Page 13 of Mail Order Mercy

“Then start with the part you can say without lying,” David answered. “But do not dress fear up as nobility. Women see through that faster than men think.”

Albert wished he knew the whole truth. He knew enough to be frightened of it.

While Albert spoke with David outside, Dorothy sat with Ella inside and tried to pretend she had come only because Grace needed a change of scene.

Ella poured tea and did not pretend for long. “Would you ever marry again if the right man asked?”

Dorothy nearly spilled her cup. “That is a cruel question to ask without warning.”

“It is not cruel if it matters.” Ella sat across from her, steady and kind. “You are young, Dorothy. You have three children, yes, and grief enough for ten women. But you are still alive.”

“Albert sees Henry when he looks at me.” Dorothy’s fingers tightened around the cup. “He sees the promise he failed to keep. He sees a debt.”

“And what do you see when you look at him?” Ella asked.

Dorothy stared down into her tea as if the answer might be floating there among the pale leaves. “I see Henry’s friend,” she said first, because that was the safest truth.

Ella waited, which was one of the most troublesome things about her. She did not rush to fill silence with comfort. She simply sat with Dorothy until the safer truth began to feel too small to hold the rest.

“I see a man who notices things,” Dorothy said at last. “Not the way people notice so they can pity you. He notices when Clara is quiet because she is worried. He notices when Tommy is too tired to keep running. He notices when I put less in my own bowl and pretends not to, because he knows I would rather be hungry than filled with embarrassment.” Dorothy’s throat tightened, but once she had begun, stopping seemed harder than going on. “I see steady hands. I see a man who can make Tommy laugh when the boy is determined to be difficult and who answers Clara’s serious questions as if she is worth every word. I see someone Grace reaches for without fear.”

She looked toward the window, where the fading light made a pale square on Ella’s floor. “And I see a man who comes back. That should not feel like so much, but it does.”

Ella’s expression softened, but she did not smile in triumph. “That sounds like more than Henry’s friend.”

“That is what frightens me.” Dorothy finally looked at her. “If he helps because of guilt, one day guilt will tire. If he helps because of Henry, one day Henry’s shadow may grow too heavy. And if he helps because of me, then I must decide whether I am brave enough to be wanted again.”

Ella reached across the table and covered Dorothy’s hand with her own. “Loving what you had does not forbid you from accepting what God may still give.”

Dorothy closed her eyes because kindness was sometimes harder to bear than sorrow. “I am afraid he will marry me to punish himself,” she whispered. “And I am more afraid that I would say yes because I am tired of being alone.”

“Being alone is not a sin,” Ella said gently. “Nor is being tired of it.”

Dorothy opened her eyes. “It feels like weakness.”

“No,” Ella said. “It sounds like a woman who has carried too much for too long finally admitting the load is heavy.”

Ella squeezed her hand. “Then ask him the question plainly if he ever offers. Do not let him hide behind Henry, and do not let yourself hide behind fear.”

Dorothy wanted to say Albert would never offer such a thing. She opened her mouth to say it, but the words would not come. That frightened her more than if they had.

All the way home from Ella’s, Dorothy argued with herself. She told herself marriage was impossible, then found herself wondering where Albert would put his boots. She told herself the children would be confused, then remembered how Clara listened for him, and Tommy made room for him at the table. She told herself Henry would be wounded by the thought, then remembered Henry’s laughter and wondered whether love as generous as his would truly want her cold and alone forever.

Albert did not sleep much that night. He sat at the small table in his cabin with his wages counted into neat piles and his savings spread beside them. The cabin around him was quiet, but it did not feel peaceful. It felt empty in a way he hadn't noticed before Dorothy and the children taught him what a home sounded like.

He could support them. Not lavishly, but steadily. His wages at the mill were dependable, and Everett would give him extra work when the river opened and the lumber orders increased. If he gave up his own cabin, there would be no second stove to feed, no second roof to patch, no rent wasted on a room that had never felt like anything more than a place to sleep.

The Peabody cabin was small, too small for two adults and three children, but it stood close to Ella and David, close to Belle and Everett, close enough to the center of Yeti that Dorothy would not feel cut off when winter storms made the paths difficult. More than that, it was the only home Grace had ever known and the place Clara and Tommy remembered sharing with their father. Albert could add shelves, build a better bed, mend the roof properly when the thaw came, and make the place hold them until something better could be built.

He told himself the plan was practical. Dorothy needed dependable support. The children needed a father’s daily care, even if no one ever called him that. He needed more than an empty cabin and meals eaten with men who did not notice whether he came or went. Those truths were sensible enough to hold in his hands.

The truth he did not hold was the way his heart eased when he imagined walking into Dorothy’s cabin and not having to leave before nightfall. He did not look too closely at that.

The next evening, Albert came to Dorothy’s door after supper. He carried no milk, no eggs, no wood, and no tools. That alone made Dorothy look at him twice.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” Albert took off his hat and held it in both hands. “At least, I hope not.”