Page 68 of The Heart’s Charge

Katherine giggled. “That’s a terrible name.”

Mark shrugged. “Yeah, well, we’ll probably sound terrible too. Just like a squeaky old steam organ with stops that stick and notes that play out of tune.”

“Not exactly the Boston Symphony.” The place where his talents would have truly shined.

“Nope. But it would be comprised of friends and neighbors, and we’d have a rousing good time.” His playful grin softened into something deeper, more mature. “That’s what music is all about. Spreading joy and touching hearts.”

Her heart definitely felt touched. “Ask me again,” she whispered.

His brow furrowed, then cleared a heartbeat later as if the sun had burst from behind a cloud. His hands closed around her waist, and he tugged her flush against his chest. She craned her neck back, her gaze glued to his, her heart thumping against her ribs like a percussionist performing a tympani roll.

“Marry me, Kate.”

It was more demand than question, but there was something raw about the way his voice rasped the words that made her soul sing. The eloquent, detached Mark Wallace would have waxed poetic about her eyes or spouted flowery romantic words. But the man standing before her was anything but detached. His heart glowed in his eyes. Full of passion, commitment, and just a sliver of uncertainty. The charming rogue with all the right words might make a fine literary hero, but this was the man she could trust with her heart.

“Yes.”

She barely got the word off her tongue before his lips crashed down over hers. Her arms twined around his neck. Her fingers combed through his hair. His palms climbed up her back. Holding her. Supporting her. Cherishing her.

When the kiss ended, he pressed his forehead to hers, their breathing heavy in the air between them.

“I’ll make you happy,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

Dear, dear man. Happiness had never been her worry. “We’ll make each other happy,” she declared, “and trust God to make our joy complete.”

Mark pulled away just enough to meet her eyes. “Amen.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Eliza backed away from the kitchen doorway, not wanting to intrude on the private moment happening inside. She’d known this would happen. Had even tried to prepare herself for it. Yet hearing the abundant joy in Katherine’s voice as she accepted Mr. Wallace’s marriage proposal hurt. Eliza pressed a hand to her midsection, pivoted, and strode down the hall.

For heaven’s sake, Eliza, quit feeling sorry for yourself. She fisted her hand and thumped it against her hip. You should be happy for Katherine, finding love with the man she thought never to see again. What kind of friend hurts more over being demoted in relationship standing than rejoices in her sister’s good fortune?

Of course, if she were brutally honest, it wasn’t the disintegrating vision of her and Katherine working together until they were a pair of old maids that brought the deepest ache to Eliza’s heart. No, it was envy, plain and simple. Katherine had found love while Eliza remained alone.

Eliza thumped her hip again, harder this time. She wouldn’t let that seed of Satan take root. She would rejoice with those who rejoiced and count her blessings. Katherine wasn’t leaving. Eliza had overheard enough to gain that assurance. Harmony House would continue ministering to outcast children. That was the important thing. But a husband would be a distraction. Even if he supported and participated in their mission. And what would happen when he and Katherine started having children of their own?

Leave tomorrow alone, girl. Her mother’s oft-voiced scold echoed in Eliza’s mind. The Lord’s the only one strong enough to carry the future. You’ll wear yourself out tryin’.

Mama was right, of course. Eliza lifted her chin and grabbed the newel post at the base of the staircase, resolved to focus on today’s troubles instead of borrowing from tomorrow. There were children upstairs who needed to be readied for bed. Yet, as her foot trod the first stair, quiet murmurs from the other side of the front door tugged her in the opposite direction.

Abner and Jonah. She recognized the deep bass of the Horseman’s voice, even though his words were impossible to distinguish through the wall. What were they discussing? A frown tightened her mouth. She hoped he wasn’t filling the boy’s head with whatever hunting plans he and Mr. Wallace had cooked up at the table tonight. Abner might think himself the man of the house, but he was only a boy.

Releasing her hold on the banister, she moved toward the door, thinking to insert herself into the conversation and redirect it if necessary. As she reached for the latch, however, caution stilled her hand. Neither of the people outside would thank her for interfering. Besides, she had no proof of what they were actually discussing. For all she knew, they could be talking about horses or how to shoot the best spitball. But if they were talking about the hunt for Miguel Ortega . . .

The matter required further investigation. Eliza crossed into the front parlor, picked up a chair with as much stealth as she could manage, and carried it on quiet feet to a place beside the window they had opened earlier to circulate air through the house. Taking care to position the chair on the left side to ensure Jonah wouldn’t glimpse her should he look toward the parlor window, she slid into the seat and tuned her ears to the conversation outside.

“I wanna help.” Abner’s voice. “But I don’t know what to say to keep her from runnin’ away again.”

They must be talking about Alice. Eliza leaned in, straining to hear over the crickets singing in the distance.

“Sometimes it ain’t what you say but what you do that helps the most,” Jonah answered. “Be a friend to her. And pray for her. God knows better than anyone what she needs.”

Eliza sat back. He was recommending prayer? A man of action who rode a giant warhorse and solved problems with his gun was recommending prayer. It seemed out of character for some reason. Though she wasn’t sure why. After all, this was the same man who carried his daddy’s compass and quoted Bible verses. Jonah Brooks was a man of faith, so why shouldn’t he urge a burdened young boy to pray?

“I ain’t much of a pray-er,” Abner admitted softly, surprising Eliza once again. The boy said his prayers dutifully every night before bed. Or at least she’d thought he did. Had he just been going through the motions?