Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

LENORA WORTH

Title Page

Epigraph

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Copyright

“Don’t do this, Rosemary,” he said.

“Don’t punish yourself or me this way. Think about us. Think about this.” He reached out a hand. “Put your hand in mine.”

“No,” she said, a plea in the one word. “I can’t.”

“Rosemary, God doesn’t want you to be alone. He’s not cruel that way. Together, with His guidance, we can figure this out.”

“No,” she said again, her heart breaking. “Let’s just leave it the way it is. Go,” she whispered. “Before we wake my father.”

“I’ll wake him,” Kirk replied, angry now. “I’ll wake this whole town and tell all of them that I care about you and I want to be with you and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Hearing him say the words aloud made her realize she felt the same way. But she was still afraid to make good on her feelings. Yet she knew Kirk was right. She had asked God to forgive her, to give her a second chance. Maybe this was that chance.

Slowly she reached out her hand to him. Kirk pressed his hand to hers, his eyes searching her face in the moonlight.

“Tell me you’ll pray about this, Rosemary. Promise me you’ll ask God to guide us.”

“I will,” she said, meaning it. “I’m asking Him right this very minute…”

LENORA WORTH

grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to write. But first, she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.

A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue full time her dream of writing. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.

“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I get to combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best possible combination.”

The Wedding Quilt
Lenora Worth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.”

—Ecclesiastes 3:1

To my sister, Glenda, who died from a wreck involving a drunk driver in 1991. We all miss you still.

To Suzannah, a friend who believed in the good in me and taught me so much about courage and dignity.

And especially…to my niece Crystal Howell Smith. Hope this helps to ease your pain.

Chapter One

“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.”

Rosemary Brinson read the familiar words of Ecclesiastes and took comfort in the sure knowledge that God was watching over her, and that a new season was on its way.

Today would be different. Today was a new beginning, Rosemary decided as she gazed out her kitchen window, toward the tall spire of the First United Methodist Church of Alba Mountain, Georgia.

Today the steeplejack was coming.

Everyone was talking about Kirk Lawrence, the man Rosemary had personally hired, sight unseen, to come to the little mountain town of Alba to restore the fifty-foot-tall steeple of the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old church, as well as renovate the church building itself. The small-town gossip mill had cast Kirk Lawrence to heroic proportions. From what Rosemary had found while doing phone interviews and research on-line, the man could leap tall buildings with a single bound, provided he had a good pulley and a strong rope and cable, of course.

In spite of her pragmatic, levelheaded approach to hiring the steeplejack, Rosemary couldn’t help feeling the same excitement as the townspeople. She’d last spoken to Kirk Lawrence two days ago, and she still remembered the way his lyrical accent had sent goose bumps up and down her spine.

“I’ll be arriving sometime, probably late afternoon, on Monday, Ms. Brinson. I’ve studied the plans and the photographs you sent me, and I do believe I can have your church looking brand-new in a few weeks. I look forward to taking on the task.”

“Please, call me Rosemary,” she’d stammered, in spite of trying to sound professional and all-business. “And you’re sure you don’t need a place to stay?”

“No, I have my trailer. I’ll be comfortable there.” A slight pause, then, “It’s home, after all.”

Home. A travel trailer with another trailer full of equipment attached to it. What kind of home was that?

“The kind a wandering soul likes to hang out in,” she reminded herself now as she finished her toast and mayhaw jelly. “Apparently, our steeplejack likes to travel light.”

She was still amazed that the church board had agreed to let her use such an unusual, yet highly traditional, means of doing the work on the steeple. The old-timers had balked at first, but once Rosemary had convinced them that a steeplejack would be much more thorough and less expensive than cranes and scaffolding, they’d reconsidered and voted to back her.

“We have you to thank, Rosemary,” the Reverend Clancy had told her yesterday as she’d closed down the church day care attached to the educational building across from the main sanctuary. “We’da never raised all that money without you in charge of the committee. You sure know how to get things done.”

“Only because I wanted this so much, Preacher,” she’d replied. “This church means a lot to this town, and to me. We have to preserve it.”

This morning, as she stood sipping the last of her coffee before heading off to her job as director of education for the church school, she had to wonder why she’d poured her heart into renovating the old Gothic-designed church.

Maybe it was because she’d been christened there as a baby, as had her older brother, Danny. Maybe it was because Danny had married his high-school sweetheart there, and Reverend Clancy had christened Danny’s new daughter, Emily, within the peaceful confines of the spacious sanctuary, illuminated all around by beautiful stained-glass windows. They’d been members of the church all of their lives, after all.

Maybe it was because Rosemary had sat there, through her mother’s funeral last year, and somehow, she’d survived a grief so brutal, so consuming, that she wanted the church that had held her in its arms to survive, too.

Or maybe she’d taken on the task of renovating the old church because she needed to stay busy at something tangible, something worth fighting for, something that would bring about hope and rebirth, instead of despair and death.

Pushing away thoughts of the past year’s unhappiness, Rosemary turned around to find her father staring at her with the dull, vacant look she’d come to recognize and dread.

“Coffee, Dad?” she asked as she automatically headed for the cabinet by the sink to get a cup. “Your toast is on the stove. Would you like a scrambled egg with it?”

Clayton Brinson stood just inside the kitchen door, his bloodshot gray eyes wandering over the bright, sunny kitchen as if in search of something, someone. He wore old, worn khaki work pants, left over from his thirty years as a line supervisor at the local manufacturing company, and a once-white ribbed undershirt that stretched across the noticeable paunch hanging over his empty belt loops. His sparse salt-and-pepper hair stood out in stubborn tufts on his receding hairline, its determined stance as stoic and firm as the man who refused to comb it—the man who refused to accept that his wife was dead and gone, the man who refused to even get dressed most mornings, who blamed God and his daughter for the death of his beloved wife, Eunice.

“Toast and coffee, girl,” he said in a gruff, early-morning voice. “How many times do I have to tell you, that’s all I ever want for breakfast?”

Rosemary didn’t reply. She was used to her father’s cold nature and curt remarks. It was, after all, part of the punishment, part of the penance she must endure. That she must endure was an unspoken agreement between the shell of the man to whom she’d once been so close and the shell of the woman she’d become.

Clayton had always been a hard, distant man. Strong, hardworking, a good father and husband, he’d never fully understood her mother’s devotion to the church. But because he loved Eunice, because she made him smile and laugh, he’d indulged her by dutifully attending services and giving money to the church. The pretense had ended with her death, though. Clayton existed these days on bitterness and loneliness, but Rosemary refused to give in or give up on Clayton. God would lead him home. She knew this in her heart. This morning, she’d asked for patience to see her father through, and guidance for herself. And she remembered how things once were.

