Courting Miss Adelaide. Janet Dean

      “What you need is someone to teach you and your readers style,” Adelaide said.

      Charles smirked. “I can’t see farmers reading it.”

      “Well, no, but farmers’ wives spend money in town—”

      “On birds for their heads,” he said.

      She raised her chin. “Are you making fun of me, Mr. Graves?”

      “Not at all, Miss Crum. Not at all.”

      “Good, because I’d like to write a fashion column for the paper.”

      “A fashion column isn’t a bad idea. Could you give me a sample—say, by Monday?”

      “I’ll deliver it personally.”

      He nodded. “Are you always this efficient?”

      “I take my work seriously.”

      “Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

      The words ricocheted through her and left a hitch in her breathing, a huge knot in her stomach. Dare she hope for something too important to consider?

      JANET DEAN

      grew up in a family that cherished the past and had a strong creative streak. Her father recounted wonderful stories, like his father before him. The tales they told instilled in Janet a love of history and the desire to write. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving to rear two daughters. As her daughters grew, they watched Little House on the Prairie, reawakening Janet’s love of American history and the stories of strong men and women of faith who built this country. Janet eagerly turned to inspirational historical romance and loves spinning stories for Love Inspired Historical. When she isn’t writing, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and bridge, and is never without a book to read. The Deans love to travel and to spend time with family.

      Janet Dean

      Courting Miss Adelaide

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Bear with each other and forgive whatever

       grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

      —Colossians 3:13

      To my critique partner, Shirley Jump—

       her slashing red pen, savvy advice and endless support helped me become the writer I am today. To David Highway, President of the Hamilton County Historical Society— a big thanks for his assistance with my research. To my late parents, who never stopped believing I’d attain my dream. To my husband—a good man, a wonderful father and the love of my life.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Questions for Discussion

      Prologue

      From the March 1, 1897, edition of The Noblesville Ledger:

      WANTED: HOMES FOR CHILDREN

      NOBLESVILLE—A company of homeless children from the East will arrive in Noblesville, Indiana, on Saturday, April 13. These boys and girls of various ages have been thrown friendless upon the world. The citizens of Noblesville are asked to assist the agents of the Children’s Aid Society in finding good homes for the children.

      Persons requesting these children must first agree to treat the children as members of their family, promising to feed, clothe, send them to school and church and Sunday School until they reach the age of seventeen.

      Applications must be made to and approved by the local committee. Interviews will be held on Saturday, March 30, in Judge Willowby’s chambers at the Noblesville County courthouse. The following well-respected citizens have agreed to sit on the local committee: C. Graves, J. Sparks, T. Paul and M. Wylie.

      Distribution will be made at the Ward schoolhouse on April 13 at 10:30 a.m.

      Chapter One

      Noblesville, Indiana, spring of 1897

      Adelaide Crum stepped to the open door and peered into the judge’s chambers. Her heart hammered beneath her corset. Now that the moment she’d waited for had arrived, her courage faltered. She considered turning tail and scurrying home. But then she remembered the quiet, the emptiness of those rooms. She closed her eyes and sent up a simple prayer. I don’t ask often, Lord, but I’m asking today. Please, let them say yes.

      Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room, then sat on one of the two chairs and faced the four men who held her future in their hands. To fill the vacant chair with something, she laid her purse on the seat, a seat that mocked her singleness.

      Mr. Wylie, a large man who owned a farm north of town, folded his sausagelike fingers on the table. “I’ve dropped my wife off in front of your shop more times than I can count, Miss Crum.” He chuckled. “Usually costs me, too.”

      She smiled a thank-you for his business.

      Beside the farmer sat Mr. Sparks, the town banker. The little tufts of hair fringing his bald head reminded Adelaide of a horned owl. “Perhaps you’d better tell us why you’ve come, Miss Crum. Do you have recommendations for this committee?”

      “I’ve come for myself.” Adelaide laid a calming hand on her midriff to offset the growing urge to deposit her breakfast on the table in front of her. “To ask for a child.”

      Mr. Paul’s nostrils flared, giving him an air of disdain, not a cordial expression for an elder at her church and the town’s Superintendent of Schools. “For yourself? You’re a single woman, are you not?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “I hope you can appreciate how unfair it would be to place a child in your home, where, if something happened to you, the youngster would be homeless.”

      “I’m in excellent health, Mr. Paul.” She’d take this opening to plead her case. “I have sufficient funds to meet a child’s needs. And a skill to teach, enabling a girl to make her own way. When I pass on, I’d leave her my worldly assets.”

      She took a deep breath, pulling into her lungs the overpowering scent of Mr. Paul’s spicy cologne. “I’ll see she’s educated and brought up in the church. I’ve lived in Noblesville all my life. You remember seeing me in Sunday school, Mr. Paul. Mr. Sparks, I bank with you. Numerous people in town can vouch for my character.” She’d rehearsed the words countless times and they tumbled out in a rush.

      One man remained silent. Charles Graves. Her gaze darted to the new editor of The Noblesville Ledger, who sat at the far right of the