A Lasting Impression

robbery in the art gallery—and about what she and her parents used to do. Sharing that bit of information would surely hinder her fresh start.
    Besides, all that was behind her now. Or soon would be.
    “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered after a long moment. “I’ve gone on too long and have taken up too much of your time.”
    “ Shhhhh . . . Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re exactly where you need to be, Miss Laurent. Of that, I’m certain.”
    She sniffed, reminded of something she’d noticed last night. “Your church smells like a hospital.”
    He took a breath, his brow wrinkling. “I don’t smell it anymore myself. I guess I’ve grown used to it. The church was used as a hospital during the war. All the pews were moved out and over a thousand cots were crammed in from corner to corner.” He scuffed the floor with the tip of his boot. “The wooden planks seem reluctant to give up the stains. And the smell too, I guess.”
    Claire dried her eyes, hearing the somber note in his voice. She looked around, viewing the sanctuary in an even more reverent light, and slowly, oddly, began to calm.
    “Better?” he said softly.
    She shrugged, then nodded. She did feel surprisingly better having confessed everything. Well, almost everything. “There is one thing I can think of that I need help with, Reverend Bunting. But it’s a lot to ask.”
    “It may not be as much as you think, my dear.”
    She briefly looked away. “The women I told you about . . . the ones I overheard . . . ?”
    He nodded.
    “One of them spoke about interviewing for a position with a lady in town. A lady who attends this church.”
    Comprehension moved across his face. “I believe Mrs. Adelicia Acklen would be that lady’s name.” He studied Claire for a moment. “Do you have any idea who Mrs. Acklen is?”
    Feeling as though she should, Claire shook her head.
    Reverend Bunting glanced back at the door. “And do you know anyone in her employ? Say, someone who could give you a personal recommendation, by chance?”
    Again, Claire shook her head, feeling her chances lessening by the second. “But I think I might be qualified for the position.” She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “From what I overheard,” she added more softly.
    “And you’d like to interview for it.”
    She nodded. “But the interviews end today. And I need a fresh dress and a place to clean up, and—”
    “Say no more, Miss Laurent. I can tell you right now that this task is far beyond my skills and abilities.”
    Claire’s heart fell. “I underst—”
    “But! I know of a saint whose guidance we can seek. Saint Chrissinda is her name.”
    Claire looked up. “But I’m not Catholic.” She arched a brow. “And neither are you, Reverend Bunting.”
    Grinning, he picked up her satchel and motioned her toward the door that led to the storeroom. “Let’s head out the back way. Chrissinda is my wife, Miss Laurent. But she’s a saint if I’ve ever known one.”
    Claire gathered her things and preceded him into the storeroom, noticing how much smaller the space appeared in the daylight. “Will she object to your bringing a stranger home unannounced?”
    “If my wife knew the situation and that I failed to bring you home, Saint Chrissinda would tan my backside, as we say here in Tennessee.”
    Claire laughed, imagining the scene and tickled that he’d said such a thing. She paused at the back door through which she’d entered last night, feeling the need to complete her confession. “This is how I got in, Reverend. I guess someone forgot to lock it.”
    Reverend Bunting touched the latch. “I didn’t forget, Miss Laurent,” he said softly. “I left it open last night—just as God urged me to.”

    “Be careful how you proceed, Monroe. If you push these men too far, they may push back—like they did with your father.”
    Sutton Monroe studied the blackened soil in his palm and would’ve sworn he could still smell the smoke. Charred remains of his family home—blackened chimneys and a wood-burning stove leaning crippled to one side—emerged from the rubble as though begging not to be forgotten. As if he could ever forget. He fisted the dirt tight, then let it sift through his fingers. “You’re saying I shouldn’t pursue this, sir?”
    “I’m saying to be careful as you do. ”
    Hearing both warning and cautious consent in the older man’s tone, Sutton glanced back.
    Sitting astride his mare, wearing his trademark