Once, not so very long ago, her father would have bounded into the kitchen with a cheerful smile plastered on his face, to demand his eggs and grits. Once, her mother would have been standing at this window, admiring the spire of her church down the street, thanking God for the new day.

Eunice would have turned to lift a dark eyebrow at her husband. “Hungry this morning, Clayton?”

“Yep, and in a hurry. Got things to do down at the mill. A man’s work never ends.”

“Nor does a woman’s.”

Once, Rosemary would have come up on this scene, and she would have smiled at the good-natured bantering between her parents, before she’d gone off to school, or later, after work. Even after she’d moved out of the house to attend college, and then later to live in her own garage apartment just down the street, she could always count on finding her mother in the kitchen with a fresh-baked pie and her father humming and nuzzling her mother’s slender neck before he headed off to work.

Once, her father would have greeted her with a smile and a kiss, and a teasing, “Found a fellow yet?”

Once.

As she searched the refrigerator for the raspberry jam her father liked on his toast, she thought about the fellow she’d found and lost, and thought about the life she’d planned with that same fellow, and lost.

“Here’s your toast, Dad,” she said as she set the plate in front of him. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“And don’t be late today,” he called without looking up. “Twelve noon, girl.”

“I won’t. I’ll be here at five till.”

She escaped the house, her breath coming deep and long to take in the fresh air of the coming spring. The nearby foothills were near bursting with it, their greens as fresh as mint, their white dogwood blossoms as delicate as fine lace. A new beginning. A new season.

This morning, this fine new spring morning, Rosemary Brinson looked to God to show her what her purpose was, and asked Him to help her find a new season. She needed a time to heal.

Then she looked up at the towering, ornamental spire of her church and reminded herself—today would be different.

Today, the steeplejack was coming.

In spite of herself, she couldn’t wait to meet him.

Kirk Lawrence turned his rig off Highway 441 to follow the Welcome sign to Alba Mountain, Georgia, population ten thousand. He couldn’t wait to get started on the renovations for the First United Methodist Church of Alba Mountain. As always, he felt the hum of a challenge, felt the rush of adrenaline a new job always brought, felt the nudge of a new town, with new faces, calling to him.

Alba had called him just as he was finishing work on a two-hundred-year-old church in Maryland. Alba, or Alba Mountain, depending on whom you were talking to, was a small town on the southern edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains, just about seventy-five miles north of Atlanta. Alba, homesite to some of his own Scotch-Irish ancestors, the highlanders of north Georgia, who’d come from Europe centuries ago to find a new beginning on these rugged foothills and mountains. This would be interesting, to say the least.

Kirk loved to wander around almost as much as he loved his work. The work he could trace back to his great-grandfather, Ian Dempsey, on his mother’s side, in his native Ireland. The wanderlust…well, he supposed he’d gotten that from some nomadic ancestor, or from his American father who’d come to Ireland for a vacation more than twenty-five years ago, and stayed to marry a local lass. Or maybe the need to keep moving was all Kirk’s alone, since he’d grown up in a small village in county Cork. It really didn’t matter. He liked his life and he liked his work, and all was right with his world.

A voice echoed in his head as he searched the street names for Crape Myrtle Avenue.

“And you’re sure you don’t need a place to stay?”

Rosemary Brinson. Rosemary. Pretty name. It meant unspoiled in Latin, but it could mean several different things in modern society. This particular Rosemary had a slow, soft southern accent that flowed through the telephone like a warm summer rain. Kirk was anxious to put a face to that voice, anxious to meet the woman who’d fought a whole congregation to get him here, because she believed in doing things the right way.

“Well, Rosemary, me darlin’, so do I.”

That much they had in common. And that would be all, as far as Kirk was concerned. No, Rosemary, he didn’t need a place to stay, because no one ever really expected him to stay. Kirk had just enough singleminded intent to know that he’d come here with one purpose, and one purpose only. He was a steeplejack. He repaired steeples, working quickly, accurately and artistically, to make something lasting and beautiful out of wood and mortar and stained glass and stone.

God had given him the talent, and his grandfather had given him the technique, or so his mother still reminded him. He didn’t take either for granted.

And he had one very important rule. Never get involved with the townspeople, or their problems or their plans. He wasn’t a healer, after all. Just a fixer. He simply liked to restore things to their proper beauty.

To Kirk, that made all the difference.

But then, Kirk had never heard a voice quite like Rosemary Brinson’s.

And, he’d never ventured this far south before.

In spite of himself, he couldn’t wait to meet her.

Rosemary’s voice grew lower with each beat of the favorite children’s story she read to the preschoolers. All around the darkened room, small bodies stretched out on colorful mats, their little stockinged feet resting after a morning of running at full throttle on nursery rhymes and building blocks. As Rosemary finished the story, a collective sigh seemed to waft out over the long, cool, colorful nursery.

“I think you’ve sent them off to dreamland,” her aide, Melissa Roberts, whispered softly as she sat down to take over so Rosemary could take a much-needed lunch hour.

Rosemary’s own sigh followed that of the steadily breathing children. “Whew, I’m tired! They were in rare form this morning. Must be spring, giving them so much energy.”

“Or maybe they’ve picked up on all the talk,” Melissa said, her eyes wide and sincere. “You know…about the steeplejack.”

“Could be,” Rosemary said, rising quietly to tiptoe to the door. “I’ve tried to explain exactly what a steeplejack is, but they can’t seem to grasp it.”

“Just tell them he’s a superhero who climbs church steeples,” Melissa suggested, laughing as she waved Rosemary out the door. “Go on home and try to rest.”

Rosemary wished she could rest, but home wasn’t the place for that precious commodity. Bracing herself for her father’s cold reception, she started out the door of the educational building, only to be waylaid by the church secretary, Faye Lewis.

“He’s here,” Faye, a petite, gray-haired woman with big brown eyes, hissed as she hurried toward Rosemary as fast as her sneakers could carry her. “You’ve got to come and see to him, Rosemary. Reverend Clancy’s already gone home for his nap.”

“See to who?” Rosemary asked, then her heart stopped. “The steeplejack? Is he here already?”

“Oh, yes,” Faye said, her smile slicing through her wrinkled face. “And quite a handsome. devil…excuse the expression.”

Rosemary groaned, then looked down the street toward the rambling white house she shared with her father. “Why’d he have to show up just at lunchtime? Dad will be furious if I’m late.”

Faye gave Rosemary an exasperated look. “Well, just tell Clayton that you had something important to tend to. Surely the man can fix himself a sandwich this once.”

