Suspicion stalled her feet. What did he think he was doing? She had the medicine the doctor had prescribed, for all the little good the first bottle had done.
He arrowed his gaze at her. “The hot towels. Please?”
She moved to do his bidding, and when she returned, Mr. McNeary had pulled two pillows out from behind Grandpa and stacked them in front of him. He took the hot towels from her and laid one on Grandpa’s chest. He then coaxed her grandfather to lean forward on the pillows while he placed the second towel on his back.
“Pull that quilt up around his shoulders to trap the heat.”
She followed his instructions and then went to fetch a spoon to give Grandpa a dose of the cough medicine. But when she scurried back into the room, Mr. McNeary sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Grandpa’s back, and the coughing spasm was already beginning to let up.
Nora set the cough medicine aside. “How did you—”
Mr. McNeary continued to massage Grandpa’s back. “I took care of my mother when she was ill with chest congestion.”
The coughing spell gradually subsided, and Grandpa’s strained, raspy breathing sounded easier. Nora heaved a sigh of relief.
She sent a curious look at the man who ministered to her grandfather. “Did this treatment work for your mother?”
Pain flickered across Mr. McNeary’s eyes. “It made her a little more comfortable, but we had no money for medicine or a doctor. Ma insisted on continuing to go to work in a stuffy factory where the dust and dirt swirled around like fog.”
Dread sliced through Nora—the same dread she felt when she heard Grandpa cough—and she feared asking what happened.
Mr. McNeary gave her a knowing look, as if he recognized her reluctance to ask. “Ma died for lack of medical care and because she was afraid if she didn’t go to work, she’d lose her job.”
He returned his attention to her grandfather and rearranged the pillows, easing him back to rest. His voice was stern, but gentle. “You listen to the doctor and your granddaughter, you hear? I’ll do everything I can to protect your wife’s resting place.”
Nora released some of her pent-up tension as the lines of distress across Grandpa’s brow relaxed and he nodded. Before Mr. McNeary could rise from the edge of the bed, Grandpa gripped his hand the best he could. He couldn’t speak, but his message was clear.
When Nora’s grandfather was settled and comfortable, Donovan followed Miss Courtland out of the room. “I think he’ll sleep now.” Donovan pulled the bedroom door closed.
“Thanks to you.” Her reply surprised him. When he turned, he found her with eyes brimming.
“Thank you for being so compassionate. The cough medicine he’s been taking hasn’t worked nearly as well as what you did.”
Donovan shrugged. “I only did what my mother always did. She’d see somebody with a need and do what she could.” He might never be the Christian man Ma prayed he’d become, but perhaps if he followed her example and listened to his heavenly Father, he’d make some progress.
Miss Courtland moved toward the front door. “Since Grandpa is resting, I need to get back to the courthouse.”
“Of course.” They stepped off the porch, and her dark hair caught the sunlight and shone with gold streaks. “Nora—” He nearly choked. Whatever possessed him to call her by her given name without asking her permission? “I’m terribly sorry. Miss Courtland.”
Her soft smile robbed him of his cognitive ability. “You may call me Nora if you wish.”
The boulder that momentarily occupied his throat went down hard. “Then I hope you’ll call me Donovan.”
She proceeded him through the gate and they walked down the street toward the courthouse. “Nora, may I ask you a question?”
The resentful suspicion that usually fringed her eyes was gone, and she nodded.
“What can you tell me about the Weavers—the family who owns the land?”
A tiny frown pulled her brows together and she cocked her head. “I don’t know that anyone has heard from them in years. The man’s name was Lemuel Weaver. He won the land in the lottery in 1836. There were already several Cherokees, including my grandmother, who were buried there. From the stories I’ve heard, Grandpa nearly came to bloodshed with Lemuel a few times.”
One corner of Donovan’s mouth quirked upward. “I can imagine.”
They turned the corner and continued up the street. “Lemuel’s plan was to build a cabin and bring his bride, Phoebe, from Williamsburg, Virginia. He built a sawmill upstream. Over the next few years, they had three children, two boys and a girl. Ellis, James, and Elizabeth. Their youngest, Elizabeth, was still quite young when Phoebe died. I remember hearing people speaking fondly of Phoebe, and it sounded as if the Weavers were nice folks.” Donovan glanced down at her. “You mean you didn’t know them?”
