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in England expect to hear?”
    He looked at her quizzically.
    “The banns.”
    “Ah.” He humored her and walked to the edge of the porch, as if ready to deliver a history lesson to the critters waiting out in the dark. “All kinds of things. It could be that either the bride or groom is already legally married to somebody else in another village, or that one is not a true believer of the faith. Or maybe they’re cousins, more closely related than the law allows.”
    “Well, I don’t think we’ll be havin’ any of them problems.” She slouched in the swing until her toe reached the porch, then set herself swinging. “You’re a preacher and I’m a preacher’s daughter. And I know for a fact our family don’t have any relations north of St. Louis. So unless you got a wife hidin’ out in Illinois waitin’ for you . . .”
    He turned and leaned against the railing. “The Lord brought me here. To this church and to you.”
    “And you plan to stay? Here? Forever?”
    “As long as the church will have me.”
    She pondered this but dared not ask what would happen if she ever wanted a glimpse of life outside the twisted paths of Heron’s Nest. To live for a time away from the scrutiny of friendsand neighbors and family—all of whom had been witness to every day she’d lived since her first. As long as the church would have him, so would it have her.
    “So nobody can object?” She surprised herself at speaking aloud.
    “Only me. Or you.”
    “Then you can start on for home, Brent Logan. I think we’re safe.”
    “Before I go,” he said, not looking like he had any intention to do so, “shall we plan on a June wedding?”
    She laughed out loud. Perhaps the congregation wouldn’t keep him around forever after all. “June is next week, sir.”
    “I’m aware.”
    “Can you imagine the waggin’ tongues if we get married a week after announcin’ an engagement?” She moved away from the square of light coming from inside the house.
    “People know we’ve been seeing each other for months.”
    “That don’t help matters. If you’re goin’ to be leadin’ this flock, you best learn how they think.”
    “July, then?”
    “That’s not much better. Ma will want to make a fuss, and that hardly gives any time at all to get a dress made.”
    “August?”
    “Too hot. And Darlene will be too close to her time, so she might not be able to come.”
    A change came over his spirit, like he was succumbing to a slow-spreading wound. “Perhaps, then, I’ll leave it to you to set the date.”
    Dorothy Lynn glanced inside and saw her mother making a pretense of working on some sort of needlework. A tea towel, most likely. She’d been doing a lot of that since Brent Logan began hisearnest pursuit. If she concentrated, she could imagine the tip of Pa’s shoe as he was stretched out in his chair reading The Saturday Evening Post . It had been his special respite every Sunday night. How many Sunday nights had the two of them spent in just this way? Ma with some quiet, necessary chore and Pa immersed in the rare nonbiblical text? The children had always known that Sunday nights were quiet nights. Having grown up, Dorothy Lynn realized that her parents didn’t even use this time to talk to each other.
    Surely, though, there’d been a time when they sat on a porch swing, chatting into the night. She tried to imagine her pa, making one excuse after another not to leave Ma standing in the doorway, or Ma, breathless after a kiss.
    Her own breath, by now, was slow. Steady.
    “October,” she said, hopping off the swing and making her way toward him.
    “October?”
    “First Saturday. Or, better yet, the fourteenth, my birthday. Darlene’s baby will be here, and I might even hear from my brother by then. Plus, it’s so lovely here in the fall.”
    He started to take her in his arms but, in a move that looked for all the world like fear, drew away instead. “You think that will give you enough time?”
    “To