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nearly crushed underneath him, but he wrenched it away as he fell. Too late, the paper had a big smudge on it. Just as bad, his hand was bleeding where he’d been cut by one of the thorny branches, and he cursed himself for not having an adhesive. He held his hand out so the wound could clot without getting blood on Ruth’s gift. 
    Henry sighed in exasperation. He was cut, the present was a mess, and he had leaves in his hair—this wasn’t the sort of gesture he’d been hoping for when he’d bought the fabric and set out.
    The footsteps grew closer, and Henry crouched as best he could behind the bush. He was rarely on the west side of the river unless he was making house calls, and since he was not carrying any supplies, it was obvious he wasn’t in Schmidt Park on business. If he drew attention to himself, people would talk, and if they saw him carrying a gift, they would talk even more . That was one thing he had not forgotten about living in a small town. Plus, he was not keen to run into Preacher Baker. He couldn’t count on himself to hold his tongue or his temper, and he didn’t want to do anything that would further endanger Ruth.
    He remembered her face as she smiled up at him over the fabric. She seemed fragile, doll-like. She had dark eyes set in a pale face—a kind of old soul look to her. He’d been worried his gaze had lingered too long on her small, pouty mouth. Her hair was long and wild, ranging down her whole back, and she had been drowning in the dress she was wearing—and yet. And yet.
    It was not a good time to be thinking about “and yet.”
    Suddenly, Preacher Baker passed by, and Henry glared at the man’s back. No man of God was supposed to treat his own daughter like that. He glanced down at the package in his hands, smeared dirt and all, and stood, walking quickly in the direction from which the preacher had come.
    It was immediately obvious, once Henry turned the corner, which trailer belonged to the Bakers. The old shack of a church, which was the source of much ridicule on the east side of the river, was set up on a spare plot of land. Its white paint was dirty and flaking away, and there was a large gold cross affixed to the front door. The trailer stood at the front of the property, ramshackle and sagging under the weight of years without upkeep. 
    Henry glanced around but did not see anyone in the vicinity, so he darted through the unkempt grass toward the front door. He placed the fabric down gently and brought his hand up to knock.
    He hesitated. Should he stay and say hello? Apologize for not chasing her down when her father had treated her so roughly? Introduce himself properly?
    The thought turned his stomach into a bundle of nerves. What if she thought his gift was strange, or unwarranted? What if she did not accept it? What if she thought he was creepy? He most certainly did not want to be creepy.
    It was safer, he thought, to keep things anonymous.
    Mustering his courage, he knocked on the door. Then he turned and ran as far as his legs would carry him, across the dirt road and back behind a neighboring building. He watched from around the corner as the door opened, first an inch, and then the whole way. He smiled as Ruth’s delicate features screwed up in confusion as she stooped down to collect the package in front of her door. When she opened the package and burst into a grin of delight, he could hardly contain himself from whooping.
    She looked up and he ducked away from sight, his back pressed against the wall behind him. After waiting a minute, just in case she stayed outside to look for her mysterious benefactor, Henry pushed away from his hiding spot. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and whistled softly to himself as he made his way home.
     
    Henry very determinedly did not think about his gift to Ruth Baker the rest of the evening. He was still trying not to think of it the next day as he made his way to work. He walked from his home on the edge of