She shook her head. “No. Lemuel was injured in a sawmill accident and couldn’t make a living here. He and his children moved away. They might have moved back to Williamsburg, but that was before I was born.”
Donovan halted. “So what happened to the sawmill?”
“Oh, it’s still there.” Nora slipped her hand up to smooth a lock of hair the breeze had tugged out of place, and Donovan’s fingers itched to tuck the errant strands back himself. “The property was divided and the sawmill was sold. It’s well upstream from the burial ground. But Lemuel wouldn’t sell the rest of the land because he and Phoebe had loved it so.”
“Hmm. You said Phoebe died. Is she buried out there as well?” If she was, then it only stood to reason that the Weaver family wouldn’t want to sell the land for the same reason Nora’s grandfather so fiercely wished to protect it.
“No, she’s buried in the church cemetery.” A faraway look etched her features. “When I was twelve years old my mother died. One day I took flowers to her grave. Phoebe Weaver’s grave was just a few feet away from Mama’s, and it looked so lonely. So I picked some daisies and buttercups and put them on Phoebe’s grave because she didn’t have any family here to bring her flowers. Grandpa saw me, and I was afraid he’d be angry. Later he told me it was a nice thing to do, but he never would talk about Lemuel or Phoebe.”
They reached the courthouse and Donovan held the door open for her. “I’d like to stop back by your place later to visit with your grandfather if he’s feeling up to it.”
Her love for her grandfather showed in her smile. “I think he’d like that.”
Disappointment nipped at him. He wished she’d said she would like it.
As he walked back to the hotel to make some notes, he reflected on Asa Bennington’s undisguised opinion of the people who owned the property he wanted to purchase. He’d indicated they were ignorant, poor, lazy Southerners who he expected to jump at the chance to make some easy money, willing to sell the land at a price well below its value. Donovan had believed him at first and had accompanied Bennington here with the attitude that he must do whatever his boss wanted in order to keep his job. Now he was torn. A few days ago he’d been ready to quit, unwilling to push the legal boundaries by following Bennington’s orders. But after meeting Hosea Courtland and hearing his story, he knew beyond any doubt he was needed here, if for no other reason than to protect Eve’s resting place. The bits of information Nora gave him weren’t much to go on, but he’d keep asking questions until he contacted Lemuel Weaver’s family. He prayed he could reach out to them before Bennington returned.
“God, exactly what are You leading me to do?” Donovan grinned. He might not know the answer yet, but asking was exquisitely sweet.
CHAPTER 8
Donovan studied the telegram in his hands, considering a half dozen possibilities. The extra time afforded by Bennington’s delay in Atlanta was an unanticipated gift. He’d expected his boss’s return the day after tomorrow, but due to unforeseen circumstances, Bennington wouldn’t arrive in Pine Ridge as scheduled. Donovan tapped the paper on his palm while his mind raced. After yesterday’s visit with Hosea Courtland a
nd Nora’s recollection of what she remembered about the Weaver family, bits and pieces of a plan began falling into place.
His first order of business was to send a telegram to the courthouse in Williamsburg, Virginia. If his suspicions were correct, he hoped to secure new information regarding the Weaver family and their residence. The telegrapher at the Pine Ridge depot lifted a thick, caterpillar-like eyebrow when Donovan told him where he wanted the message sent but scrawled down the words without comment.
Donovan plunked down the coins and included an extra dollar. “Come and find me as soon as you get a reply. It’s important.”
The rotund man nodded his bald head and pocketed the dollar. “Sure thing, Mr. McNeary.”
From the telegraph office, Donovan headed to the livery where he rented a horse. The riverbank property was only a couple of miles but riding was faster than walking. After securing the horse’s reins to a tree branch, he picked his way across the river on the wide rocks. Bennington would be furious that he’d not arranged for another survey yet, but he had some hiking and poking around to do first.
