Magnolia Summer (Southern Seasons Book 1)

by Melanie Dickerson

  Truett couldn’t let her stand there feeling stranded. He would offer to take her home.

  Just as he stepped out, Curtis Suggs started across the street toward the train depot.

  Truett clenched his teeth. Of course the sheriff’s varmint of a son would go nosing after Celia, just like the hound dog he was. Truett hurried at a fast walk down the wooden sidewalk.

  Where was Will? Celia glanced around. Everything along the street, the bushes and trees as well as the store fronts—a barber shop, blacksmith’s shop, general store, and doctor’s office—were covered with the red-orange dust of the red clay streets, giving everything a rusty look.

  The locket watch on the chain around her neck told her it was 2:15, which meant the train had arrived on time. Perhaps her family hadn’t received her telegram.

  One woman strolled the sidewalk, walking toward the general store or the post office. Four men leaned against a hitching post across the street and stared in her direction. She pretended not to notice them, but her stomach did a little flip. Having grown up in Nashville, it unnerved her to feel nearly alone, standing next to the town’s main thoroughfare. There was the one woman, but she had just disappeared into the general store. Did the four men mean her any harm? She clutched her small bag against her stomach.

  The afternoon sun sent a jolt of pain through her temples. She rubbed her forehead.

  How would she ever get her things to her family’s home without Will and the wagon? She could walk, but she couldn’t leave her trunk and all her possessions sitting there in plain view. Her family had moved here just nine months ago and she had only visited them once since. Who could she ask for help?

  “Ma’am?”

  Someone tugged on Celia’s skirt hem. She looked down at a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl with a smudge of dirt across her cheek. The child’s bare feet poked out from under the hem of her feed-sack dress, and her toes were covered with the rusty red dust. Her wide eyes took Celia in from toe to head, including her newest hat, which must seem quite different from the cloth bonnets that the women of Bethel Springs wore.

  “Yes?” Celia smiled at the child’s broad face and awed expression.

  “Are you a Yankee?” The little girl spoke the last word in a whisper.

  Celia didn’t know whether to laugh or feel offended. Finally, she said, “No, I’m from Tennessee.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want you to get shot. You’re pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pappy shoots Yankees.”

  “Oh.” A nervous laugh bubbled up, but she cleared her throat instead.

  “Sadie!”

  The little girl’s head jerked toward a woman whose dress was almost as stained and worn as her own, and she motioned with a quick jerk of her hand. “Git away from that fancy lady.”

  The little girl scurried off, glancing back at Celia as she ran.

  The four men who had been staring at her ambled across the street, toward Celia. The young man in the lead wore a butter-yellow, side-button shirt. As he stepped onto the train platform and approached her, he removed his hat. The three others shuffled behind him, their mouths agape, eyes fastened on her. She noted the train depot just behind her. If necessary, she should be able to find safety there.

  “How do, miss?” The yellow-shirted one said. “My name’s Curtis Suggs. I couldn’t help noticing, you look as if you might need some assistance.”

  He appeared pleasant enough, with an accommodating smile, and she liked that he’d stopped a polite distance away. Thank you, God, for gentlemanly manners. His dark hair looked clean, as did his shirt and trousers, with no rips or obvious mends—which was an improvement over the unkempt loafers gawking at her from behind him. Wrinkled and ill-fitting, their clothing hung on them like a scarecrow’s, their lips and scraggly beards stained brown with tobacco juice.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Suggs. My brother, William Wilcox, was supposed to meet me when I arrived today, but he isn’t here. I wouldn’t want to put anyone out, but I am in need of a conveyance. If one of you gentlemen happen to be going toward my family’s farm . . .” She waved her hand toward the large trunk just behind her.

  Curtis Suggs raised his shoulders a notch. “Miss Wilcox, I have a buggy over behind the town hall—my father’s the sheriff of this town—and I’d be happy to run yonder for it,” he nodded toward a building down the street, “and fetch you home.”

