"I most certainly have," Hattie said aloud, as she closed the door to the church.

"Did you say something to me?"

Hattie was startled by the sound of a man's deep voice behind her. She turned, surprised to see someone who could only be Reverend David Long standing so close he cast a shadow over her entire body. She judged his height to be well over six foot three. His sandy brown hair curled around his shirt collar. For a woman, such beautiful hair would have been a blessing, for a man, especially a man built like this one, she assumed he considered it a curse. More enticing than his stature or his hair were his piercing blue eyes. She'd have to watch her step where this man was concerned.

"Were you talking to me?" he asked for the second time.

"Ah ... no. I was just muttering to myself. You must be the new minister."

"Then you have me at a disadvantage."

Hattie could feel a blush creep into her cheeks. "I ... I'm Hattie Fairchild," she stammered, extending her hand. "I play the piano. I was on my way to meet you, since I didn't find a list of the hymns for tomorrow's service."

David took her hand. As he did she became painfully aware of the feel of flesh against flesh. Any proper lady would have been wearing gloves if she were out for an afternoon stroll. Of course, Hattie wasn't strolling. She was cleaning, but no one knew that she carried lemon oil and soft cloths in her music bag on Saturday afternoon any more than they knew about the novels that occupied the same space on Sunday mornings.

David smiled at her comment, the gesture causing a pair of deep dimples to appear in his clean-shaven cheeks. Instantly a comment her mother often made popped into her head. Dimples in a child's cheeks are the touch of the angels, a dimple in its chin is the mark of the devil.

Hattie didn't believe in either angels or devils, but this man certainly looked angelic with those dimples, which were so deep she could get lost in them.

"I just found Reverend Hall's note about the hymns," David continued, bringing Hattie back to the present. "I was hoping to get here before you arrived. Unfortunately, I see I'm a bit late. I was having a little trouble with tomorrow's sermon."

David cringed at the white lie he'd told. His sermon had been written for days. He'd purposely waited until he knew she'd be done to come over from the parsonage. Thomas left a note detailing Hattie's schedule, right down to how long she spent at the church on Saturday afternoon.

Everyone had told him about the mysterious Miss Fairchild, from Thomas to Ralph Mason. From what he'd heard, she came and went without people even seeing her. The general consensus, he concluded, was that Hattie Fairchild was an old maid and more than a bit strange.

David didn't care how strange she was; the lady intrigued him. He couldn't help but wonder if her flaming red hair and emerald green eyes hid a tempter or a more passionate nature. Whichever, she certainly wasn't the woman everyone described. He couldn't be so cold as to call her old. If she'd seen her thirtieth birthday, he'd be surprised. He supposed by the rural standards of Mortonville she was old. In Philadelphia, he knew several women who opted to marry later in life. It certainly didn't make them old.

"I'm sorry if I've caused you any inconvenience," he said, holding her hand a bit longer than necessary. He enjoyed the blush the gesture brought about.

"That's ... that's perfectly all right, Reverend Long. I usually take the list of hymns home to practice them."

The woman certainly had a knack for stammering--he'd give her that. "I thought perhaps you practiced here on Saturday afternoons."

He wouldn't have had to make the comment. He knew perfectly well what she did on Saturday afternoons. On Thursday he talked to the young girl who did the cleaning. When he asked her about cleaning in the balcony, she said no one ever went up there, so she never bothered.

One trip to the balcony told him someone bothered. The pews up there were covered with a layer of dust, but the piano carried a high gloss shine. The keys were as perfectly white as they had been on the day they were installed. From other pianos he'd seen, keys often yellowed with lack of proper care.

Only one person in the congregation would take such good care of the piano and she now stood in front of him. From the faint smell of lemon oil, he knew his assumptions were correct.

"In the late afternoon the light is much better at my home than in the balcony," she said, in an attempt to explain why she didn't practice at the church. "I could light a lamp, but it seems a waste of good lamp oil."

"Could I persuade you to play through them for me now?" David asked. "Since I'm not familiar with your technique, I prefer not to be surprised tomorrow morning."