Homespun Bride

trusting her voice, wishing him to go on his way before the burning in her eyes turned to tears.
    “I’m no longer much of a praying man, but I’ve been keeping him in prayer.”
    “That means a lot.” One hot tear rolled down her cheek. “More than you know.”
    “I care more than you know.”
    The rough, callused pad of his thumb brushed featherlight against her cheek to stop her single tear. He’d moved closer, and he leaned in closer still. She could hear the rhythm of his breathing and smell the faint scent of soap on his shirt.
    “I know Robert is like a second father to you. I don’t want you to lose him, too.”
    Noelle shook her head, too overcome to speak. She recognized the soft note in Thad’s tone, and she knew how his face would look, his eyes caring, his jaw squared, a combination of strength and heart that had always dazzled her.
    Another tear rolled down her face, and he caught that one, as well, brushing it away with a kindness that made her ache with all that she had lost. All that had never been.
    “Are you going to be all right?” Thad was all the stronger, in her view, for his kindness. “I can sit with you.”
    “No.” How did she tell him the truth? She ought to be crying for her uncle, but the tears were for herself. For him. For the fragments of the past she’d never truly let go. She held on to those bright pieces of joy like a miser did his last pieces of gold. They were slivers of happiness she could not stand to remember. They were bits of sorrow she could not forget.
    “N-no.” The word scraped against her raw throat. “You go on home. I shall be fine.”
    “All right, then, but I’m not about to leave. You sure you’re okay?”
    “S-sure.”
    “You don’t look all right.”
    Those pieces of sorrow felt brighter, bigger. It was not him she needed.
    The door swished open and shut, Thad was gone, and she was achingly alone. She could hear the striking of Cook’s shoes on the stairs echoing rapid-fire. Dully, she heard Thad pass through the house before the kitchen door swung shut and cut off the sound of him.
    She felt adrift. She longed for the comforting words of her Bible. She ached for the days when she could have run her fingertips along the edges of the fragile, gold-edged pages, treasuring all those wonderful words and passages.
    It was no trouble to locate the everyday teapot in its place on one of the many kitchen shelves or the tins of tea. A few quick sniffs helped her to find Tilly’s favorite blend.
    While she worked, she heard the younger girls clattering down the hall from the library and questioning Cook.
    What had the doctor said? She plucked an oven mitt from the top drawer next to the stove and strained to listen.
    “The doc has said nothing yet, only that the fall should have killed him. Perhaps there is still hope.”
    “What if Papa n-never w-wakes up?” Minnie’s thin, fragile voice held a note of pure anguish.
    Footsteps pounded up the stairs, drowned out by sobs.
    “Angelina, Mama said we all had to stay downstairs,” Minnie called out. “Angelina, I’m telling on you.”
    “I don’t care.” The strike of shoes on the staircase had to be Angelina’s, while Minnie cried.
    I know exactly how much it hurts to lose a father. Lord, I hope You can spare her, spare them all, that pain. She hurt for them in too many ways to count, this loving family who had taken her in as their own. She had done her best to accept a similar hand the Lord had dealt her, but she truly prayed that the Worthington family would have better favor.
    She carefully located the teakettle’s handle and lifted it with the mitt, intent on keeping the kettle level so as not to spill boiling water all over the stove, the floor and her dress. She was concentrating so hard that she didn’t notice a strange burning smell until after she’d returned the kettle to the back burner. Her skirts had gotten too close to the hot stove, and she’d scorched the fabric—again. She touched the hot fabric with her fingertips, unhappy with herself for not remembering to check her dress.
    The door chose that moment to whisper open. “Don’t worry, it’s not bad. Just a small spot.”
    “Thad.” She felt foolish fussing over her skirt, and she straightened, knowing her face was flushed.
    “What are you doing at the stove?”
    “Trying to be useful.”
    “Seems to me you don’t need to be in the kitchen to do that.”
    There it was, his kindness again. It was harder to