As he tramped through the underbrush he tried viewing the landscape through Hosea Courtland’s eyes. The mixture of hardwoods and pines along the gentle slope combined to paint a very different picture from that which he’d viewed with Bennington. All his boss saw was business opportunities and dollar signs. But today, as he approached the rock mounds scattered across the incline, he paused first by one and then another, wondering which one was Eve’s. He’d not let this peaceful place be disturbed if he could possibly help it, but he’d undoubtedly have a fight on his hands.
“God, I’m going to need Your help. I can’t do this without You.”
He laid his hand on stones heaped together with wild grapevine crisscrossing them and sprinkled with pine needles. Whoever lay beneath these rocks, whether it was Eve or another Cherokee, should be afforded the same respect as Phoebe Weaver in the church cemetery.
After several minutes, he continued on downstream, taking note of the distance from the burial ground, the depth of the water, and the swiftness of the current, as well as the natural resources around him. His sketchy plan began to come together a piece at a time. But it would all be for naught if he didn’t get the reply to his telegram like he hoped. He glanced upward at the patches of blue sky between the swaying tree limbs.
“It’s in Your hands, God. Guide me, speak to me, steer me, show me what to do.”
The current grew noisier as he proceeded. Rocks poked their heads above the water along the river’s edge, giving the impression of shallowness. But upon closer inspection, the rocky bottom dropped off less than six feet from the bank. Donovan picked up a dead limb laying nearby and held it upright, reaching out as far as he dared to dip it straight down into the deeper water. It nearly submerged the entire limb. Getting his shoes wet was worth it. He paced off the distance from a rock outcropping to just past the point where the water deepened and then measured the rise of the slope with his eye. He was fairly certain this was still Weaver land, but he’d have to confirm it with Wilbur Dorsey at the land office.
He marked the spot by tying his handkerchief around a sapling, then he made his way back past the burial ground to the place where he could cross the river. The livery horse observed him as he stepped from rock to rock. Likely the beast was anxious to return to the stable and his feeding trough.
Just as he arrived at the livery, the man from the telegraph office waddled up the street toward him, red-faced and puffing. The telegrapher mopped his forehead with a red bandana and waved a piece of yellow paper. “Mr. McNeary. You got your reply.”
Donovan dug into his pocket and extracted fifty cents. He deposited the coin in the telegrapher’s palm. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” The stout fellow touched the brim of his visor and set off toward the depot, his stride less urgent. Donovan opened the missive and scanned it. Just as he’d thought. Bennington had been sending letters to the wrong place.
The clock on the courthouse indicated Nora was likely back at work after having checked on her grandfather at noon. Perfect. He headed toward the Courtland house and was pleased to see Hosea sitting on the front porch in the sun. Donovan waved at the front gate and Hosea motioned for him to come into the yard.
“Come and set a spell, young fella. I can use some comp’ny.”
The old man was still pale, but his eyes were brighter than the last time Donovan saw him, and no wheezing rattled his breathing.
Hosea nodded toward the chair next to him. “That were a right smart idea you had, usin’ them hot towels. Worked better’n the Doc’s tonic.”
Genuine pleasure lifted Donovan’s lips. “I’m happy to see you’re feeling better. Does Nora know you’re out here?”
A mischievous grin tweaked the man’s white beard. “No, and don’t you tell her.” He shook his head. “I was goin’ stir crazy in that bed.”
Donovan chuckled. “I won’t tell her if…” He glanced sideways at the old man. “You’ll answer a few questions for me.”
Hosea scowled. “What kind o’ questions?”
“Well, let’s begin with how many men can you name who might be interested in some back-breaking work moving rocks?”
Alarm mingled with anger pulled Hosea forward in his chair, but Donovan reached over and patted his arm. “It’s not what you think. I won’t move a single pebble from the burial ground.”
Nora straightened from her bent position rearranging file drawers and placed her hands on her lower back, trying to push the ache away. She walked a few steps to the front window of the courthouse and peered out to the street. After allowing the fledgling feelings that had emerged in her heart for Donovan to take root and grow, a void now echoed within her. The note she’d found five days ago tucked into the picket gate in front of her house briefly explained his pre-dawn departure, but it didn’t say when he’d return.
