“Have you any idea at all what might have initiated such distress?”
Her mind scrambled for an answer, for the object or sound or face that had struck her ill. But she was as uncertain of that as she was her own name, and all she could think to answer was, “No.”
The wooden bench outsideDowies Cobblercreaked as Joanie bent over. She tied the red ribbons of her spotless, nankeen half boots, then glanced back up at Tom for the hundredth time since last night.
A smile stretched her lips.
The same one she’d been giving him all day, followed by her blushing cheeks. She looked at him like Meg did. Like Caleb had. Like all the children growing up—as if Tom were some sort of mesmerizing hero.
He wasn’t anything more than a fool.
“They’re pretty.” Joanie leaned back against the brick wall of the cobbler shop, pushing hair behind her big ears. “Lizzy at church had ones just like it. I used to look at them. Papa said I could have a pair when I was older.”
Tom looked away.
He wasn’t used to this.
Someone mentioning Papa easily, when Tom had spent so many years pushing the man’s name from his mind.
“I cried that morning.” Joanie folded her hands in her lap. “Me and Emma and Rosina and Mamm. I prayed every night you would come back. I used to sit in the window above the sink and watch for you.”
Tom had never planned to leave.
He had stayed for weeks, months, maybe a year—living among them, bearing Papa’s silence, sleeping next to the empty bed. One night he slipped beneath his scratchy bed linens and knew he couldn’t wake up again in the same house.
He left before daylight.
Never once came back.
Never could … now.
“Emma married a farmer. They have four babies. I would have lived with them, except her husband said they had no room for me.” Joanie plucked a loose string on her dress. “Rosina ran away with a soldier. I used to write her letters, but she stopped answering them.”
Tom’s knee moved up and down. He scratched at his itching sunburn. What to say to the lass? That she was welcome here—withhim—when he could barely take care of himself?
“Maybe I should get married too.” The words were so quiet he had to glance down at her to be certain she spoke. Her puckered chin yanked at his chest.
“Nay, lass.” It seemed strange to slip his arm around her when he’d only ever plopped her on his back and ridden her about the cottage floor as if he were the horse. He placed his hand on her knee instead. Squeezed. “Ye just worry about breaking in those shiny new shoes of yers.”
“We can go show Meade?”
He almost laughed. “If ye want.” Though he was doubtful the burly blacksmith would know what to say—if he said anything. He knew as little, if not less, than Tom did about children. Or lassies.
A brassy ring echoed across the street.
Tom glanced up.
Meg.
His stomach dropped the same time he launched from the bench. He froze. Long purple dress, trimmed with ribbon, a spencer jacket, silver buttons. Her hair was different. Curled around the face, under a bonnet like nothing she’d ever worn.
With uncanny indifference, her eyes skimmed past him.
“Oh,” cooed Joanie. “Look at the pretty carriage—”
He ran, dodging a ragpicker’s cart, blood pounding in his ears so hard he was deaf to everything else. He circled the fancy blue carriage. Charged her before she climbed in and swung her body against him. “Meg—”
With a frantic yelp, she writhed away.
