The Wedding Quilt. Lenora Worth

the oldest member of the church,” the woman told him in a whispery, leathery voice as she held up her tiny bun-crowned head with pride. “Eighty-nine. Emma Fitzpatrick’s my name, but they call me Aunt Fitz. You can call me that if you’d like.”

      “I’d like, indeed,” Kirk replied, a twinkle in his eyes. “And I just might need your expert advice on how to go about working on this magnificent church and steeple. I’m sure you have lots of fond memories of this church.”

      The old woman lifted her chin. “Was christened here, got hitched here, bore seven children, all christened and raised in the Lord’s good name here, buried my husband and now two of those children in the cemetery up yonder on that hill. Got twenty-two grandchildren, most of them running around somewhere here tonight.” She patted his hand. “Ask me anything you might want to know, son.”

      “I might need your opinion on the stained glass,” Kirk replied. “But not tonight. We’ll work on it later.”

      “Boy, he’s good,” Faye whispered. “Buttering up old Miss Fitz right off the bat.”

      Rosemary whispered back, “Well, she did give a thousand-dollar check to the cause.”

      “Does he know that?”

      “Of course not. He’s just being kind to an elderly woman. I told you how polite he is.”

      “Oh, I see,” Faye replied, tongue in cheek.

      Ignoring her, Rosemary listened to the rest of the conversation. Mrs. Fitzpatrick seemed intent on telling him something.

      “You’ve the look of a hunter,” the old woman said, her rheumy eyes washing over Kirk’s features in a bold squint. “Are you searching for something, child?”

      Surprised, Kirk laughed. “Not that I know of.”

      Aunt Fitz moved her head in a shaking nod. “Sometimes we wander around looking, even though we don’t realize we’ve been searching until we’ve found something to hold on to.”

      “Oh, here she goes, talking her riddles,” Rosemary said beneath her breath. “Kirk will probably get a kick out of that.”

      Kirk’s next words surprised Rosemary. “You might be right, Aunt Fitz. I was born in Ireland, but I know some of my ancestors and kinsmen came to the Appalachians to settle the new land long ago. Maybe I’ll find a connection here. I’ve already fallen in love with the beauty of this place.”

      His eyes touched on Rosemary then moved back to the old woman still holding his hand. Aunt Fitz, her vision weakened by age and cataracts, still didn’t miss the slight shifting of his gaze. She looked hard at Rosemary, then lifted her head back to Kirk.

      “The mountains will touch your heart, boy,” she said solemnly. “You might leave, but you’ll be back here again.”

      Kirk looked uncomfortable at her prediction, but he quickly covered it by laughing down at her. “Thank you for speaking with me. Are you ready to eat?”

      Apparently taking that as a sign that she’d best let go of his hand, Aunt Fitz dropped her hand to her lap to gather her tattered, brightly patterned quilt over her little legs.

      “Starving,” she said, motioning for her granddaughter to push her to a nearby table. Waving a hand at Kirk, she said, “I’ll be seeing you, I ‘magine.” As she passed Rosemary, she smiled then winked. “A fine choice, Rosemary. Your steeplejack will do us proud.”

      “Wow,” Faye said, glancing over at Rosemary’s surprised face. “Praise from Aunt Fitz is like a blessing from above, Rosemary. Quite a coup, your steeplejack.”

      Rosemary gritted her teeth. “Thanks, but he’s not my steeplejack.”

      Kirk came up to her then, his smile soft and shadowed by the coming dusk. “Well, I’ve heard tales of the folklore in these mountains, and I guess I just encountered some of it firsthand with Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

      “She can tell the weather better than any forecaster with fancy computers,” Rosemary said by way of explanation.

      “And she knows every herb and bush on these hills. We all go to her for advice on everything from making jelly to easing arthritis. She’s a dear and we all love her as well as fear her at times.”

      He looked out over the setting sun clinging to a nearby western hillside like a golden blossom. “She’s a real intriguing woman, isn’t she? She seems very wise,” he observed.

      Wanting to make him feel more comfortable, Rosemary shook her head and laughed. “Well, don’t pay too much attention to her ramblings. All that nonsense about you coming back—she just wants every tourist and traveler to fall in love with this place the way she has.”

      Taking her by surprise, he bent low so that his breath tickled the curling hairs along her neck, and his eyes danced and shone like pure water cascading over rocks. “You mean, the mountain isn’t going to swallow me up and touch my heart?”

      Unable to breathe, she backed away, but didn’t back down. She hadn’t been out of circulation so long that she didn’t know when a man was deliberately flirting with her. Shooting him a challenging look, she said, “Don’t be silly—that’s just folklore.”

      He reached out a finger to capture a wayward curl lying across her cheekbone. “It might be,” he whispered, his words as gentle as the coo of a dove. “But some say there’s always a thread of truth to be found in the old stories, Rosemary Brinson.”

      Slipping around him and taking her hair with her, Rosemary managed to get her breath back. “Right now I think would be a good time to sample some of Faye Lewis’s fried chicken. We can talk folklore and riddles another time.”

      He ran a hand through his wavy locks and followed her, his eyes moving over the flowing lines of her floral-print sundress. “Another time,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. “But not nearly enough time to figure you out, Rosemary.”

      She heard him, but she kept walking. And reminded herself he’d keep moving too, once he was finished with this job, while she…she was as settled and grounded as the steeple he’d come to mend. She acknowledged the attraction, but knew there was no need to get attached to the man.

      No need at all, and…certainly, no hope.

       Chapter Three

      “Why did you invite him to our family dinner?” Danny asked Rosemary the next night. “You know this is our special time together.”

      Rosemary stopped buttering bread long enough to give her older brother a stern look. At thirty, Danny was a younger version of her father in looks. Tall, brown-headed with deep brown eyes, he’d taken after the Brinson side of the family, while Rosemary looked exactly like her mother with her light chestnut locks and dark blue eyes.

      Those blue eyes were now flashing fire at her stubborn brother. “Oh, please, Danny! The man is living in a trailer just down the street. When I saw him this afternoon, he said he was going home to eat a sandwich. I had to invite him, for manners’ sake if nothing else.”

      Danny leaned back on the polished surface of an ancient cabinet, then picked up a fresh cucumber to nibble while he studied his sister. “You know how Dad feels about him.”

      Rosemary wiped her hands on a blue dish towel, the echo of those very same words coming from her father not so long ago, ringing in her ears. “Oh, yes, we all know how Daddy feels about the steeplejack, about the church, about me. He tells me often enough.”

      “Shh!” Danny rolled his eyes and held a finger to her mouth. “Want him to hear you?”

      Loud sounds of baby chatter came from the den just off the kitchen. Rosemary had to smile. “I doubt he can hear anything