She longed to know where he was. How many times had she scanned up and down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of him striding toward the courthouse? This time, however, it wasn’t Donovan who made his way in her direction, but rather Waldo Fuller from the telegraph office.
Mr. Fuller’s bald head glistened with perspiration when he opened the courthouse door. Nora stepped toward the mayor’s office. “Just a moment and I’ll tell Mayor Gilbert—”
Th e mayor’s door jerked open. “I’ll take that, Waldo.” Mayor Gilbert snatched the telegram from the man’s grasp, only to have Mr. Fuller grab it back.
“Ain’t for you, Mayor.” Mr. Fuller held out the missive to Nora. “ This here’s for Miss Nora.”
Nora blinked. “Me? Whoever would send me a telegram?” Her heart accelerated and she almost closed her eyes in ardent prayer that the wire was from Donovan.
Mayor Gilbert blustered, but Mr. Fuller just grinned. “Ain’t but one way to find out.”
Both men eyed her, the mayor with suspicion and the telegrapher with glee. She took the paper and ran a finger over the seal, wishing for a few moments of privacy, but her wish remained unfulfilled with the men standing there watching. Uncomfortable warmth climbed her frame and despite her longing to tear open the folded paper, she slid it into her pocket. “I, uh, have work to do.”
She spun on her heel to return to her desk when the front door of the courthouse opened. Mr. Bennington stalked inside, slamming the door behind him. He flicked a glance at Mr. Fuller, barged past Nora, and came toe to toe with the mayor.
“Where’s McNeary?”
Nora sucked in a gasp and both men turned to look at her. Bennington narrowed his stare in her direction and twisted his lips into a sneer.
“What do you know of his whereabouts, girl?”
Her throat clogged and her lips froze.
“Well? Speak up. I’ve seen you walking out together, you hanging on McNeary’s arm, no doubt trying to use your feminine wiles to lure him into your web. You two have been thick as thieves. What are you hiding?”
If she’d not been quaking in her shoes from Bennington’s browbeating, she might have let her mouth hang open in astonishment at the mayor’s defense of her. Mayor Gilbert turned to her. “Miss Nora, do you know where Mr. McNeary is?”
She shook her head and tried to draw in enough breath to form words. “H-he said he’d be g-gone a few days, but didn’t say where he was going.”
The door opened again, drawing the attention of Gilbert and Bennington. Waldo Fuller stepped partway through the open door. “Reckon I’ll just head on back to the telegraph office.”
The mayor scowled and glanced back at Nora, his gaze coming to rest on the pocket where moments ago she’d slipped the telegram. She held her breath and her pulse pounded in her ears. Surely he wouldn’t force her to open—
Bennington stomped toward the mayor’s office. “Gilbert, we need to talk.”
The mayor followed Bennington into his office and closed the door. Nora’s knees weakened and she sank into her chair, her breath coming in short bursts. She slipped her trembling hand into her pocket and gripped the paper between her fingers.
Bennington’s bark could be heard through the door to the mayor’s office. “I gave orders for McNeary to move those rock piles to use for the mill foundation and to begin felling trees and clearing underbrush. Not only has nothing been done, McNeary’s nowhere to be found, and nobody from your office will cooperate and tell me where he is.”
Mayor Gilbert voice rose to match Bennington’s. “I don’t have any idea where your man went. He doesn’t confer with me. Furthermore, we’re still waiting to hear from the Weavers.”
“I expressly ordered McNeary to have the contracts ready to sign by the time I got back.” Footsteps clomped across the office. “You don’t seem to grasp the gravity of this transaction, Gilbert. I can build my mill at any one of a dozen places in these hills. Perhaps I need to contact the town officials at Hendericksville or Varnell. I’m sure the good people of Epworth or Tellsford would be happy to have a mill in their community, and I am quite certain the administrations of any of those towns would be more cooperative and competent than what I’ve encountered here.”
Destination: Romance: Five Inspirational Love Stories Spanning the Globe Page 10