happy to contribute.”

  Eden held out her hand in anticipation, but instead of the ten-dollar bill he’d been fingering earlier, Mr. Carson dropped two silver dollars into her palm. Masking her disappointment, Eden conveyed her thanks and left the establishment. Two dollars might not be as much as she had originally hoped for, but it would cover the cost of three or four of the Bibles Emma planned to order. It was still a blessing.

  She made out a little better at the livery. Mr. Barnes donated five dollars and graciously offered free use of his wagon if Mr. Cranford needed it to deliver the cases of Bibles to Huntsville at the conclusion of the drive.

  The blacksmith shop was the only business left on her list.

  Steeling herself, Eden strode through the gaping double doors and into the warmth of the smithy. The glow of the forge in the center of the shop beckoned to her, but the interior was dim. Her toe struck something hard on the floor. A clanking racket echoed off the walls as she stumbled forward.

  “Look out!” someone yelled.

  As she caught her balance, she turned her face toward the man’s voice and found herself on the wrong end of a fretting horse. Its rear leg kicked out. Eden spun away, tensing for the blow. But before the hoof could connect with her head, a pair of massive arms scooped her up and smothered her against a wide chest.

  “Oomph.” Her rescuer moaned, and Eden knew the horse had taken its pound of flesh after all.

  “You all right, Levi?” a man called. “Sorry ’bout that. Red don’t like unexpected noises.”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” He carried her several feet away before lowering her to her feet. Then he gently peeled the protective cocoon of his body from around her and peered into her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Eden’s legs trembled, though, and she grabbed his forearm to steady herself. He stilled and stared at her gloved hand as if it were a ladybug that had alit upon him, delicate and dainty against his corded masculinity. Embarrassed, Eden released him and dropped her hand to her side.

  “Thank you, Mr. Grant,” she said softly as she tugged her sleeve cuffs back down over her wrists. “That’s twice in one day you’ve come to my rescue.”

  “Glad to help, ma’am.”

  Again with the ma’am? The warmth his gallantry had evoked cooled several degrees. Why could the man not remember her name? It was the same as the town, for heaven’s sake! How difficult could it be?

  “Really, Mr. Grant. One would think that after living in this town for nearly a week and making numerous visits to my library, you would extend me the courtesy of learning my name.”

  “I know your name, Eden.”

  Her eyes shot to his.

  “I know your name.” The intensity in his gaze left no doubt of his sincerity.

  “Hey, Levi.” The owner of the recalcitrant horse spoke up, and Mr. Grant looked away. “I think I got ’er settled down. If the lady don�
��t mind waitin’, you can finish shoein’ her now.”

  Mr. Grant . . . Levi . . . raised a brow at her in question.

  “Go ahead. I’ll just stay out of Red’s range over here in the corner.” And try to restore her pulse to a normal rhythm.

  He stared at her for a moment in a way that had her despairing of ever regaining control of her runaway pulse. Then, with a nod, he returned to work.

  Taking slow, even breaths, Eden wandered to the back wall. A makeshift wash station had been rigged from pieces of broken furniture to support a basin the size of a horse trough. She smiled and ran a finger across the rim, until an unwelcome thought intruded.

  If he’d known her name this whole time, why did he not use it when she specifically requested he do so? Was he playing some kind of game at her expense? She peeked over her shoulder to where he stood bent at the waist, Red’s back hoof cradled in his lap upon a leather apron. Every once in a while Levi would stroke the animal’s flank and murmur words she couldn’t make out. But they must have been soothing, for the horse remained calm and cooperative. Somehow she couldn’t quite picture this patient, gallant giant amusing himself in a spiteful way at another’s expense.

  Eden turned back to the table. A discarded scrap of towel sat lonely and forgotten in a wadded heap. She picked it up, shook out its creases, and folded it into a tidy rectangle. She laid it beside the washtub and straightened the white shirt that hung askew from a peg to her left. It was the one he’d worn to church and for his visits to the library. Was it the only good shirt he owned? She tilted her head to examine his work clothes. The trousers were the same dark brown ones she’d become accustomed to seeing stretched out across her reading-room floor. Now that she thought about it, she’d never seen him wear a different pair. He must have fallen on hard times. Perhaps she should forgo asking him for a donation. She’d not want to embarrass him or take funds he could ill afford to give.