“Shouldn’t you be working on a sermon, Mr. Tate?” Micah let the book fall to the table, where it landed with a thud. Again he made to rise; again the chair wobbled against long legs. This time, however, he caught it before it toppled. “Yes, well, I was—” “Reading.” Ruby retrieved the novel. “I know. I am a fan of Mr. Defoe, though I must admit I’ve not found the time to read this book in quite some time. Years, in fact.” She paused to decide whether to continue. Oh, why not? “I’m far too busy with the raising of children and the running of a boardinghouse to take on such a novelty.” She sounded like a shrew, yet the words were out and there was nothing to be done for it. Ruby returned the book to its place on the shelf nearest the window then slowly turned to face Micah Tate. “If you were waiting for me to come back downstairs before you departed, you needn’t have.” He looked crestfallen, something that surprised her. Even more of a surprise was the guilt she once again felt at speaking with such a sharp tongue.
