Magnolia Summer (Southern Seasons Book 1)

by Melanie Dickerson

  She tried to smile, but the weight of the banker’s words, his cold stare, and the fact that her father was dead—dead—and would never come back, stole her presence of mind. She had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “We’re all right. Everything is fine.” She didn’t believe her own words. Keeping her eyes down, she hurried forward and brushed past Truett to her horse. She let him help her mount. “Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to get the words out. Oh, how could she lose her composure in front of this man—again!

  She thanked God that he didn’t say anything else as she rode off. If he’d expressed any sort of sympathy, the tears that were damming behind her eyelids would have overflowed, humiliating her further.

  Truett watched her go, glad he had refrained from telling her there probably weren’t too many people anxious to move out to the country and try their hand at farming. Not terribly profitable in this day and time. Perhaps her father could have made a good living raising Thoroughbreds, but it would have taken several years. Years he wasn’t given.

  It was official. He’d lost the wager he had made with himself, since the apology on Sunday had been only a concession of his having helped her family. She still didn’t seem to have a very good opinion of him. Or maybe it was men in general that she didn’t like? She’d humbled him a bit and made him question his charm. But he didn’t hold it against her. As he’d reminded himself many times, he had nothing to offer her, and therefore he shouldn’t be trying to impress her anyway. There was a price on his head, and eventually, in such a small town, Sheriff Suggs would discover his secret. Then he’d be hard-pressed to keep the sheriff from killing him.

  Besides, he needed to be thinking about how he might be able to help James and Almira be together again.

  As for Celia, she’d said she could take care of herself and her family, and he hoped she really could. Because if she couldn’t, he knew her well enough already to know it would just about kill her. And there was something about her, her spirit and determination, that made him . . . if he was honest . . . admire her.

  Even if she was rather impolite.

  Celia rode slowly toward home, telling herself there had to be something she could do for money.

  Up ahead, someone squatted by the side of the road up, looking down at the ground. Slowly, he stood and strolled away, still staring at the grass. When he looked up, Celia recognized . . . Griff.

  Griff scowled when he saw her, then turned and hurried away into the trees that bordered the road.

  When Celia arrived home, Will helped her unsaddle and brush down Old Sallie.

  “Will, I just saw Griff. He was wandering around the side of the road, staring at the ground like he was looking for something.”

  Will grinned and nodded. “Yeah, he’s probably looking for the Glory Patch.”

  “The what?”

  “The Glory Patch. Everybody around here looks for the Glory Patch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A patch of ginseng so big it would make you rich for the rest of your life.”

  “Ginseng? Does that grow around here?” Celia had once read that ginseng was a plant ancient generations of Chinese people valued for its medicinal purposes.

  “Sure ‘nough. Grows wild in the coves and valleys around these hills. The man who lives in that swampy place below Truett’s land, near the creek, he found a few plants, just a few little roots, and sold them to Pettibone at the General Store for fifteen dollars.”

  Celia swallowed. Fifteen dollars was a lot of money, especially for a few roots.

  “Pettibone sells it to some people in Nashville who ship it overseas to China.”

  “Do you know what it looks like?” Celia should go with Will to hunt it. How many days would it take them to go over all the land they owned?

  “The leaves look just like Virginia Creeper, and it has little red berries that will start showing up in late summer. But the root’s what’s valuable. They look sorta like long white sweet potatoes. I’m looking for a Glory Patch too. I want us to be so rich we’ll never have to worry about money again. You could open your dress shop in Nashville, and we could stay here and hire someone to help Lizzie with the housework.”

  The Glory Patch sounded like a fairy tale. But if ginseng was that valuable and they could find some, they could afford to hire a live-in housekeeper, someone to take care of the cooking and the twins— and Mother, too—with just a small patch of ginseng. Then Will and Lizzie could go back to school and Celia could get back to Nashville. They wouldn’t have to find a Glory Patch. A small patch should do. See, God? I’m not greedy.

  Just desperate.