“Yes, but you know he expects me to be there right at noon,” Rosemary replied, already headed toward the main office, which, along with the educational building, was set apart from the original old church.

“Do you want me to call your father and explain?” Faye asked, a look of understanding moving across her features.

“Would you?” Rosemary hated having someone run interference with her father, but Faye was one of the few people Clayton respected and treated with a fair amount of decency. “Tell him I’ll be a few minutes late, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Faye nodded, then shoved Rosemary into the plush office reception room where a tall, blue-jeans-clad man stood looking out the wide arched window that faced the church.

Taking a quiet, calming breath, Rosemary said, “Mr. Lawrence?”

Kirk Lawrence turned around to find the source of that soft whispery voice and was at once hit with a current so strong, he wondered if there was a kinetic energy moving through the room. He didn’t need to know her name to know this was Rosemary Brinson.

Long swirls of chestnut-hued hair, curly to the point of being unruly, caught up with twin pearl-encrusted clips in a sensible yet attractive style, off a face that was oval in shape. Her face was youthful, yet aged, touched by the sun, yet fresh and new-blooming, with eyes that darkened to a deep blue underneath arched eyebrows the exact color of her hair. Her smile was demure, while her expression was…hopeful and hesitant all at the same time.

She was lovely.

“You must be Rosemary,” he managed to say as he held out a hand to take the one she offered him.

She wore a bright pink cotton top with a long, flowing floral skirt that swirled around her legs as she stepped forward. A cloud of perfume as delicate as the scent of honeysuckle preceded her touch on his hand.

“That’s me,” she managed to say through a shy smile. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Lawrence.”

Rosemary gave him a direct look, all the while thinking that Faye had been right. He was handsome, all right. Dark swirling hair, as close to black as she’d ever seen. When he smiled, his thick eyebrows jutted up like wings, giving him that certain appeal Faye had mentioned. But his eyes, they held Rosemary, causing her to stare at him. Their bright, clear color sharply contrasted with his tanned skin. She couldn’t decide if they were green or blue, but whatever color they might be called, his eyes were deep and luminous and…knowing. He had the eyes of an old soul, as her mother used to say.

Realizing that she was staring, Rosemary let go of the warm hand holding hers. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“No, none at all,” he said, wrapping his arms across his chest in a defensive manner. “I just followed the steeple.”

That brought her attention back to the task he’d come here for. “Yes, it’s hard to miss, isn’t it?”

Together, they both looked out the window, up at the stark brown and gray stone of the rising bell tower that heralded the church from miles around.

“It’s beautiful,” Kirk said, meaning it. “I can see where you’d want to preserve it—those stones need a bit of cleaning and scrubbing, now, don’t they?”

“Yes,” she said, glad he understood the job ahead. “They came all the way from Dahlonega—granite with a little fool’s gold mixed 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 I’ll look forward to that pie myself,” he replied, glad that she’d smoothed over the awkward rudeness her father didn’t try to hide. Kirk chewed a big hunk of sandwich, then nodded. “The tomatoes are very good.”

Out of the blue, Clayton spoke directly to Kirk for the first time. “Seems a waste to me—bringing you in special to fix that old steeple. Let the thing crumble, is what I say. A waste of time and money.”

Rosemary shot Kirk an apologetic look. “Actually, Dad was on the board that voted to renovate the church, but that was a couple of years ago. Now…Dad doesn’t support any of our church activities, especially the ones I’m involved in.”

Clayton threw his sandwich down. “And we both know why, don’t we, girl?”

Rosemary’s hiss of breath was the only indication that her father’s sharp words had gotten to her. She remained perfectly calm, keeping her attention on her plate as she toyed with a slice of tomato to hide the apparent shame her father seemed determined to heap upon her.

Wanting to shield her from any further tirades, Kirk looked across at her father. “Mr. Brinson, your church is one of the finest historic buildings I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot of churches and cathedrals both here in America and all across Europe. The people who built your sanctuary did it the right way, it’s as solid now as it was the day it was finished. You don’t see that kind of craftsmanship much anymore. I’ve studied the layout from the pictures your daughter sent me, and I’m amazed.each joint and bent is intricately crafted with mortise and tenon joined together without the benefit of nails.” He paused, then looked thoughtful. “It’s almost as if the church was built on spirit and determination alone. And I intend to make sure that spirit is sound and intact.”

Clayton glared across at the stranger sitting at his table, then huffed a snort. “Foolishness, pure foolishness, to waste over forty thousand dollars on a face-lift for the church. If it was built to last, then leave it alone!”

“Daddy!” Embarrassed, Rosemary touched her father on the arm in warning. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I’m through talking,” Clayton replied, then standing, he yanked up his plate and drink. “I’m going to watch television.” With that, he stomped out of the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

Kirk realized two things, sitting there at that round little oak table in Rosemary’s clean kitchen. One, he was more determined than ever to get his job done and done right, just to prove her father wrong. He was like that; he’d always risen to a challenge, and winning this man over would be a big one. And two, he did not like this man’s hateful, hostile attitude toward his lovely, angel-faced daughter. In fact, with just a little encouragement, he would gladly be willing to do something about changing it.

Right now, however, the only thing he could do was try to make Rosemary’s beautiful smile return to her pale, drawn face. “Was it something I said?”

She did smile, but it was a self-deprecating tug instead of a real smile, and he didn’t miss the raw pain hidden beneath the effort.

“No, it was something I did.” Sending him a pleading look, she added, “He wasn’t always this bad. It’s just…we lost my mother over a year ago, and he’s still not over her death. I do apologize for the way he’s treated you.”

“I’m sorry…about your mother, and I understand,” he said, but really, he didn’t understand. Losing a loved one was always painful as he well remembered when he’d lost his grandfather a few years ago, but this anguish seemed to run much deeper than normal grief. Most families turned to each other in times of grief and loss. Rosemary’s father obviously hadn’t come to terms with losing his wife, but why was he taking it out on his daughter? Kirk had to wonder what had happened between these two to make one so sad and noble, and the other so bitter and harsh.

But, Kirk reminded himself too late, you can’t get involved in whatever is brewing between them. Just do your work, man, then leave.

When he looked up, Rosemary was watching him with those beautiful blue eyes, her gaze searching for both retribution and condemnation. He gave her neither—her father was doing enough of that. Because Kirk didn’t know what was going on, he smiled at her in an effort to comfort her. And somehow he knew, this time it was going to be different. This time, he just might have to get involved.

“Why didn’t you simply explain things to him?” Melissa asked Rosemary later after she’d told her friend about the whole episode with her father.

