On the contrary, even on first impression, she seemed authentic and kindhearted—and so much like a young woman Nashville had described as his sweetheart.

“But if everything in the world were such as this,” she said softly, “where would the longing for heaven be?”

The words left her lips like a feather on the breeze, and Aidan found it impossible not to stare at her. The woman was a mystery. Master seamstress, fluent in French, patient beyond what any creature without wings should be, and now this. Wisdom and humility wrapped up in all that beauty.

The moment he’d opened the door and seen her standing there that first day, he’d thought her lovely. It hadn’t been a consciously formed opinion, rather something he’d simply known upon looking at her. Which he was doing now, likely in a manner he oughtn’t.

For though he’d thought her attractive before, he’d not seen her lips as so kissable. Or the slender column of her throat so inviting. She had a quiet strength about her, a strength wrapped in softness, that—

She blinked and looked away, and the moment shuddered and skipped like a pendulum jarred mid-swing.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to be—”

“Miss Anderson,” Aidan said quickly, not wanting her to go, yet knowing it was best if she did. He also knew he was responsible for this, even as he told himself this had been nothing. He’d only been appreciating her beauty. But seeing how she was looking at him now—gaze wide, watchful—and feeling the pounding of his pulse, even he couldn’t believe his own lie. “Thank you . . . for sharing what you did.”

He grappled with what to say next that might somehow make the moment less awkward, or—

“Thank you, Mr. Bedford.” Uncertainty faded from her gaze and warmth took its place. “For reminding me of why, at least in part, this world is the way it is.”

Aidan watched her go, the gentle sway of her hips drawing his eye. Finally, with a sigh—both regretting and enjoying her retreat—he purposefully dragged his gaze back to the meadow.

He’d been so certain, when first seeing this place, that he’d found Nashville’s farm, that he’d bought it. But since moving to this city he’d seen at least a dozen other arthritic, old cabins situated just beyond the setting of a farmhouse similar to this one, each staring back at him as though mocking his unaccustomed sentimentality. Though none of the settings was quite so beautiful as this one.

He ran a hand over a hewn log of the cabin and felt the roughness of time beneath his palm, almost as if the passage of lives lived out day by day within these walls had left a physical mark on the place. One he could feel both with his hand and his heart.

He’d likely never be certain where Nashville had lived, but he was determined to live with more of the gratitude and zest for life that Nashville had shown him. Even in so brief a time.

NOTHING HAD HAPPENED. NOTHING HAD HAPPENED.

The phrase echoing in her head, Savannah gathered the swatches along with her notebook and hurried from the central parlor to the sitting room where Miss Sinclair waited. But no matter how many times she tried to convince herself, it didn’t change the intimate turn her thoughts had taken yesterday as she’d stood there staring at Aidan Bedford.

This woman’s future husband.

She didn’t know what had come over her. Embarrassing didn’t begin to describe it. Yes, the man was attractive, but she’d seen attractive men before. No, there was something else about him. Something unexpected, deeper than she’d first thought was there. And kinder. And it had drawn her in.

The way he’d gazed upon the land reflected her own love for its beauty and—

“Miss Anderson.”

Savannah’s head came up. “Yes, ma’am?”

Miss Sinclair frowned. “Are you well? You seem . . . preoccupied today.”

“No, Miss Sinclair. I mean, yes. I’m feeling quite well.” Or had been until she remembered how Mr. Bedford had done his best to try to set her at ease after she’d stood there practically ogling the man. Reliving the moment sent heat coursing through her. Though not warmth of a pleasurable nature—like yesterday.

Thankfully, she hadn’t seen him since.

Now if she could only manage to sew every new set of draperies in the house and install them before he got home today, she could leave here, never come back, and everything would be fine.

But everything wouldn’t be fine. Because she was no closer to fulfilling her main reason for being here: finding the box her father had hidden. So she’d simply make it a point to see him as little as possible, which could prove to be a challenge since this was his—

“Miss Anderson.”

Savannah refocused and swiftly gathered from Miss Sinclair’s irritated expression that the woman had asked her a question. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Would you mind saying that again, please?”

Miss Sinclair sighed, then repeated the question slowly, as though addressing a halfwit. “What do you think about my newest purchase?”

Only then did Savannah see the very interesting portrait by which the woman stood. The hopeful anticipation in Miss Sinclair’s features clearly conveyed what she wanted Savannah to say. Although Savannah was at a loss as to how to exile thoughts of kissing the woman’s fiancée, she did know how to handle this particular question. And with complete honesty. Years of experience decorating for eccentric personalities had prepared her well.

She tilted her head to one side. “That is one of the most thought-provoking portraits I’ve ever seen.” She only hoped Miss Sinclair didn’t ask her what she thought it was. If she did, Savannah’s nearest guess would have to be . . .

No, she couldn’t even hazard a guess. She wondered if Mr. Bedford had seen it yet, doubting it would be to the man’s taste. Which, thinking of him again, only resurrected her former mantra.

“Can you hang the portrait for me, Miss Anderson?”

Hang a portrait? Was the woman serious? But Savannah swiftly realized she was. And since keeping this job was paramount . . . “Yes, ma’am, of course. I’ll get the tools.” Savannah turned to leave the sitting room.

“Miss Anderson.”