  Celia studied his face, trying to get an idea of his character, but his features were smooth and expressionless, except for the smile curving his lips.

  “I don’t want to trouble you—”

  “Miss Celia Wilcox.” A new voice sounded from over her shoulder. Celia turned to see the town doctor.

  An unpleasant, sinking feeling assailed her stomach. The last time she had seen him, he’d informed her of her father’s death. “Dr. Beverly.”

  Besides the fact that Dr. Beverly was dressed so handsomely—even in shirtsleeves and without a coat he far outshone the other men in sophistication—there was something comforting about seeing him again, though she couldn’t fathom why. She couldn’t look at him without remembering that awful day when he told her Daddy was dead. I did everything I could, he’d said.

  Perhaps it was the compassion she had seen in his eyes, along with his sincere regret at having not been able to save her father, that made her spirits lift. No, it was probably only because he was familiar to her, he was the town doctor, and her family trusted him.

  Their first meeting was embarrassing, to say the least. Though she’d been in too much pain to feel embarrassed at the time, now her cheeks heated at the memory. Never had she broken down so in front of a stranger. But she’d spent the entire train ride praying, Oh, God, don’t let Daddy die. So when Dr. Beverly told her he was gone, she’d burst out sobbing.

  Doctor Beverly’s blue eyes gazed directly into hers. “I see you’ve just arrived. May I escort you home? My horse and buggy are lodged at the livery stable.”

  He seemed even more handsome than she remembered, and younger, seeming only four or five years older than her own nineteen years, with his lean frame and light brown hair neatly combed. He wore a white shirt with a stand up collar, a charcoal vest, and neatly creased gray trousers.

  “Will was supposed to meet me. I sent a telegram, but something must have happened.”

  Mr. Suggs took a step toward Dr. Beverly. His expression hardened and she couldn’t help noticing the way Curtis Suggs glared at the doctor, his chest heaving slightly.

  “There’s no need for you to leave your office.” Mr. Suggs said. “I can take the lady home. Besides, I offered first.” He squared his shoulders and sent Dr. Beverly a challenging look, but the doctor appeared not to notice.

  “I don’t mind leaving my office for a while,” Dr. Beverly drawled, looking at Celia as if he didn’t notice Mr. Suggs’s hostility, then winked at her. “Haven’t had an emergency all day.”

  Her heart fluttered a bit at the warmth of his smile and his flirtatious wink, then frowned at her silly reaction. But on a serious note, she couldn’t let them fight over her. She needed to defuse the situation. What should she do?

  Taking a ride alone with a stranger like Curtis Suggs could be dangerous, at least to her reputation. She was safer with the doctor, who was their nearest neighbor. He had already endeared himself to her family. And to make it more socially acceptable, she could turn it into a house call by asking him to look in on Mama. She would have to let Mr. Suggs down gently.

  She smiled, hoping to soften the blow. “Mr. Suggs, I do thank you for your kind offer to escort me and my belongings to my family’s home, but I believe I shall have to accept Dr. Beverly’s offer. I’d very much like to get his medical opinion on one of my family members.”

  “Oh, well, I—”

  “Do excuse me. Perhaps I will see you on Sunday, in church . . .?” She nodded as though he had said “yes,” and then turned to Dr. Beverly. “When we get there, would you examine my mot
her and give me your professional opinion about her condition? In her letters, my sister has written some things that concern me.” She bent and picked up her carpetbag, then let the doctor take it from her.

  She refrained from smiling at Dr. Beverly. She didn’t want him to get the mistaken impression that she was being flirtatious. Lord willing, she was only here to help her family for the summer, until her mother was back to normal, and then she would hie herself back to Nashville. After all, she could help them more by sending them money from her seamstress business, especially now that Daddy was gone.

  Truett had trouble suppressing his grin at the way Miss Wilcox handled Curtis. Though she may have been safe enough with the man, Truett wasn’t about to let Curtis think he could wile his way into her good graces without some competition. Besides, he couldn’t imagine that Suggs would be the kind of man who would interest Miss Celia Wilcox.

