The Wedding Quilt. Lenora Worth

in.”

      “A sound combination, no doubt.” He grinned over at her. “I’ve never been to Dahlonega. Hope to see it while I’m here, and I want to climb Alba Mountain, too. I hear Georgia is a lovely state.”

      She looked away from that intense set of eyes. “Not as pretty as Ireland, though, I’ll bet.”

      “Ireland is a land all its own,” he admitted, “but I haven’t been there in a long, long time. My parents moved back to the States when I was in high school, and I came with them, thinking to get my college education in America. But I was a bit rebellious, I’m afraid.” He looked sheepish, at least. “I went back to Europe, and I wound up in Sheffield, England, at Whirlow College. I got my degree there, mainly because they offered the courses I needed to be a steeplejack. I worked with my grandfather until his death, then I came back to America. I haven’t been back to Ireland or England since.”

      She wanted to ask why, but manners kept her from doing so. “You’ve traveled all over the place, from what I saw on your résumé.”

      “I’ve seen the world.” He turned away from the window. “And now, I’ve come to see Alba. If you’d just show me where to park my trailer—”

      “I’m sorry,” she said, snapping to attention. “The preacher is at lunch and I was just on my way home for a quick bite. Are you hungry?”

      “Are you offering?”

      Liking the way he lifted those dark eyebrows with each statement or question, she nodded. “I think I can manage a sandwich, at least. Of course, I need to warn you to save room for supper tonight.”

      “Oh, are you inviting me then?”

      Mmm, that accent was so pleasing to her ears. “Yes, but we won’t be alone. The entire town’s turning out for a supper on the grounds, to honor you and to officially begin the renovations on the church, sort of a celebration.”

      He followed her out the door, then up the sidewalk. “I’ve heard about southern hospitality. Now I suppose I get to see it firsthand.”

      “You won’t forget it. You’ll go to bed with a full stomach, that’s for sure.”

      Noticing his trailer and attached rig, she pointed to a clump of trees at the back of the church grounds. “You can park there. There are a couple of camper hookups we use for visitors—campers coming through to hike the mountain trails.”

      “How generous.”

      “Reverend Clancy figures if we treat them right, they’ll stay for one of his sermons.”

      “Ah, tricky, but effective.”

      “Yes.” She nodded. “Sometimes they stay, sometimes they leave. But they’re always welcome.”

      Kirk eyed the little copse of trees settled at the foot of a rounded upward-sloping hillside. Tall swaying pines and fat, mushrooming oaks made a canopy over the area. It was an inviting spot, complete with a rustic picnic table and just-budding daylilies. It would do nicely for his stay here.

      Rosemary watched his expression as he took in his surroundings. Then she touched his arm. “That’s my house, over there. C’mon, I’ll fix you that sandwich I promised.”

      Kirk looked up at the whitewashed wooden house standing down the street from the church. He studied the house as they approached. It had that certain charm he associated with the South—long wraparound porches, a swing hanging from rusty chains, two cane-back rocking chairs, lush ferns sprouting from aged clay pots, geraniums in twin white planters—and shuttered, closed windows.

      “It’s a beautiful place, Rosemary.”

      “Yes, it is,” she had to agree. “Or at least, it once was.”

      She saw him eyeing the shuttered, dark windows, and she knew exactly what he was thinking.

      Why would such a lovely, sunny, open home be closed up and so sad-looking?

      She wasn’t ready to tell him why.

      She didn’t have to. As they stepped up onto the porch, the front door burst open, and her father’s angry voice told Kirk Lawrence everything he needed to know.

      “Where have you been? It’s almost twelve-thirty. A man could starve to death waiting on you, Rosemary. How many times have I told you—I like to eat my lunch at twelve o’clock! Your mother always had it ready right at twelve noon. Now get in here and get me some food.”

      Shocked at the harsh tone the man had used, Kirk stood with one foot on a step and one on the stone walkway. Maybe now wasn’t the time to get to know his new employer.

      Humiliated, Rosemary turned to Kirk. “I’m sorry.”

      “You go on. I can wait,” he said, not wanting to intrude. “I’m really not that hungry.”

      “No, no,” she said on a firm but quiet voice. “I promised you a sandwich, and I intend to deliver on that promise. Just let me take care of my father first.”

      Kirk stepped up onto the porch, his gaze on the woman moving hurriedly before him. He had the feeling that Rosemary Brinson always delivered on her promises, whether she wanted to or not.

      Why else would she go into that house and face her father’s wrath with such profound determination?

       Chapter Two

      Kirk watched as Rosemary made ham sandwiches with the efficiency of someone who took care of things with automatic precision. She went about her job with quiet dignity, slicing tomatoes to fall into a pretty pattern on an oval platter, then adding lettuce and pickles to finish off her creation. Then she lifted fat, white slices of bread out of a nearby bin and arranged them on another plate, along with the pink country-cured ham she’d already neatly sliced.

      “It’s ready,” she announced to her father who sat across from Kirk nursing a tall glass of iced tea. “Do you want anything else with your sandwich—chips or some sliced cucumbers maybe?”

      The man she had introduced as Clayton Brinson didn’t immediately answer his waiting daughter. Instead, he frowned while he pieced together a sandwich on his plate. Then he looked up with harsh, deep-set eyes. “Your mother never slapped a sandwich together. She always had fresh cooked vegetables on the table.”

      “Mother didn’t work outside the home either, Daddy,” she reminded him patiently. “I do what I can, but you’re right. Tonight at supper, I’ll make sure you have your vegetables.”

      Clayton’s look softened to a slight scowl. “Well, some dessert would be nice, too. A peach pie, maybe.”

      Rosemary sat down with an abrupt swirl of her skirt, then handed Kirk the fixings for his own sandwich. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but I haven’t had time to do anything with those canned peaches Joe Mason brought us yesterday. I’ll try to get to it later this evening.”

      “They’ll rot before you get to ‘em,” Clayton proclaimed before clamping his teeth down on his sandwich.

      Rosemary looked down at her plate, then in a surprising move, clasped her hands together and said a quick blessing.

      Kirk saw the look of disgust on her father’s stern face, and said his own silent prayer. He didn’t want to slap this man he’d just met, but it was very tempting.

      But Rosemary didn’t seem to need his help in defending herself. She fixed her own meal, then looked over at her father with compassionate, if not somewhat impatient, eyes. “I’ll make you a pie, Daddy. I promise. You know I wouldn’t let those peaches go to waste. I love peaches.” Turning to Kirk, she gave him a quick smile. “Georgia peaches, just like Georgia tomatoes, are the best in the world, Kirk.”

      “Then