The Wedding Quilt. Lenora Worth

on her pretty, round face.

      “You, sweetheart,” Danny admitted readily, his own dark eyes twinkling. “Did you keep Dad occupied enough so that Rosemary could finish dinner?”

      “I didn’t have to say a word,” Nancy said, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. “Emily has him on the move.”

      “She’s the only bright spot in his life these days,” Rosemary said, quelling the envy she felt for her precious little niece. Clayton had taken to the child from the very first, maybe because in her innocence, Emily couldn’t feel the tremendous pain they’d all endured since Eunice’s death. Clayton didn’t have to put up a front with her.

      Nancy was pregnant when Rosemary’s mother died. The baby was born two months later.

      “I sure wish Mom could see her,” Rosemary said to her brother.

      “She does,” Danny reminded her, his expression darkening with sadness. “I’m sure she’s watching Emily from heaven, like a guardian angel.”

      The room went silent, as if out of respect for their mother’s spirit. Nancy came to stand by her husband, one hand automatically going to his shoulder for a gentle, soothing pat. Rosemary turned away to busy herself with finishing dinner, the sight of the love and understanding between her brother and his wife too much to bear. She ached for that kind of bond; she wished for someone to pat her on the shoulder when she was feeling down. Oh, she had the love of all her friends and the congregation, but somehow, something was missing. That something was a husband and her own home. She wanted all the things Danny had—a home to call his own, a spouse who adored him, and a child. She’d come so very close to having her dreams. But, on a cold March night, that illusion had been shattered.

      Maybe it wasn’t her time yet. Right now, her job was to take care of Clayton, and to try to help him through this rough time. She owed him that much at least, after what had happened. Meanwhile, she’d trust that God would guide her when the time was right for her to find a soul mate.

      Nancy took the tray of bread away from Rosemary, startling her out of her frantic motions and punishing musings. “I’ll stick this in the oven,” her sister-in-law said, her hazel eyes compassionate. “How’s the roast coming along?”

      Rosemary managed a convincing smile. “Ready. I’m going to slice it in just a minute.” Glancing at the clock, she added, “I told Kirk seven. He should be here any minute.”

      Nancy looked out the back door, toward the church. “Does your father know you invited him?”

      “No,” Rosemary said in a deliberate tone. “Dad isn’t speaking to me very much these days, not that that’s so unusual. But he’s even more angry with me for bringing the steeplejack here. Thinks it’s frivolous and unnecessary.”

      Nancy’s smile was indulgent. “Well, you have to admit it’s a bit unusual. I mean, I’d never heard of a steeplejack until you called me all excited about something you’d seen on the Internet, of all places.”

      Remembering how she’d sat in Reverend Clancy’s office, fascinated with his state-of-the-art computer system, Rosemary had to laugh out loud. “I got kinda carried away on-line, but hey, I found what I wanted. Which was, someone to do the job right.”

      Nancy threw up her hands. “Whatever you say. You know more about this stuff than I ever will. And I don’t care to know. I have enough to occupy me.”

      Meaning, little Emily. Rosemary again felt that pang of regret and remorse. Would she ever have children? Or would she have to be content with taking care of other people’s?

      “Hey,” Danny said from his perch near the open back door, “your steeplejack is crossing the street. Better let Dad know he’s coming, or he’ll make another scene.”

      “He’s not my steeplejack,” Rosemary said. Even so, her heart started racing and her palms grew damp. Danny was right. Why had she invited Kirk to supper?

      Kirk strolled along wondering why he’d agreed to go to dinner at Rosemary Brinson’s house. After that fun lunch he’d shared with her father, he’d made a solemn vow to steer clear of Clayton Brinson. Yet here he was, wildflowers in hand, heading for the very spot where he’d been ridiculed and prodded just yesterday.

      Had he only been here two days?

      This place was so timeless, so quaint and eccentric, that it seemed as if he’d been here forever. Or maybe he’d dreamed about a place like this forever. Quite charming, this Alba Mountain and its eclectic group of inhabitants. Especially one blue-eyed inhabitant.

      And that, he told himself with a shrug, was why he was willing to face down Clayton Brinson again. Kirk wanted badly to see Rosemary. Had to see her, in fact. Had to see her up close.

      He’d certainly watched her from a distance all day today. Oh, he’d gone about his preliminary work and taken care of what needed to be done. He’d surveyed and measured and analyzed. He’d discussed hiring a local crew with Reverend Clancy—the good reverend was working on that right now. And he’d carefully considered how best to go about renovating and restoring the aging church and its beautiful, inspiring steeple.

      All the while, he’d watched the day-care center across the way, hoping to get a glimpse of the angel who’d brought him here. Rosemary. Rosemary with the sweet-smelling, fire-tinged hair. Rosemary with the eyes so blue, they looked like midnight velvet. Rosemary with the guarded looks and the cloak of sorrow. Rosemary with the floral, flowing dresses and the tinkling, musical laughter.

      He’d watched her with the children, laughing, singing and smiling. He’d watched her with the townspeople, talking, explaining and sharing. And he’d watched her with her father, hurting, obeying and hoping.

      He was intrigued by her. Maybe Aunt Fitz was right. Maybe these mountains did make people long for things they’d never needed to think about before.

       And maybe, just maybe, Kirk, old boy, you’re getting caught up in something you have no business being involved in.

      He didn’t usually accept invitations so readily. Ordinarily, he worked from dawn to dusk, then slumped back to his trailer to grill a hamburger or a steak before falling into bed. Usually. Ordinarily. But then, there was nothing usual or ordinary about Rosemary Brinson. She was like an angel with a broken wing.

      And he wanted to heal her.

      Bad decision. Bad. Don’t do it, man. Turn around and go eat that sandwich you lied to her about. Turn around and forget that you saw her heading out the door, and you purposely made it a point that she see you. Turn around and forget how she smiled up at you and lifted those luminous eyes to you and said, “Come over tonight and meet my brother. You can stay for supper.”

       Turn around, Kirk.

      He knocked on the open door and waited, the sounds of domestication echoing through his wayfarer’s logic. A child’s laughter. Warm, home-cooked food. Fellowship. Rosemary.

      He knocked, and waited, and wondered how he’d ever be able to distance himself from her so he could do his job and move on.

      Then he looked up and saw Clayton Brinson’s furious expression, and decided it might not be too hard, after all. Not if her overbearing father had anything to do with it.

      In order to protect Rosemary from her father’s wrath, Kirk decided he would have to force himself to stay away from her.

      Somehow.

      * * *

      “Kirk, come on in,” Rosemary said, moving in front of Clayton in an almost protective stance to open the screen door. “Supper is just about ready. In fact, I was just telling Daddy that I’d invited you.”

      Clayton’s scowl deepened. By way of greeting, he grunted then turned to head toward the formal dining room. “Hurry it up, girl. I’m hungry.”

      Kirk followed Rosemary through the house to the kitchen.