A Mistaken Match. Whitney Bailey

to the cloth. “I’m sure you think such work is worthless, but I had nothing else to fill the time. I would have cleaned had I found more supplies,” she repeated.

      James examined the handkerchief as she spoke. Over and over, he turned it in his calloused hands. The more he studied it, the lighter his touch became, as if he handled a fragile porcelain cup. “You did all of this? The lace?”

      She nodded.

      His eyebrows raised and Ann saw a flicker of what appeared to be admiration. “No one helped you?”

      Ann laughed at the absurd question. “Do you see anyone else here?”

      James chuckled softly. “I meant—did someone help you with this before you arrived in America?”

      “No. I began the work a week ago.”

      “After lunch we’ll go into town for cleaning supplies. You’ll take this.” He gently folded the handkerchief into quarters and set it in her hand. His fingertips brushed her palm. The touch sent a warmth through her hand. She set her jaw and shook off the feeling.

      James cobbled together a stew for lunch. “For Uncle Mac,” he explained as he ladled the first steaming bowlful. He paired the stew with a mug of milk and they took the meal upstairs together. They hadn’t even reached the top step before Ann spotted the breakfast tray. The spotless plate and empty mug suggested at least someone had enjoyed his meal that morning.

      James rapped on the door. “Uncle Mac? Lunch is ready.” Bedsprings creaked, but still the door didn’t open.

      “Best leave these here. There’ll be plenty of time for introductions when we get back from town.”

      After lunch James retreated upstairs and returned wearing a clean shirt. His freshly scrubbed cheeks shone pink and water droplets clung to his tousled hair. Ann made a mental note to refill the pitcher in his room.

      While James hitched the wagon, Ann stood outside and took in the expanse of land. Row after row of young green plants stretched in all directions. A small grove of oaks and maples, no more than five or six acres, anchored the east end of the field.

      “May I ask what you did outside this morning?” Ann asked James as he helped her onto the wagon seat.

      “Hoed the fields.”

      The field nearest Ann seemed enormous as she imagined someone clearing the weeds row by row. “When will you be done?”

      James laughed drily. “A job like that is never done. Not until the corn grows tall enough to shade out the weeds. I’ll be out here every morning until then.”

      “And when might that be?”

      “Well...” James paused and rubbed his chin. “We have a saying. ‘Knee-high by the Fourth of July.’ When the stalks are that tall, we should only have a week or two more of weeding.”

      Weeks and weeks of hoeing this sweeping vista of green. Ann made a note to help him beginning tomorrow.

      “What crops are you growing?”

      James’s eyebrows rose and his shoulders drew back. “Corn in the big south field and some wheat in the north field. Most everyone around here grows either corn or wheat as their main crop.” He pointed to the next farm. “Hal Schneider has corn, too.”

      The meandering rows of corn on Ann’s right weren’t planted with nearly the precision of James’s fields, and weeds were in abundance. In a few spots she couldn’t tell the crop from the intruders.

      “It looks like Hal Schneider needs to weed,” she observed.

      James glanced at the field. “Hal has a lot more than weeding to do.”

      “What do you mean?”

      James’s brow knotted and his mouth became a hard line. “The man has two young children and a house falling down around them. His wife died last year, and he didn’t take it very well. He needs to tend to his children and himself as well as those fields.” His voice held an edge of concern.

      Ann strained to see the Schneider house, expecting to find children playing in the yard. It stood quiet and empty. She turned to James to ask him another question about his neighbor, but the top of an envelope jutting from his pocket caught her eye. So that was why he’d been so quick to suggest the trip to town. He needed to telegraph the agency and mail the letter to Mrs. Turner. Another reminder of her unknown future.

      “Do you have much business in New Haven?” Ann tried not to sound too curious.

      “A bit.”

      She waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

      “Am I to accompany you on your errands?”

      He shook his head. “Nope.”

      It was like their trip from town to the farm all over again. Why must he swing betwixt friendly and withdrawn? Ann smiled through clenched teeth. “And what am I to do?”

      “First you’ll buy the supplies you need to clean. And then—” he turned to look Ann straight in the eye “—you’re going to make yourself a new friend.”

      “What kind of friend?”

      His eyebrows arched. “You’ll see.”

      * * *

      James sighed inwardly. He abhorred being so short with Ann, but what else could he do? Every time he let down his guard with her, his head spun. It was a familiar feeling. He’d felt it every time he’d been in Emily’s presence. When she’d wanted something, he’d fallen over himself to do exactly as she’d asked, like a dutiful dog who only sees the good in its master. The need to please her had remained even as both his heart and God told him she was not the girl for him. At least now he knew how easily he lost his senses around a pretty girl. Better to focus on getting Ann to her intended husband and bringing his plain bride to the home where she belonged.

      They drew into town and James turned onto the square and hitched the wagon in front of the first building. Davis Mercantile was neatly lettered in red and gold on the window.

      “You can buy supplies in Davis’s. Charge them to my account,” he said as he helped her down.

      “You aren’t coming with me?”

      “I have a few things to take care of first. Mr. Davis can help you find what you need.”

      James set off across the street. The post office sat on the other side of the square. Inside he handed the envelope to the clerk and asked him to calculate postage to England. He then spent ten minutes wording his telegram to the agency. Since he paid by the letter he had to get his point across as succinctly as possible. Afterward, he stepped into the library to fetch a book for Uncle Mac. Then he turned in the direction of the mill. He itched to confide in someone, and Frederick was his closest friend.

      He stopped short on the wooden sidewalk a block away from the mill and chided himself. Ann had been in this town less than a day, and he’d left her unaccompanied. His weakness shouldn’t mean she had to suffer through new experiences in a strange country alone.

      He continued to the mill, but only stayed long enough to write a note to Frederick informing him he was no longer needed at the courthouse that afternoon. He gave the note to the foreman, who assured James he would deliver it to his friend.

      He returned to the square and walked straight to the mercantile. The dark interior of the store was a sudden change from the sun-drenched sidewalk, and for a moment James couldn’t see. He heard Ann’s lilting voice well before he saw her.

      “And you’re sure this soap does a proper job?”

      “Absolutely, miss. We don’t carry Sunlight, but Fels-Naptha won’t disappoint.”

      The store came into focus, along with Mr. Davis behind the counter. His dark mustache rose at the corners as he smiled in greeting. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. McCann,”