  Curtis glared at him, and then tipped his hat to Celia and stomped away.

  The other boys continued to stand and stare at the handsomely dressed Miss Celia Wilcox, and he couldn’t blame them. She was much more sophisticated, no doubt, than anyone they’d seen before, and much too pretty to be standing on Main Street in Bethel Springs without any way to get home.

  The train hissed, groaned, and whistled as the iron giant readied for departure, having unloaded all the goods and mail intended for Bethel Springs.

  Thankfully, Curtis and his three fellow oglers were making their way across the street.

  “Will you be all right while I go get my horse and buggy?”

  She gazed up into his eyes. It was only a moment, but looking into her chestnut brown eyes sent a bolt of lightning through him. Did she feel it too? Or was he only being daft?

  She glanced away, and he could have sworn she was blushing.

  “Yes, thank you. I shall wait here.”

  He brought his buggy around, and before he could even ask, the same three men who’d been staring at Celia loped back across the street and offered to help Truett load her trunk. She thanked each one, causing them to turn red to the tips of their ears.

  She sure had a powerful effect on Bethel Springs’s men. How long would it take them—and him—to get used to her and stop gawking? Probably longer than she was prepared to stay.

  Truett grasped her elbow and helped her onto the buggy seat. He sat beside her and clicked his tongue at his horse.

  She thanked him, pulled a letter from her bag, and started reading.

  Normally he would come up with a joke to chide the lady for not engaging in conversation, but he refrained. Celia Wilcox was entitled to her unsociable mood. Exchanging Nashville for Bethel Springs would be a rude jolt to anyone. From what Celia’s family had told him, she couldn’t be happy about leaving Nashville. Her father’s death and her family’s troubles had changed her situation in life, as she had been working and saving her money to start her own seamstress shop.

  As they were nearing the town hall, the back of Truett’s neck prickled. Was the sheriff inside? After what happened the night before, he would no doubt be furious.

  Just then, Sheriff Suggs stepped out of the town hall, placed his hands on his hips, and narrowed his eyes at Truett.

  Oh, Lord, here’s trouble. Truett’s heart jumped into his throat, nearly choking him. Let him not stop me to ask where I was last night. He forced himself not to make eye contact with the sheriff. Just let me drive on past.

  The sheriff stepped into the dusty street and held up a hand, an unmistakable command.

  He hauled back on the reins and smiled. “What can I do for you, Sheriff? Your gout paining you again?”

  The sheriff didn’t answer. He studied Truett’s face, then looked at Celia, who had folded her letter and covered it with her hand in her lap. He tipped his hat. “How do, Miss Wilcox—that right?”

  “Yes, sir. A pleasure seeing you again.”

  His small, pale eyes flicked back to Truett. “Where were you yesterday evening?”

  Chapter 3

  Truett’s heart pounded against his breast bone. His mind flitted, unbidden, to the image of a noose around his friend’s neck.

  “Where were you last evening?”

  “Why, Sheriff?” He hoped his fear did not show on his face or in his tone. “Did something happen?”

  Suggs rolled a wad of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other and then leaned forward. A stream of brown spit exploded from his mouth, raising a puff of dirt beside the horse’s hoof. “Have you seen James Burwell?”

  “Not since yesterday.” Lord, forgive me for the lie. “Is something the matter?”

  “Yeah, something’s the matter.” Suggs’s voice boomed. “James Burwell assaulted a white woman and then lit a shuck out of town. Forgive me, Miss Wilcox, for speaking of such matters before you.” He nodded and tipped his hat again at her. “But molesting a lady is no small matter in my county.” He pierced Truett with his dagger gaze.

  “I fully agree, Sheriff.” Truett raised his eyebrows and let his facial muscles go slack. “I can hardly believe James would do such a thing, but if he did, he should be punished just as the law dictates. As the great poets say, ‘To molest a fair maiden `tis of the baseness of beasts.’”