They were sitting on a wooden bench out on the playground, watching the children as they scooted and swayed over the various climbing gyms and swings. Nearby, a tulip tree heralded spring with its bright orange and green flowers. The afternoon lifted out before them with a crisp, welcoming breeze that belied the turmoil boiling in Rosemary’s heart.

“I can’t get him involved in all that,” Rosemary said, shaking her head. “He came here to work on the church, not its floundering members.”

“Except your father hasn’t set foot in this place in over a year,” Melissa reminded her in a sympathetic voice. “How can you stand it, Rosemary?”

“Living with him, you mean?” Rosemary sat back on the hand-carved bench, then sighed long and hard. “I still love him. And I know he’s still grieving. I keep thinking one day I’ll wake up and he’ll be the father I always knew and loved…before all of this happened. One day…”

Her voice trailed off as she looked up at the towering steeple a few yards away. Amazed, she grabbed Melissa’s arm, then held her breath. “Look!”

A lone figure moved up the steep side of the church’s wide sloping shingled roofline, loping toward the center of the building.

“The steeplejack,” Melissa said on her own breathless whisper. “He sure didn’t waste any time.”

“No, he didn’t,” Rosemary replied, her eyes taking in the lean lines of Kirk Lawrence’s broad shoulders and athletic body. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on the man. And no wonder. He hopped and jumped over the roof like the superhero Melissa had called him, his long, muscular arms swinging from the rafters, so to speak, as he took his first close-up look at the thing he’d come to wrestle with.

The steeple was a mixture of several different levels and several different foundations. Set at the front of the broad, rectangular, Gothic church building, it started out with an open square belfry, made from the stone they’d discussed earlier, intertwined with sturdy, arched timber-framed beams that shot up to form a tier, like the bottom layer of a wedding cake, over which sat a smaller section with louvered openings surrounded by stained-glass partitions and a smaller version of the same arched wood pattern. That section lifted toward and supported a spire made of thick iron beams that formed the tall shingle-covered cone. This tier was followed by an ornamental rusty iron cross that extended three feet across and four feet up.

The long front of the church was made of the same stone facing as the belfry tower, mixed with the timber framing that the original congregation had made with heavy columns and beams, the arched pattern of the wood crisscrossing throughout the stones, following the same pattern of the tower’s beams. The church was intact and sturdy; now it mostly needed scraping, painting, restaining and rustproofing. Which was why Rosemary had hired the steeplejack. He’d do most of it from his boatswain chair, inches at a time if necessary.

Kirk hauled himself up over one of the stone belfry walls, clinging precariously for a moment before lifting over into the open belfry room where an aged brass bell hung from a sturdy iron frame. From his vantage point, he looked out over the town, then down at the playground where Rosemary and Melissa, and now the children, watched him in fascinated wonder.

“Hello there,” he called good-naturedly, waving toward them, then holding out both arms as if to say he’d just claimed this spot as his very own. “What a view!”

Rosemary didn’t doubt that the view of the surrounding hills and mountains was impressive. She’d never been up in the belfry, but her brother, Danny, had climbed up there many times, and he’d told her he could see the whole town—indeed, the whole county—from there.

“It’s Spiderman,” a little boy called, jumping up and down in glee. “Miss Ruzmary, Miss Ruzmary, see Spiderman!”

“I see,” Rosemary said, smiling up at Kirk before returning his wave. Why hadn’t he simply taken the narrow stone steps just inside the church narthex that led to the bell tower? “That makes me dizzy,” she whispered to Melissa. “I’ve never been one for heights.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting up there with him,” Melissa said, laughing.

“Melissa Roberts, you have a new boyfriend.”

“Yes, but we’re just good friends—really. And, your steeplejack is sure easy on the eyes. Not at all what we expected.”

Rosemary had to agree with her. Kirk Lawrence was intriguing, good-looking and likable. And discreet. They’d talked at length for most of the afternoon, about his purpose here, about their mutual faith in God, about what the congregation expected from him, and he hadn’t questioned her once about why her father had treated her in such an ugly way during lunch. For that alone, she appreciated him.

She’d expected a middle-aged, leathery, bowlegged monkey of a man to come and do this job. Instead, she’d gotten Tarzan himself, a man who was at once dangerous because of the profession he’d chosen, and noble for the very reasons he’d chosen this timehonored way of doing things. Knowing he didn’t take shortcuts and that he was willing to risk everything for a dying art made her respect him even more.

“He’s not my steeplejack,” she said rather too defensively. “He’ll be gone before we know it and all the excitement will die down.”

“Then we’d better make the most of his visit,” Melissa said, rising to check on a whining toddler.

Rosemary grinned at her blond-haired friend, then looked back up to where Kirk stood surveying the tower and steeple. He was stretched over the short belfry wall, perched with one arm wrapped around a fat stone-and-wood column as he viewed the perilous height of the spire above him. Rosemary wrapped her arms around her chest, fighting the goose bumps that had risen on her skin.

He turned to stare down at her for a long moment, then quickly got back to work, measuring and calculating.

As she just as quickly got back to her own work of watching the children she loved. Only she couldn’t help but do some measuring and calculating of her own, from the corner of her eye—but her assessments had little to do with the wood and stone of the old steeple.

A few hours later, Rosemary walked into the living room of her home to find her father sitting in his usual spot in front of the television. Dan Rather was delivering an update of world events, and Clayton Brinson had the volume at full blast, as if he couldn’t afford to miss a word of what the broadcaster was saying.

“I’m going to the church dinner now, Dad,” she said as loudly as she could. “I left your supper on the stove—plenty of fresh-cooked vegetables to go with your fried ham. And—” she purposely came to stand in front of him now “—I made two peach pies. I’m taking one with me, and I left the other one for you. There’s coffee on the stove.”

Clayton’s only response was a deep-throated grunt. He still wore his khakis and undershirt. He’d barely left this room all day.

Rosemary leaned down to place a small kiss on her father’s forehead. “I’ll be home early.”

Clayton didn’t move a muscle. He just sat with his gaze fixed on the talking head on the television screen. His daughter walked out of the room and gathered her trays from the kitchen, then left.

Not until he’d heard the back door slam did Clayton turn, and then it was only to lower his head and close his eyes tightly shut. When he raised his head seconds later, his eyes were calm and cold again. He sat silent for a minute, then lifted a hand to touch the spot where his daughter had kissed him so tenderly.

“So you couldn’t get the old rascal to come on over?” Faye Lewis asked Rosemary much later.

