A Match of Sorts Read online

  “Have you ever…?”

  Grace arched her brow, but he shook his head and focused on his bowl.

  “Killed a man?” She folded her arms. “That’s the first question most upstanding folks ponder about.”

  Caleb glanced at her. “Have you?”

  “Once. In self-defense, and if I had any sense, I would’ve killed more. Dead men don’t give you any trouble.”

  “You don’t have any family left?” Caleb asked after a while.

  “Why?” She shifted on her chair. “I’m not used to telling anyone so much about myself.” She tugged at her hair.

  “I won’t share what you tell me with anyone. Unless you want me to.”

  “What I tell you stays between us.” She waited for his nod. “I had four older brothers. All killed in battle. Pa crumbled at the news and died shortly after.” There was nothing left in her bowl, but she inspected it as if there was a treasure.

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Life went on.” Her voice was low and contained.

  “It does.” He massaged the back of his neck. Outside the kitchen window, only the thick black night was visible. “But it’s never quite the same, is it? Grief doesn’t follow a neat little pattern. Sometimes out of nowhere, it hits us full force.” He looked at her and smiled. The lamp light played across Grace’s face, emphasizing each lovely feature.

  “You miss her a lot, don’t you?”

  “All the time.” He choked on the words but covered it with a cough. “How old are you?” He studied the half drank coffee in his cup. The drink had lost its appeal.

  Grace shifted. “Are you going to ask my shoe size as well?”

  Caleb grinned.

  “Twenty-five.” She paused. “You?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “All right.”

  “Anything else you want to know about me?” Talking to her made bobcat wrestling appear fascinating.

  “Since I’m not staying, I don’t see the point.” She traced the rim of the bowl.

  Fine. If that was how it would be. He clasped his hands behind his head. “I like strong coffee. And gingerbread. Especially gingerbread. And early mornings, when everything is quiet and distractions are few.”

  Grace frowned.

  “Would you like to know my shoe size?” Good! He caught the smile she tried to hide by dipping her head, and his chest expanded.

  “Wipe that stupid smile off your face.” Her chagrin only broadened his smile.

  “Suppose since you now know more about me than any other living person, I can shoot some questions your way.”

  He took a sip of the cold coffee and curled his lip. “Ask me anything.”

  “Tell me about your daughters.”

  “Abby is the oldest and a lot like me. We both tend to act before we think. Libby takes after Margaret. She observes quietly. Since her Mama’s death, she hasn’t said much.”

  “How old were they when they lost their ma?”

  “Abby was five. Libby was barely two.” His voice cracked, and he inhaled. “Ellen’s been great. She spends as much time with them as would be proper.”

  “Margaret was killed in a robbery?”

  “Yes.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The bank robbers sought refuge. They broke into the church while Margaret and I were working. They got scared, and they fired. One shot hit my back. Another one ricocheted and hit Margaret.” Images flashed in his mind, as clear as if it were happening all over again. He shot up a quick prayer for strength. The chair scraped on the floor as he pushed back to stand.

  “Were the men caught?”

  “No.”

  “I never understand why good people suffer.”

  “We live in a fallen world, where suffering affects everyone.” How many times had he shared those words with another anguished soul? He’d clung to it with all his might during the darkest moments in his grief. He couldn’t see God’s hand in Margaret’s death, but he trusted.

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “But it does. And we can’t change it; all we can do is hold on to the One who conquered this world.”

  “You’re supposed to say that.” Grace crossed her arms, and he read quiet challenge in her stance. “Was that pounded into your head when you went to seminary?”

  “Not exactly.” Caleb exhaled and scratched his beard. “My faith and daughters kept me going.”

  “I have something to add to our charade.”

  He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Which is?”

  “I haven’t been on speaking terms with the Almighty for a while. I want you to respect that.”

  Caleb flattened his palm across his heart. “I won’t stuff it down your throat.”

  Grace shook her head. “How’d I get into this mess?”