  “Yeah, well, let me know if you see him.” Suggs backed away, as though Truett’s poetry was a disease that might rub off on him.

  “My good sheriff, I shall.” Truett performed a kind of bow from his driver’s seat. He flicked the reins and left the sheriff behind. Then he blew out a long breath . . . and turned to find the fair Celia with her delicate brows drawn down in the middle.

  “What great poet wrote that? Truett Shakespeare?” Celia let out a surprising and unladylike snort.

  “Actually, I prefer Tennyson.” He grinned at her, but she only stared, pursing her down-turned lips.

  Having grown up in Nashville, she probably thought all the people of Bethel Springs, including him, were ignorant country folk. He couldn’t let her think that. So he would make a wager with himself: Not only would he cheer her up and make her smile, he would get her to acknowledge that he was a gentleman of education and culture.

  “You think I don’t know any poetry?”

  Her brows shot up. “Do you?”

  The bemused look on her face was just the challenge to get his blood pumping. Staring straight between his horse’s ears, he began,

  “Strike for the king and die! And if thou diest,

  The King is king, and ever wills the highest.

  Clang battle-axe and clash brand! Let the King reign!”

  He peeked at her to see if she was impressed yet. Her mouth hung open and her eyes had widened. When she saw him looking at her, she closed her mouth.

  He went on:

  “Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May!

  Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day!

  Clang battle-axe and clash brand! Let the King reign!

  The King will follow Christ, and we the King,

  In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.

  Fall battle-axe and clash brand! Let the King reign!”

  He turned toward her. “Are you not now convinced of my culture and refinement?”

  She simply smiled, as if he’d just told her a mildly amusing story. “I’m not sure I’ve read that one. Is it Tennyson?”

  “It is.”

  She nodded, then she picked up her letter from her lap and began to read again.

  She was unmoved by his charm. Incredible. But perhaps she was only pretending. At least he had made her smile. But as he drove along, and even when she’d had time to read the letter several times over, silence reigned.

  Why did he have such a desire to get a reaction from her and make her talk? James would say he was playing the knight in shining armor again. James was always looking at things scientifically. But Truett was simply a Southern gentleman, with a bit too much emotion.

  But it was more than that. Celia Wilcox was beautiful.

  His ch
allenge for himself would be to make Celia Wilcox smile again by the time he got her home, and before two weeks were over, to get her to verbally repent of her low opinion of him. If he couldn’t, he’d give up and accept that she was beyond even his considerable charm.

  Celia pretended to read her letter, but her thoughts went back to the interchange between the sheriff and Dr. Beverly, whose aim seemed to be making the sheriff think he was a poetry-sotted swain. But why? Did he know where this James Burwell was hiding? If he did, why would the town doctor, ordinarily one of the town’s most respectable citizens, try to fool the sheriff?

  And the assault of a woman? This town seemed worse by the minute.

  Then Dr. Beverly had surprised her by quoting Tennyson, though she wouldn’t for the world let him know she was impressed. No, she had no interest in the backwoods doctor. Although he was uncommonly handsome, with hair the color of well-sanded wood that curled perfectly against his forehead and temples, and the darkest blue eyes, which had looked so sad when he told her how sorry he was about her father’s death.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of him. But her hope, her future, was in Nashville. She would not marry anyone who would keep her in Bethel Springs.

  Celia focused her attention on her sister’s letter, the catalyst for her departure from Nashville. Lizzie’s pleading words were uncharacteristic of her calm and patient sister.

  She pressed her lips together to stop the tears that sprang to her eyes and stuffed the letter into her fringed silk purse, an item that seemed frivolous now that her family was practically destitute.

  Perhaps it was ungracious to criticize, even secretly, her father’s decision, but she still couldn’t understand him leaving all their friends, not to mention his livelihood at the university. She’d been helpless to talk him out of it. She just tried to be happy for him, happy that he was doing what he’d always dreamed of doing.