“No, of course not.” Rosemary shook out the white cotton tablecloth to cover one of the many portable tables they’d brought out underneath the oaks and pines for a good, old-fashioned dinner on the grounds. “He can hear us from his vantage point—that is, if he turns down that television long enough to listen.”

“I’ll bet he’ll listen,” Faye said as she grasped the other end of the cloth to smooth it out. “He’s been listening all along, he just can’t hear in the same way.”

“He’s lost all hope, Faye,” Rosemary said, her eyes scanning the growing crowd of church members and townspeople who’d turned out to meet the mysterious steeplejack. “And I’m about at the end of my rope.”

“Steadfast, Rosemary,” Faye reminded her. “Remember, ‘for as much as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.’ You’re doing the right thing, the only thing you can for your daddy. You’re standing firm in your faith. Clayton will see that in time, and he’ll come around.”

Rosemary appreciated Faye’s gentle reminder. “I certainly hope so.”

Faye patted the cloth into place then began placing covered casserole dishes full of hot food on top of it. “Your father is a proud, stubborn man. He can’t deal with his grief, but I must say I’m shocked that he’d fight against it this long, and in such an extreme way. Clayton and I were always so close—Eunice was my best friend, after all. I miss her, but my grief is different from your father’s.”

Rosemary glanced toward her house, then quickly began pulling disposable plates out of a large plastic bag. “No, you didn’t turn away from God—or me—when it happened. Poor Dad, he used to be here every time the doors were open. He did it only to please Mother, though. He and Mom, with Danny and me trailing along.”

A commotion toward the edge of the crowd caused her to put away painful thoughts of her now-shattered family. She looked up to see Kirk emerging from his little trailer. He wore a clean white button-down shirt, fresh jeans and brown suede laced boots. His dark hair looked damp from a shower. His smile was fresh and enticing. He was working the crowd.

She lifted an eyebrow when the older woman poked her in the ribs and whispered, “Cute, ain’t he?”

“Yes. And charming. I’ve always heard Irishmen are very charming, and probably dangerous.”

“Well, the insurance adjuster would agree with you there. I hear the hazards of his work make him expensive to underwrite. The steeplejack’s occupation alone makes him dangerous, as far as having to pay out if he falls off that thing.”

“He won’t fall,” Rosemary said, knowing it to be true.

Kirk Lawrence seemed as sure of himself as anyone she’d ever met. He had the grace of an acrobat, and the concentration of a neurosurgeon. She’d watched him working this afternoon, taking measurements, touching the ancient stones and splintered wood, almost cooing to the towering steeple in his efforts to get a handle on his task.

“He might not fall,” Faye cautioned, “but I sure hope he doesn’t fail. We’ve got a lot of donations invested in this renovation.”

Rosemary playfully slapped her friend on the arm. “Ye of little faith! Just look at the man. He’s shaking hands and kissing babies like a politician. Why, he’s even got old Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s undivided attention.”

Faye squinted toward the spot where Kirk had stopped to bend over an aged woman sitting in a wheelchair, her tiny body covered from the waist down in an even more aged quilt. “Sure does. Let’s go see what he’s saying to her.”

“More, what’s she saying to him.” Unable to stop her curiosity, Rosemary followed Faye across the grounds to where Kirk had stopped in front of the old woman. She watched as white-haired Mrs. Fitzpatrick lifted a bony, wrinkled hand to clasp Kirk’s lean, tanned fingers.

“I knowed you was coming when I woke this morning,” she said, her wise eyes appraising him with sharp precision. “It was such a strong morning, all bright and crisp. The Lord saves special days like this one for special happenings. I knowed something was a’brewin’, but I jist thought it wuz something in the air.”

“I got here a little early,” he explained.

She wheezed a crusty chuckle. “Yep, and so did spring.”

Kirk grinned at that, then waited patiently for her to continue talking.

“I’m 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 over the shrills of your daughter. Emily takes after her mother—quite a chatterbox.”

“Who’re you calling a chatterbox?” Nancy Brinson said from the doorway, a mock-stern look 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. He looked around the small room, his gaze falling across the little group of people staring at him. “Hello,” he said to Nancy a moment before shoving the wildflowers into Rosemary’s hand.

She rewarded him with that little smile, then turned away, clearly flustered in a most becoming way, to put them in water.

“Hi, I’m Nancy Brinson, Rosemary’s sister-in-law,” Nancy said, taking matters into her own hands. “And this is my husband, Rosemary’s brother, Danny. Sorry we missed you at the celebration last night.” She patted little Emily on the head. “This one was teething and wasn’t up to socializing, so we stayed home to take turns walking the floor with her.”

Rosemary regained her composure enough to take one of Emily’s fat hands into her own so she could kiss it and squeeze it softly. “This is our Emily, ten months old and full of energy.”

Kirk nodded to Nancy, then shook Danny’s hand while the other man sized him up. “Nice to meet all of you.” He grinned and cooed at Emily.

Spellbound, the baby batted her long lashes and let out a squeal of delight.

“She never meets a stranger,” Danny said proudly. “Hey, want a glass of tea?”

“Sure,” Kirk said. “I’m learning to like it with ice. You know, my mother taught me to drink it hot.”

“Not me,” Danny said, grimacing. “I know it’s a tradition over where you come from, and up North. But, man, once I was on a business trip in Detroit and ordered tea, and they brought it to me hot and in a cup—”

Nancy interrupted, a teasing smile on her face, “And he was so embarrassed, instead of ordering iced tea, he sat right there and sipped it hot, as if he were at a tea party or something.”

Kirk laughed. “I bet you looked extremely dainty.”

“I tried,” Danny said, guiding Kirk into the dining room. “Have a seat.”

Nancy put the baby down in her nearby crib and helped Rosemary carry in the food and drink. Clayton sat stone-silent at the head of the table.

Kirk looked around the long room. It was a lovely setting for a meal, complete with lacy white curtains at the tall windows and a matching lace tablecloth on the spacious mahogany table. Everything gleamed in the rays of the overhanging light fixture, while the scent of something fresh-baked set out on a matching buffet lifted out on the gentle breeze teasing through the open windows.

Noticing the formal settings at the table, he said, “I hope you didn’t go to any extra trouble for me.”

Before Rosemary could answer, Danny said, “Oh, no. It’s a tradition in our house—having all the family together for a meal at least once a week. We usually do it on Sunday nights, but this week Emily was sick, so we put it off a couple of days.”

“And used to, your mother would be here,” Clayton said in a quiet voice, his stern look intact.