  6

  A scream rose in Grace’s throat as two faces within an inch from her own took shape. One small hand clamped over her mouth, stilling her. Where the heck was she? What were two little girls doing here? Grace inhaled and relaxed when her mind filled in the blanks. Caleb’s daughters. Abby and Libby. She’d met them after agreeing to help Caleb.

  “You’ll wake Daddy,” the tallest of the two brown-haired girls said in a low voice. Abby. She had eyes as blue as Caleb’s. The other one pressed her stubby finger against her own lips and motioned to the door that stood ajar. That’s right. The poor man had taken temporarily residence on the sofa downstairs.

  Grace swallowed and nodded, and the girl removed her hand from Grace’s mouth. She started to push up, but the stab in her bicep stopped her ascent. She glanced at it and gritted her teeth. Caleb had changed her bandage last night before giving her the plain and serviceable white nightgown. Margaret’s. He also gave her permission to go through Margaret’s belongings, to see if there was anything she might find usable. Ellen offered to bring clothes over as well, only Grace wasn’t as petite as Ellen.

  “What’s wrong?” Both girls appeared to be fine.

  Both were still dressed in their nightshirts, hair tousled from sleep.

  Grace glanced around the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The bed had been more comfortable than she’d expected. A plain oak dresser with a matching mirror stood against the wall beside the door. A pitcher and bowl with water sat on it. At the wall with the narrow wardrobe there was a trunk. A dress was draped across it.

  Prancing around in a decent woman’s dress wasn’t something she looked forward to.

  “That’s Mommy’s dress.” Libby frowned and moved in behind Abby.

  “It’s a pretty dress,” Grace said. Aside from being several inches too short, it fit Grace.

  “Mommy was beautiful.” Abby worried her lip and tears shimmered in her eyes. “Daddy says Libby looks just like her.”

  “You’re both beautiful.” Grace swallowed the lump that swelled in her throat at the heartache they’d experienced. Though she was no stranger to grief, she had experienced it at a later age. “Was there a reason you sneaked in here like mice while I was sleeping?”

  Libby gave her the tiniest smile and dipped her head. In her pudgy hands, she gripped a white piece of fabric with a delicate lace trim. A handkerchief.

  Grace’s heart panged.

  “We’re hungry. Can you help us make breakfast?” Both girls stared at her with wide eyes.

  “I think I’ll be able to make something.” Grace’s stomach growled. Breakfast wasn’t a bad idea.

  “We want pancakes.”

  “Abby,” Libby hissed and jabbed her older sister in the side.

  Abby’s face grew red. “Sorry. Would you make us pancakes, please?”

  “If you help me, I might be able to get those pancakes ready before your pa wakes.”

  “Yippee.” Libby clapped her hands, and Abby tugged on Grace’s.

  

  Coffee. Eggs. Impossible! Caleb smiled as the delicious aroma lured him awake. Having a woman in the house sure was a good arrangement. Abby and Libby’s
whispers came from the kitchen, and he cracked an eye open. He stretched and the collie lifted its head at the hearth.

  “Hey there, girl.” Caleb reached to scratch the dog’s head. Grace’s voice filtered through the doorway. It was difficult to make out what she was saying, but he already decided he liked her voice. Her Southern accent had faded through the years, but it was still there. Perhaps she disguised it, the way she’d disguised her gender. She was indeed an odd woman, but one to be reckoned with. He pushed to his feet and winced as his spine complained from sleeping on the sofa. After rolling his shoulders and stretching, he skipped his cane and inched to the kitchen. The aroma enticed with every step he took.

  Abby and Libby sat at the table, dressed, their hair brushed and braided.

  Grace stood at the stove, scrambling eggs in the skillet, garbed in her trousers and oversized shirt. It was ridiculous to imagine her in one of Margaret’s dresses, yet he did.

  “Daddy!” As one, the girls leapt from their chairs and threw themselves at him.

