charming?”
“Size wise, this is the second largest, next to mine, but yes, I promised Sue’s father I’d build her a home as grand as the one she grew up in.”
“Your wife was obviously a very lucky woman.”
He smiled. “Well, we don’t believe in luck. All good things come from the Lord. We give Him the glory instead of luck. Shame you can’t get to know her.” He looked off, resisting again the urge to go have a visit with her. “I’m certain you two would’ve been great friends.”
“Why, thank you, Henry. What a nice thing for you to say. I do wish I could have had that opportunity.”
He smiled at this most intriguing lady then eased the door closed. Well, if his Sue was still alive, he would never have invited Miss May Meriwether home. No. His wife would have skinned him and the novelist both if she’d have known what was in his heart.
Chapter
Seven
Exactly like the man figured. All of May’s things were unpacked, and her manuscript sat on the writing table that looked out of place. She smiled. An extra chair had definitely just been brought into the room.
It didn’t match anything, but looked very comfortable. She tried it out, seemed a bit big. She wiggled, but oh so perfect.
Was it Henry’s personal chair? She liked the thought of being in it, if it was. How long since he’d sat there? Oh, goodness gracious. She had to stop.
Henry’s rugged charm certainly attracted her, and she had no complaints about his manners, but the religious fanatic would never be interested in an agnostic woman.
Especially one who had no need for any man. Well, except for making babies. She couldn’t do that alone. But he already had so many. Between his five—if she’d counted right—and all the extras, his house could be called a zoo.
So even if he did like her—which he didn’t—and she liked him, he’d never do for her any more than she’d do for him. Why, the man would have to be crazy to want another child.
And one thing was certain. If she ever gave her heart away to any male, it would only be to fulfill the longing in her soul for her own baby. The memory of her mother’s deathbed conversation washed over her.
“You’ll never know how very much I love you, Millicent, until you have a daughter of your own,” she’d said.
Would May ever know?
More of that last conversation tried to replay in her head, but she didn’t want to hear more. It broke her heart that day, the second worse day of her life. No twelve-year-old should lose their mother.
Besides, every other time she toyed with the memory, her heart broke all over again. No, she neatly folded her reminiscence and tucked it away as far into obscurity as possible.
Perspiration trickled down her temple. She patted it with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. How could anyone get used to this horrible heat?
She hated remembering the day her mother died. What brought it on anyway? Oh, yes—babies—and Henry Buckmeyer. That look in his eye at the Donoho said it all.
That he still mourned. So lovesick over his dead wife, he wasn’t interested in her or most likely, any other woman. Poor man. Must have been a blow to be widowed so young. In his early forties?
Moreover, not one time had she caught him gawking. Other than helping her out of the carriage, or offering his arm to go up the stairs, he’d not touched her, and then only being the perfect gentleman—nothing more than Chester would have done in the same situation.
She placed her feet back on the floor, leaned forward, straightened the stack of clean paper, then picked up the quill and tickled her chin with the feather to get her creative juices flowing.
Oh, the time he had prayed over supper last night. He’d held her hand then, too. But that didn’t really count, and he didn’t hang on too long or give her a little squeeze or anything that might imply an interest.
He’d made no advances; unquestionably not in the market for an old maid ink slinger.
She put all
“Size wise, this is the second largest, next to mine, but yes, I promised Sue’s father I’d build her a home as grand as the one she grew up in.”
“Your wife was obviously a very lucky woman.”
He smiled. “Well, we don’t believe in luck. All good things come from the Lord. We give Him the glory instead of luck. Shame you can’t get to know her.” He looked off, resisting again the urge to go have a visit with her. “I’m certain you two would’ve been great friends.”
“Why, thank you, Henry. What a nice thing for you to say. I do wish I could have had that opportunity.”
He smiled at this most intriguing lady then eased the door closed. Well, if his Sue was still alive, he would never have invited Miss May Meriwether home. No. His wife would have skinned him and the novelist both if she’d have known what was in his heart.
Chapter
Seven
Exactly like the man figured. All of May’s things were unpacked, and her manuscript sat on the writing table that looked out of place. She smiled. An extra chair had definitely just been brought into the room.
It didn’t match anything, but looked very comfortable. She tried it out, seemed a bit big. She wiggled, but oh so perfect.
Was it Henry’s personal chair? She liked the thought of being in it, if it was. How long since he’d sat there? Oh, goodness gracious. She had to stop.
Henry’s rugged charm certainly attracted her, and she had no complaints about his manners, but the religious fanatic would never be interested in an agnostic woman.
Especially one who had no need for any man. Well, except for making babies. She couldn’t do that alone. But he already had so many. Between his five—if she’d counted right—and all the extras, his house could be called a zoo.
So even if he did like her—which he didn’t—and she liked him, he’d never do for her any more than she’d do for him. Why, the man would have to be crazy to want another child.
And one thing was certain. If she ever gave her heart away to any male, it would only be to fulfill the longing in her soul for her own baby. The memory of her mother’s deathbed conversation washed over her.
“You’ll never know how very much I love you, Millicent, until you have a daughter of your own,” she’d said.
Would May ever know?
More of that last conversation tried to replay in her head, but she didn’t want to hear more. It broke her heart that day, the second worse day of her life. No twelve-year-old should lose their mother.
Besides, every other time she toyed with the memory, her heart broke all over again. No, she neatly folded her reminiscence and tucked it away as far into obscurity as possible.
Perspiration trickled down her temple. She patted it with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. How could anyone get used to this horrible heat?
She hated remembering the day her mother died. What brought it on anyway? Oh, yes—babies—and Henry Buckmeyer. That look in his eye at the Donoho said it all.
That he still mourned. So lovesick over his dead wife, he wasn’t interested in her or most likely, any other woman. Poor man. Must have been a blow to be widowed so young. In his early forties?
Moreover, not one time had she caught him gawking. Other than helping her out of the carriage, or offering his arm to go up the stairs, he’d not touched her, and then only being the perfect gentleman—nothing more than Chester would have done in the same situation.
She placed her feet back on the floor, leaned forward, straightened the stack of clean paper, then picked up the quill and tickled her chin with the feather to get her creative juices flowing.
Oh, the time he had prayed over supper last night. He’d held her hand then, too. But that didn’t really count, and he didn’t hang on too long or give her a little squeeze or anything that might imply an interest.
He’d made no advances; unquestionably not in the market for an old maid ink slinger.
She put all
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