For just a minute, Kirk saw the raw pain and grief in the older man’s eyes, and regretted his bad feelings regarding Rosemary’s father. He didn’t really have any right to judge the man. He’d known grief when he’d lost his beloved grandfather. Still, losing a wife had to be different. And maybe he would never know that kind of loss.

Because you never stay in one spot long enough to get that close to someone.

He glanced up at Rosemary, who stood just inside the wide archway, her gaze searching her father’s face, her stance hesitant and unsure. The same pain he’d seen in Clayton’s eyes was now reflected in her own.

Danny looked over at his father, then back to Kirk, his expression going soft with memories. “Yeah, Mom went to a lot of trouble. Cooked all afternoon. We’d come back around for leftovers during the week…” His voice trailed off, then he shrugged.

Kirk watched Clayton for signs of eruption, and seeing none, said, “I’m sure you all miss her.”

“We do,” Rosemary said, sitting down across from Kirk, her gaze still on her father. Clayton stared firmly at his plate.

Kirk watched as she reached for both her father’s hand on one side and Danny’s on the other. “Let’s say grace.”

Danny automatically took his sister’s hand, then reached for his wife’s. Nancy in turn held out a hand to Kirk so they would form a circle. Not knowing what else to do, Kirk followed suit and held out a hand to Clayton. On her side of the table, Rosemary waited for her father to grasp both her hand and Kirk’s.

When Clayton refused to take either of their hands, Rosemary didn’t bat an eye. She closed her eyes, holding tight to Danny’s hand, and said a quick blessing, then let go of her brother’s hand to start passing food.

But Kirk didn’t miss the hurt, confused look haunting her eyes. She was trying very hard to stay steadfast in the storm of her father’s rejection. How could a man do that to his daughter? How could he treat her that way and not know he was being cruel?

Maybe Clayton did know exactly what he was doing, Kirk decided. Maybe he was being deliberate. But why?

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he began carefully, “how did your mother die?”

Rosemary looked over at her father, then to Danny, panic in her eyes.

Wishing he could take the question back, Kirk added, “If you’d rather not talk about it—”

“She died in a car accident,” Danny said quietly. “And, actually, we’d rather not talk about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Kirk replied, very aware of the undercurrent circling the table with the same fierce intensity with which Rosemary had just graced the meal.

“How’d work go today?” Rosemary said, her smile tight, her eyes shining.

Relieved that she’d given him an opportunity to take his foot out of his mouth, Kirk nodded. “Great. I talked to Reverend Clancy about hiring some of the locals to help with the sanctuary and the outside walls of the church. I’ll need an assistant to help hoist me up and to help me from time to time up on the steeple. But for the most part I do all the steeple work myself.”

“How did you ever become a steeplejack?” Danny asked between bites of biscuit with rice and gravy.

Kirk grinned. “I get that question a lot. Most people think I’m crazy, but actually, I’m a fourth-generation steeplejack. My mother’s grandfather back in Ireland was a steeplejack and he taught my grandfather and my uncle. When I came along, I tagged around behind my grandfather so much, he had no choice but to put me to work, much to my mother’s dismay. We traveled all over Ireland and England, repairing and renovating steeples and cathedrals, some of them stretching up a hundred and twenty-five feet.”

Rosemary went pale. “I can’t imagine being that high up. I can barely make it up Alba Mountain without getting dizzy.”

Kirk gave her a warm look. “Afraid of heights, huh?”

“She sure is,” Danny said. “I used to climb up to the belfry at the church all the time when we were little. But she’d get halfway up those old stone steps and turn around and crawl back down.”

“I never made it to the top,” Rosemary said, “and I don’t care who called me chicken.” She glared at her brother. “The view from the mountain’s good enough for me. I don’t need to be on top of that narrow tower to see what I need to see.”

Kirk laughed at her stubborn tone, then gave her a hopeful, challenging look. “We might have to change all of that. The view from up there is something else. It’s a shame you’ve never seen it.”

Danny patted his sister on the shoulder. “Hey, man, if you can get her up there, you really will be the miracle worker Reverend Clancy says you are.”

Everyone laughed at that remark. Everyone except Clayton. He ate his food in silence, motioning to Rosemary when he wanted refills or seconds.

Kirk, determined to win the man over in some form, turned to him at last. “Mr. Brinson, since you’ve been a member of the church most of your life, I could use your advice. Would you be willing to supervise some of the men on the ground level?”

Clayton’s head came up and his eyes fixed on Kirk with a sharp intensity. “No, I would not. I’m not interested in the least. Absolutely not.”

Kirk glanced at Rosemary. She looked uncomfortable, but he thought maybe if he could get Clayton involved, it would take some of the heat off her. “I just thought, since you’re retired now—”

“You thought wrong,” Clayton said, scraping his chair back with a clatter. “Rosemary, bring my cobbler and coffee to the den.”

“All right.” She rose to do her father’s bidding, her eyes centered on Kirk. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she rushed by.

She sure did apologize a lot, when it really wasn’t necessary.

“Me, too.” He looked over at Danny. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“It’s okay,” Danny said. “But you have to understand something about my dad. He hasn’t been back to church since the day of Mom’s funeral. He’s turned his back on the world and on God. He can’t understand why God would do this to him, after he tried to be faithful and loyal to the church all his life.”

Kirk leaned forward, his voice low. “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but hasn’t your father missed the point entirely?”

Nancy sighed and leaned in, too. “Yes, he has. But Reverend Clancy says it takes longer for some people than others. We’re supposed to be patient and go about loving him no matter how he treats us.”

Kirk ran a hand through his tousled locks. “I feel for all of you, but especially for Rosemary. And I think it’d be best if I go on back to my little trailer.”

“Don’t,” Rosemary said from the kitchen door. “I mean, you haven’t had your dessert yet.” On a shaky voice, she added, “Now, my blackberry cobbler isn’t as good as my mother’s was, and granted, these aren’t fresh blackberries, but Aunt Fitz herself helped me can them last year and, well…” Her voice trailed off as she brought a hand to her mouth. “Excuse me.”

She turned and rushed back out of the room, out of the house. The kitchen door banged after her.

Danny rose out of his chair. “Maybe I should go see about her.”

Nancy put a hand on his arm. “No, honey. Let’s you and I get these dishes cleaned up.” She looked at Kirk.

He was already standing. “I’ll go to her,” he said, meeting Nancy’s gaze head-on. “I enjoyed the meal. Sorry if I dampened the evening.”

Danny shook his head, his eyes dull with resignation. “Don’t worry, buddy. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

Well, it would be the last for him, Kirk decided as he stepped out into the cool spring night. The scent of a thousand budding blossoms hit him full force, the tranquillity of the peaceful evening clashing with the turmoil he’d just set off inside that house. Searching the darkness, he spotted Rosemary on the bench inside the church grounds, sitting where she sat every day watching the children.