  He back-pedaled, and then crouched and kissed them. “Morning.” He glanced at Grace, the children’s laughter washing over him, enough to forget the pain in his leg.

  “Miss Grace’s making breakfast.” Abby pointed.

  “Girls, I told you not to bother Miss Grace.” Caleb straightened.

  Abby lifted the cup of milk to her lips. “But she’ll be our mommy. That’s what mommies do. They kiss hurts and make breakfast.” As she returned the cup to the table, Libby bumped her elbow and the cup dropped. Milk drenched Abby’s gown and tears erupted.

  “Abby it’s fine, no need to cry.” Grace snatched a rag and blotted it against Abby’s chin and chest.

  Caleb grabbed the dishtowel and pressed it on the pool of milk on the table, stopping the waterfall of white liquid from further trickling onto the floor.

  Abby’s high-pitched screams echoed in the tiny kitchen.

  His breath hitched when Grace thumbed the tears from Abby’s plump cheeks.

  “There. It’s cleaned up. Nothing to worry about.” Grace smiled.

  Caleb straightened with the drenched towel in his grip.

  Abby sniffled and hiccupped. “Libby bumped me.” She drew a stuttered breath and another fat tear rolled down her one cheek.

  “It was an accident.” Grace glanced at Libby, as if she wanted the child to offer confirmation.

  “Sorry, Abby,” Libby whispered, her chin trembling. She offered Abby the tiniest pout of a smile.

  Caleb finger-brushed Libby’s hair from her eyes.

  Abby gave a watery smile. “It’s all right, Libby.” Abby wiped her eyes.

  Caleb nuzzled Abby’s face until she giggled. “Your beard tickles, Daddy!”

  He chuckled and repeated the action on Libby until she squealed in delight. Unable to prevent his own smile he lifted his gaze to Grace and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  With a nod, she returned to Margaret’s prized stove.

  “How did you sleep?” She removed the skillet and scooped fluffy yellow piles onto the four plates at the table. Her gaze locked on him.

  “Good.” He hobbled to his spindle-back chair, ignoring the V between her brows, and leaned his forearms on the back of the chair for support. “The sofa makes a terrible bed. I’m sorry you slept on it.”

  “It’s better than half the things I’ve slept on.” She pointed at the plates. “The girls wanted pancakes, but I couldn’t find everything.”

  “This is perfect.”

  Grace shifted her weight. “The food is getting cold.”

  He nodded and pulled the chair away. Abby sat on his left, and Libby on his right. Grace lowered onto Margaret’s chair and Caleb suppressed the ache in his chest. He blessed the food and studied her as they ate.

  “What do you want to ask?”

  “Nothing.”

  Grace leaned back and massaged her hand, the bruises on her knuckles fading. “You have a little twitch between your brows whenever you want to ask something.”

  Caleb touched the spot between his brows. “I do?”

  “Yup. You also blush easier than anyone else I’ve ever met.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve got a knack for observing people.”

  “It saved my hide a time or two.”

  “I imagine it has.”

  She was so different from all the women he’d known—so unlike Margaret. Of course, Margaret had been both proud and beautiful, her faith in God her most endearing quality. But Grace had a strength that was tangible. And for all her bark, the world hadn’t robbed her from her softness. Until now, he’d been determined never to marry for other than necessity again.

  “The twitch is back.”

  Caleb chuckled at her dull tone and dipped his chin.

  7

  “I think you need to rest that arm of yours.” Caleb pushed to his feet and muffled a grunt. Gray morning light flowed through the lone cracked window and dust motes floated in the air. They’d worked on the storeroom since dawn, scrubbing and sweeping the floor and walls and tiny window. A vigorous application of elbow grease, soap and water, left the room and meager contents gleaming. And habitable. Aside from a narrow brass bedstead, there was a battered trunk and the two rickety chairs. Several crates containing various unwanted items the parishioners gave for donation now stood against the far side of the room in a neat row.

