Jack heard that the big German farmer had been practicing his sermon on Rosie Hunter, but rumor had it there’d be slim pickings on the spiritual smorgasbord today. All the same, families from the homesteads around Hope began to gather in the mercantile around nine o’clock. By the time Jack walked in, the room was filled with the aroma of hot cinnamon buns, fresh coffee, and apple strudel. In the short time he’d lived in Hope, Jack had tried to learn the names of the people who passed his smithy on their way to the mercantile for supplies. Few ever spoke to him, and when they did, it was only to ask how soon he’d be able to repair a plow or mend a wagon wheel. But Caitrin Murphy always followed her customers out the mercantile door to wave good-bye. “Come again, Mr. LeBlanc,” she would call. “See you next week, Mrs. Rippeto!” And Jack would memorize the names. They had all come together to worship on this bright, late-winter Sunday, and Jack had made up his mind to walk among them as one of the community.