He wanted to rush to her, but instead, he took his time, wondering what he’d say once he got there. Kirk wasn’t used to offering words of wisdom or comfort. He usually dealt in small talk, or technical discussions. Every now and then, he’d get in a heavy philosophical discussion with someone he met, usually involving religion. But for the most part, he steered clear of offering up his opinion on a continuous basis. People didn’t like to have their values questioned, and he wasn’t one for questioning God’s ways.

His mother had taught him simply to accept the daily miracles of life. Kirk firmly believed in God’s grace, but he wore his own faith in an unobtrusive fashion, preferring to live and let live. Because he did move around so much, he’d learned to mind his own business.

Yet, his mother, Edana, a wise woman with strong religious convictions, had warned him many times about his nonchalant attitude. “One day, my fine son, you’ll come across a situation that will demand more than you’re willing to give. You’ll learn all about being tested. Then, my lad, you’ll start taking life much more seriously. And maybe then, pray God, you’ll stop roaming the earth and settle down.”

Was this his test then? If he got involved with Rosemary, he would be going against his own rather loosely woven convictions. How could he comfort this woman? Better yet, should he even try?

She looked up as he approached. He heard her loud sniff, saw her hurriedly wiping at her eyes. Oh, that he’d caused her any further pain—it tore at his heart, exposing him to something deep within himself, some strange sensation that tingled to life and pulsed right along with his heartbeat. He’d not let this happen again.

“Rosemary,” he said, sitting down beside her to take her hand in his. “I’m so very sorry.”

She didn’t pull away, but she looked away, and then up, at the steeple looming in the darkness. “We both seem to be doing a lot of apologizing.”

“You don’t owe me an apology,” he said, meaning it. “You’ve been through a terrible tragedy, and apparently, I’ve come in the middle of it and made it worse.”

She let out a sob, then gripped her fist to her mouth. “People tell you it’ll get better,” she stated on a tear-drenched voice. “They pat you on the arm and say, ‘She’s at peace now, dear,’ and they keep going. They don’t want to see your grief. It makes them uncomfortable, you see.

“During the funeral, everyone was so compassionate and understanding. It was such a shock—it happened so fast. One minute she was there, standing in the kitchen, laughing, talking, making plans for my wedding. Then, the next, she was simply…gone.”

She didn’t speak for a minute, and he heard her swallow hard. “But then, life goes on, as they say. After a while, you become this robot. You go through the motions, you behave as if everything is back to normal, but you know that something is terribly, terribly wrong. When you see people on the street, you smile and you accept—dread—the sympathy in their eyes, but they don’t want you to speak of it.”

She stopped, taking a gulp of air, another sob escaping. “But inside, inside you have this silent scream that never, ever goes away, never stops. And you just keep on moving through each minute, each hour, each day. And that scream keeps following you until you think you’ll go stark raving mad from hearing it. It…it never ends.”

Unable to bear any more, Kirk gathered her into his arms, rocking her gently, whispering soothing words into her ear. Remembering the days when his own mother would try to comfort him, he said something in Gaelic to her, unaware that he’d even done it. He held her close, letting her sob quietly into the night, letting her purge herself against his strength.

How long had she carried this pain? How long had she been the one to be strong while her brother and her father depended on her to become a surrogate for her mother? How long had she struggled to become that perfect replacement, knowing she could never be the one they all longed for, the one she longed to have back in that little kitchen?

And, what had happened to those wedding plans she said her mother had been working on?

He had so many questions, but he didn’t ask for any answers tonight. Tonight, he held her, and with a silent prayer, he asked God to give His strength over to her, and her suffering family. He asked God to give her the comfort he wasn’t sure he could bring.

And in the asking, Kirk offered up the only thing he did have to give. He offered up his heart.

“Kirk,” she said at last, her voice raw, her words muffled. “What did that mean, what you said to me in that beautiful language?”

He pulled her tight against him. “It means, ‘I am here, little one.’” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am here.”

She leaned her head against his chest, her cheek touching on the steady beat of his heart. “For a little while at least,” she whispered.

Chapter Four

Kirk lifted her away so he could see her face in the moonlight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She sat up, wiping the last of her tears, purposely distancing herself from the warmth of his embrace. “It means…well…you’ll be gone in a few weeks. I can’t start depending on you. I won’t start depending on you. I shouldn’t even be talking to you now. I mean, you came here to repair the steeple. You don’t need me or my troubles getting in your way.”

He turned on the bench to stare at her, wondering if the woman could read his thoughts since that was precisely what he’d been telling himself earlier. “I don’t mind hearing your troubles. I just don’t know if I can help.”

“No, you can’t help,” she said as she got up to walk to a nearby fence. “And I don’t normally go around feeling sorry for myself. According to the Bible, I’m supposed to rejoice, knowing my mother has gone on to a better place. And sometimes, I can do that. Then other times, I can’t. I’m selfish because I miss her, but I’ve accepted my mother’s death.”

“Have you?” he had to ask. He got the impression she hadn’t really come to grips with any of this. When she didn’t answer immediately, he asked, “And have you accepted the way your father treats you?”

She whirled to glare at him. “I don’t have much choice there. He’s my father and he needs me.”

“Why does he talk to you like that? Why do you let him?”

Rosemary swallowed back the urge to spill her guts to this man. She couldn’t let him know; she couldn’t let him see the pain, the open, festering wound that would never heal, no matter how hard she prayed, no matter how much she tried to forgive herself each and every day. “I…I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said into the wind. “After all, it’s really none of your concern.”

He lifted off the bench to come and stand beside her. “You’re right. It’s none of my business, but I think I’ve provoked this whole situation. Maybe if I knew what happened, I could understand better.”

“There’s really nothing to understand,” she tried to explain. “My father is still grieving, he’s still angry because my mother’s death was so senseless. I have to hold fast and hope that he’ll realize he can’t change any of it.”

Kirk knew she wasn’t telling him the whole story. So her mother was killed in a car accident. That was a tragedy, no doubt. But why would Clayton take out his anger on his daughter? Suddenly, a sad, sickening thought crossed his mind. Well, he’d wondered it since he’d seen Rosemary and her father together that first day, sparring; he had to ask it.

“Does your father blame you somehow—for your mother’s death?”

She turned away, her staunch silence shouting at him.

“Rosemary?” He urged her around, then lifted her chin with the pad of his thumb. “Is that what this is all about?”