Hearing a trace of condescension in the woman’s tone, Savannah paused in the doorway.

Miss Sinclair shook her head and gave an airy laugh. “Do you even have the slightest idea of where the tools are kept?”

Realizing what a mistake she’d been about to make, Savannah let out a breath. Of course she knew where they were. She’d left the remainder of her father’s hand tools on the lower shelf of the cupboard off the kitchen. But from this woman’s perspective . . .

Savannah covered the near mistake with a smile. “I thought surely Mrs. Pruitt would know.”

Miss Sinclair stared, her eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. “Very well. See to it, then.”

Savannah skirted down the hall, wondering if the woman suspected anything and vowing to be more careful. Enlisting the housekeeper’s assistance, she found the needed tools and supplies and set to work. After measuring twice, she gripped the hammer and nail and struck her mark true and firm, just as Papa had taught her.

Before she and Carolyne and Andrew had vacated the house over a year ago, she’d managed to pack a few of her father’s hand tools for her younger brother. Right now he only used them on occasion to repair his leg braces. But someday he would appreciate having them for the heritage of skill and craftsmanship they represented.

Her parents had left such a precious legacy for their children. One she’d been reminded of yesterday. “Don’t allow the world to teach you theology, Savannah. It’ll not teach you right.” She could hear her father’s voice and see his smile even now, his large hand resting atop the family Bible. “Take it directly from the Source instead.”

“Are you certain you can manage it?”

Seeing Miss Sinclair struggle with the cumbersome gilded frame, Savannah smiled. “Yes, I’m certain.” Lugging around her heavy sewing satchel had its advantages.

Mindful of how much the portrait likely cost, Savannah made certain the wire had caught on the nail before letting go. She stood alongside Miss Sinclair and eyed it. Then smiled.

“It’s slantindicular,” she said, aware of how Miss Sinclair was looking at her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said it’s slantindicular.” Savannah crossed the room and nudged the portrait up a little on the right side, then walked back, thinking of her brother Jake and about how he used to make up nonsensical words and phrases. “It means it’s slanted.”

Miss Sinclair looked from the portrait to her, then back to the portrait again. “You Southerners are a strange breed, Miss Anderson.”

Savannah didn’t know whether it was the wary tone Miss Sinclair used when saying it, or if it was the woman’s proper Northern accent, but she laughed out loud.

And was still smiling when she walked home briskly that afternoon, keeping watch for a black stallion and the master of Darby Farm.


Later that night, as she helped Carolyne with her French and answered Andrew’s questions as he struggled with Macbeth, Savannah thought again of what Mr. Bedford had said about a haven. She was grateful the plot of land meant something to him and hoped he would decide as her father and her mother’s father had in regard to tilling it: that there was plenty of cultivated land on Darby Farm. Best leave that foretaste of heaven alone.

Thinking about her maternal grandfather made her think of her mother, which brought a sense of melancholy. She wished again that the two could have made peace with each other before her grandfather passed.

“Savannah?”

Seated by Carolyne on the girl’s bed, Savannah looked across the room at her brother. The careful way he’d said her name told her he desired her full attention.

“I was at the mercantile today, and Mr. Mulholland asked about you.” Brows knit together, he hesitated, then glanced at their younger sister, whose head was still buried in the textbook. “He asked if you were going to stop by the store anytime soon. He said you hadn’t been by in a while to . . . visit with everyone.”

Clearly hearing what he wasn’t saying, Savannah hated the worry edging his voice. She’d been able to hide the dire state of their finances from Carolyne, but Andrew was far too perceptive. And him working at the mercantile didn’t help. She knew Mr. Mulholland needed his money. The proprietor had been more than patient with her. But to inquire about it to Andrew? The boy already had enough burdens to deal with.

“Not to worry.” Savannah pasted on a smile. “As soon as I finish the job I’m working on now, I’ll drop by and say hello to Mr. Mulholland and his family.”

Andrew held her stare then discreetly reached down and touched the braces on his legs. “These are fine,” he said softly. “I really don’t need any new—”

Savannah silenced her younger brother with a look, her throat straining with emotion. “We’re going to be fine,” she mouthed, then swallowed hard.

As though sensing something, Carolyne peered up at her. Savannah smoothed a hand over her sister’s golden-blond hair and checked the girl’s writing on the slate. “Très bon,” Savannah whispered. “You’re almost finished. Continue, please.”

With Carolyne’s attention refocused, Savannah looked back at Andrew. “I’ll visit the mercantile again very soon. I promise. And yes”—she looked pointedly at the braces on his legs, loving her brother with a fierceness that sometimes surprised her—“you do.”

Reading uncertainty in his eyes, she smiled to let him know everything would be fine, and remembered her mother doing the very same thing with her, even when Savannah knew otherwise.

Later, once both siblings were in bed asleep, her gaze went to the drawer of the bedside table, and her heart to the letter within. She retrieved the missive, wanting to hold the stationery in her hand again and see her father’s handwriting. Her gaze moved down the page to the paragraph she’d thought of earlier in the evening.


You will remember what we spoke of when last we were together, after the children were abed. I ask you again to forgive me for keeping what I did from you. It was most lovingly done. However, I understand how hurtful a revelation it was for you. It was never my intention to add to that past wound, my dearest.