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He paused, looking up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. Not in the way Bridge thinks, but I think we are capable of much more than we are allowing ourselves.” He leaned over and kissed Maggie’s temple. “I’m going to check on him and make myself some dinner. Have some water before going to sleep.” He stood, stretched, and disappeared into the hallway towards his sleeping lover.

“I love you, too,” she said to the empty room.

Chapter

Eight

Reverend Samuel Myerson was nothing if not determined.

Maggie was whitewashing the exterior of the store, leaving the paint thin where the sign makers would be stenciling in their store name once the boys decided on one. Currently Bridgers was campaigning for “Bridgers & Co Haberdashery,” and Tom was championing “Cruthers & Sons,” which he seemed to think was funny. The June sun was relentless in the cloudless sky, and sweat trickled down her spine; she wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and sighed, watching a drop of whitewash migrate south onto the glass of the window. She swiped at it with a fingertip and jumped when a throat cleared behind her. She spun around, wielding the brush, and spent a moment ogling the Reverend. He stood in the sunshine like a beam himself, bright gold and stark dark lines, holding his hat in his hands. “Hello, Miss Cruthers. How are you today?”

In reply, Maggie waved her paintbrush. “As you see, er, Father.”

“I’m not Catholic.”

Maggie stared at him blankly, wondering what that had to do with anything, before she registered his collar. “Oh.” She really needed to pick up a Bible at some point. “Pardon.” She smiled weakly and wondered what it would take to get him away from her. “What can I do for you, Reverend?”

“Oh, nothing. We so enjoyed having you and your brothers at service, and I wanted to see if we would have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

What was a polite way of saying not a chance in Hell? “I’ll speak to my brothers, but I don’t know if that’s possible. What with the business and all, I’m afraid our free time may be limited.” She offered her sweetest smile, fully aware of the paint running down her hand. She shook the brush, and Myerson cleared his throat again.

“Of course. Well, as always, you are encouraged to ask for any assistance I can offer.”

Having no idea what to say to that, Maggie just widened her smile, feeling the silence pressing around her like a vice.

“How is the store coming along?”

Good God, did this man have an immunity to awkwardness? “Quite well. We hope to open in within a few weeks. But only if we can get ready.” Hoping he would read between the lines, she waved her brush again, flicking white paint across the road and onto his spotless shoes. He looked down at them, and she tried not to swell with pride; disconcerting men was one of her favorite pastimes.

“Miss Cruthers,” he said, raising his eyes from his shoes. His mouth twitched again, and Maggie was beginning to understand that it was his version of a smile. “I realize I’m intruding, and you’re trying to work. I imagine that you’re quite overwhelmed with preparing to open a business and understand how settling into a new town can be exhausting.”

“Are you from somewhere else?” Given the villagers’ exasperated tolerance of the man, she had inferred he was a long-term resident.

“Oh, no,” he said, rubbing his shoe on some grass to get the paint off. He frowned down at it. “No, my brothers and I were born here.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you had brothers.”

His brows furrowed, and his face took on a sardonic expression. “Strange. I thought you had quite the talent for knowing things others didn’t.”

Maggie wished for more paint to fling at him. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, trying for a sweetly puzzled tone.

Myerson made a huffing sound. “Jacob Barrow mentioned making your acquaintance earlier this year. Something about reading minds?”

Jacob fucking Barrow. “He must be mistaken. I can barely read my own, much less anyone else’s.”

The reverend sighed. “Right. Well, Miss Cruthers, I was wondering if you would like to take me up on that offer to tour the village.”

Paint dripped down her arm. “Well, that’s very kind, of course, and I do appreciate⁠—"

“Maggie!”

A siren’s call, Theo’s voice. He strode up, Emmy on his hip, his sourpuss sister beside him.

“Hello, Mr. Barrow. Miss Barrow.” Maggie lowered her brush and leaned her face towards the baby. “Also Miss Barrow.” Emmy gave her a smile fractured with a few teeth and buried her face in her father’s chest. Lucky girl.

“Oh, hello, Sam.” Theo smiled warmly at the reverend, who inclined his head. “How are things? Saving lots of souls?”

“I’m not in the business of saving souls, I think,” Myerson assured Theo, his smile strained. “Just helping those in need.” His gaze flicked to Louise, who fixed upon him an expression so poisonous Maggie expected every crop in the area to wither immediately.