She faced him squarely, her eyes full of shame and disgust. “Yes,” she whispered. “He blames me. And you will, too, if I tell you the truth.”

With that, she whirled and ran back toward her house, toward the torture her father would surely inflict on her once she slammed that screen door behind her.

Kirk heard the door slamming shut. It was as if she’d just shut him out of her life.

Over the next few days, Kirk managed to avoid Rosemary as much as possible, considering that she worked at the church, considering that he worked outside, mostly with a bird’s-eye view of the comings and goings across the street, considering that he longed to see her again, that he yearned to hold her again, considering that he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

He had to remind himself that he didn’t want to get involved. He told himself, this way, neither of them would get hurt—especially Rosemary. She didn’t need the complication of a short-term relationship added to her already stress-filled life. And short-term it would have to be. He never stayed long enough for anything else. That he was even considering having a relationship with her was enough to make him antsy and restless, and distracted.

Today, frustrated and tired from a day of scraping rust and paint from the gables of the church roof, he decided he’d take a late-afternoon hike up onto Alba Mountain. The trails behind his tiny trailer led straight to the top of the peak, according to Reverend Clancy.

Tomorrow, he’d interview people for the complete crew, then he’d get started on the steeple. That task would occupy his mind enough to keep him in line and away from Rosemary Brinson. Right now, he just needed to escape into nature, to let his mind wander. He needed time to think and regroup. The mountain peak would be the perfect spot.

It should have been.

Except that halfway up the steep, winding path that lifted to the rocky peak, he spotted Rosemary sitting in a field of wildflowers, in what looked like a cemetery.

Aunt Fitz had said she’d buried her husband up on the hill. Was that where Rosemary’s mother was buried, too?

He stopped, catching his breath more from the sight of the woman sitting there than from the exercise.

She was wearing one of those soft, flowing dresses she seemed to favor, its colors rivaling the wild yellow roses and delicate pink-and-yellow-tipped lady’s slippers bursting to life all around her. Her hair moved in the breeze, lifting away from her face in chaotic shades of deep red and burnished brown. As he watched, she reached one hand out to touch the headstone in front of her, closing her eyes in a silence that only the angels could hear.

He should have kept moving. He was intruding on a private moment, between Rosemary and her mother. Yet he couldn’t seem to find the strength to put one hiking boot in front of the other. He couldn’t move. He could only stand there, watching her, wanting to go to her.

Like a doe sensing danger, she opened her eyes and looked up, right into his eyes. For a brief time, she didn’t move; she just sat there staring up at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and knowing. Then she waved to him and sent him that bittersweet smile he was beginning to need to see.

He forgot about scaling the mountain.

Rosemary saw him through the trees and felt the lurch of her heart against her chest. She’d sensed someone was near, she’d felt someone’s eyes on her.

And somehow, she’d known it would be Kirk. She’d avoided him since their gut-wrenching encounter the other night. She was embarrassed by her tears, by her confessions, and by her need to have someone hold her. She disliked weakness in anyone else, but especially in herself. She’d avoided him, and she’d thought about him.

She’d thought about him enough in the past few days to conjure him up at any given moment, during work, during prayer, during play with the children. She’d thought about him, and wished she could just get the man out of her mind. She wanted to forget the way he’d held her; she wanted to remember the feeling forever.

Rosemary reminded herself that he was a drifter, a wanderer. His work was important to him, and because of that work, he couldn’t stay in one spot for long. In spite of their closeness, she sensed an aloofness in him. Kirk held himself away from people, like a casual observer, watching and analyzing. He had to keep moving. And she had to stay here. Besides, if Kirk knew the real reason Clayton treated her so coldly, he’d turn away from her, too. And she couldn’t bear to have him do that.

She told herself these things as he approached her now, looking like an ancient warrior from long ago. He wore hiking boots and jeans, and a torn T-shirt. His unruly hair was having a high old time playing in the wind off the hillside. His eyes, though, oh, his eyes. They held her, making her forget her pragmatic logic, making her forget her own self-disgust and guilt-laden remorse, making her long for something intangible and unreachable.

Automatically, Rosemary gripped the sun-warm gray stone of her mother’s headstone, as if asking for counsel. The silence answered her, as it always did when she came up here to visit her mother’s grave. Only the wind and the chipmunks and the swallows gave her any conversation. Now, even nature’s comforting forces seemed to go silent.

There was an intruder in the woods.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Kirk said as he came up the hillside to the level incline where Alba had buried its dead for two centuries. “I can leave if you’d like.”

“No, don’t,” she said in a rush. As she lifted up, he reached out a hand to help her, causing her to feel the same disruption in her equilibrium as she usually felt when she reached the top of the mountain.

Kirk took her hand in his, then shifted his gaze from her face to the gravestone in front of them. “Your mother?”

She nodded, her gaze falling across the etched roses centered on the stone.

Kirk read the inscription: Eunice Grace Brinson. Born 1942. Died 1996. Beloved Wife and Mother. “And in heaven, the angels are smiling down on her, watching her sleep.”

“That’s beautiful, Rosemary,” he said, still holding her hand.

“She used to tell us that,” she explained, her gaze settling on the inscription. “She’d read to us from the Bible, then she’d say, ‘Time for bed. The angels will be smiling down on you now, watching you sleep.’“

Not knowing what to say, Kirk just held her hand. Finally, he asked, “Do you come up here alone a lot?”

“At least once a week,” she replied. “When I need to talk, when I need to get away.” She looked around at the mountain laurel spreading like a pink-and-whitepatterned quilt across the distant hills. “It’s always so hushed, so peaceful.”

“Would you like me to go?”

“No, I was just about to head back down. I’ve got to get supper fixed.”

Not wanting her to leave just yet, he said, “I was planning on hiking the mountain. Want to come?”

She recoiled instantly, like a blossom settling in for the night. “No. I…I get so dizzy. I’d better go on back home.”

“Come with me, Rosemary,” he said, his hand tight against hers, his body pulling her toward the peak. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know that,” she said, believing it to be true. “I’m afraid, is all.”

“Afraid of the mountain, or me?”

“Both,” she admitted, laughing shakily to hide her discomfort. “I feel so foolish after the way I acted the other night.”

“Don’t,” he said. “You have no reason to feel uncomfortable with me. I don’t judge people.”

She gave a little huff of a laugh. “You’d be the first not to judge me, then.”

That remark caught him off guard. “I can’t believe anyone in this town would hold ill thoughts about you. You seem to keep the whole church together.”

She laughed again. “I have a hard enough time holding myself together. But you’re right. People here are good and strong, supportive. They’ve helped me through some rough spots, and…they’ve forgiven me.”

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