  “I know when to stop.” Grace lifted the broom and attacked cobwebs hanging in the corner of the narrow room. Poor spiders. The woman was fearless and tireless. If her injury pained her, she kept it hidden.

  “I don’t want this to prolong your recovery.”

  “A little honest, hard work never killed anyone.” She lowered the broom, her assault on the cobwebs victorious, and wiped her forehead.

  “You do know that you have to take it easy if you want to heal properly?”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean I need to be coddled.”

  Caleb turned and yelped at the tiny brownish creature that skittered against the length of the far wall. Chilled to the bone with his heart threatening to burst, he took a step back and bumped into one of the chairs.

  Grace snorted. “It’s a mouse.”

  Of course she’d noticed. He chuckled, his cheeks and ears burning. “I’m not particularly fond of the little critters.”

  “It’s still practically a baby.” She cornered the furry creature, caught it, cradled it like a puppy, and started to the door. “Don’t worry; no one will hurt you.”

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “I’m putting it outside.”

  “It’ll come back.” And torment him in the dark. Caleb rubbed his arms. Tiny paws tickling up his leg as it scurried all over him at night wasn’t something he wanted.

  “I’ll tell it not to.” The stairs creaked and complained as she hurried down to set the critter free.

  He caught the chair and moved it against the wall. The room appeared void of other furry residents. One loner was acceptable—unwelcomed—but he couldn’t stomach an infestation of the varmints. Little paws scratching against the floor boards. Beady eyes watching him in the blackness as he slept in oblivion. A shiver stole down his spine.

  “Maybe I should be the one moving here.” Brushing her palms together at the doorway, Grace smiled. Her scarf was knotted over her hair, but strands escaped and framed her face.

  “It’s hardly accommodation suitable for a lady.”

  “I’m not a lady.”

  “You’re a lady even if you trot in breeches and wield a gun.”

  “What if the mouse returns, with its friends?” She retrieved the broom and rested her chin on the rough tip. There was nothing left to sweep. Unless she experienced the same awkwardness that he did and needed some form of distraction.

  “I guess you’ll have to come and rescue me then.” He liked her smile a little too much. He gritted his teeth. His loneliness didn’t give him a right to enjoy her presence. Or even attempt at joki
ng with her.

  “I suppose I can.” She propped the broom in the corner and walked to the window. The hem of her skirts now brushed the floor after Ellen adjusted it. Donned in Margaret’s plain brown day dress with a white apron protecting most of the skirt, the strings created a perfect white bow at the smallness of her back. Unlike her original getup, this outfit emphasized her tiny waist and her distinctly feminine figure. He glanced at her face and realized she’d said something and waited for a response. “Excuse me?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “Isn’t this storeroom a little big?”

  “The first parson was unmarried. This room served as his personal quarters. Since his death, it housed a person or two and then became a space for storage. And accumulated dust and spider webs.” He shivered. “And home to a mouse.”

  “I still don’t see why I can’t move in here since it will only be temporary.”

  Caleb massaged his lower back. “It wouldn’t be proper. Besides it gets cold here at night.”

  “I’ve stayed in worse places. A little cold never bothered me.”

  “For once, you can stay in a place a little more decent. And warmer.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth. “Even a charade such as ours doesn’t give me the permission to treat you any differently than I’d have treated another lady.”

  Something flashed in her eyes, but she turned her head. “I still don’t like taking up residence in your house.”

  “Grace, I’m not letting you sleep here. Your safety is my concern.”

  “My safety?”

  “Yes. If the mouse returns with reinforcements, they might take you hostage.”

  She laughed. It wasn’t a full hearty laugh, but it was melodic nonetheless, and it warmed his insides. Caleb’s chest swelled but he snuffed it.

  “And you won’t come to rescue me?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m afraid not.” He gripped the second spindle-backed chair, set it against the wall and turned to observe the room. It was a far cry from comfortable, but for the time being, it would suffice. “I’ll face spiders, dusty storerooms, and talkative widows. But I put my foot down at confronting mice soldiers.”