  Two days later, Celia woke up restless, the dawn just barely showing through the thin curtains. She’d awakened twice during the night from bad dreams. In one, a bad man was chasing her with a knife, telling her he was going to cut off her arms and legs. In the other, she was swimming under water, but when she tried to come up for air, something was holding her, keeping her head underwater. She was choking, slowly drowning, while she stared up at Lizzie and Will, who were talking and laughing on the bank just above her, oblivious to her distress. She awoke gasping for breath.

  Lizzie was already absent from the bed. Celia dressed quickly but didn’t fix her hair, leaving it braided loosely down her back.

  She helped Lizzie prepare breakfast while everyone else slept. Lizzie worked beside her, singing and humming. Her sister hadn’t been raised to be content in such a backwoods environment any more than Celia had. But somehow she was able to be joyful. Perhaps there was something wrong with Celia that she didn’t feel that same joy.

  When they all lived together in Nashville, Lizzie had preferred socializing over anything else. While Celia was in the house making patterns and sewing, Lizzie was in the front yard playing with dolls, having pretend tea parties with her friends, and playing hide and seek. But Celia had always felt driven to succeed at the business she had chosen. It wasn’t only that she enjoyed sewing and creating dresses—she wanted to build a successful business. And there was no possibility of doing that in tiny Bethel Springs.

  Why was that? Was it because she wanted to prove she didn’t need a man? Or did she just want to prove she wasn’t going to turn out like her mother?

  “Celia?”

  She was staring at the white biscuit dough instead of rolling it out. “Sorry, Lizzie.” She picked up the rolling pin and applied it to the ball of dough.

  She would achieve her dreams. Although, seeing herself in Bethel Springs, her arms covered halfway to her elbows with flour, it was a little harder to believe.

  She needed some time with her dress pattern catalogs and Godey’s Ladies Books. She’d brought about two dozen with her when she came here, thinking she’d only be separated from the rest of them until she could get back to Nashville—by September at the very latest. But would she be able to get back by then? Even if they could sell the farm, would they have the money in time? It was already near the end of June.

  Celia used a tin can, which had been sawed in half for the purpose, to cut the biscuits into perfect round circles. She placed them on the pan, then opened the oven door. As she shoved them inside, her finger touched the hot oven rack. She jerked her hand back and slammed the door.

  Celia blew on her finger.

  “You burned yourself!” Lizzie grabbed her hand and dunked it into the bucket of water in the sink.

  Celia pulled her hand out of the water and stared. Her nails were chipped and uneven. Her fingertips were stained purple and brown from shelling the black-eyed, purple-hull peas, and now she had a red burn on her right index finger. And it still throbbed and burned.

  She checked the wood box. It was almost empty. Looking out the kitchen window, she saw the wood pile was getting small as well. It was stacked only as high as her waist. Where was Will? Wasn’t it his responsibility to keep them supplied with wood for the stove?

  She called down the hallway. “Will!”


  “He went back to bed after his morning chores.”

  “Well, it’s time he woke up.” She hollered toward the boys’ bedroom. “Will!”

  Will stumbled down the hallway and into the kitchen, his shirt and trousers rumpled. “What? I already milked the cow and fed the horses.”

  “We need firewood.” Celia blew on her finger, wishing she had something cold to put on it.

  “I have some I’ve been needing to split.”

  “What are you waiting for? The sun’s already up.”

  “All right, sis. Don’t get in such a’ all-fired hurry. Here in the country, we like to take things slooowww.” Will snickered as he pushed open the back door and let it slam behind him.

  He thought he was so funny, teasing her with that exaggerated drawl and colloquialisms. She sighed and started cleaning up her floury mess.

  Lizzie said softly, “You could have let him wait until after breakfast.”

  Celia didn’t reply, but the gentle rebuke made her stomach twist. Still, Will was the one who supposedly liked it here. He should know that people on a farm couldn’t sleep late. There was too much work to be done.

  Will split wood while Lizzie stirred the gravy in the pan on the stove and Celia set the table. Soon it was ready, and Celia called him to come eat. He ate a quick breakfast of biscuits and sausage gravy, then went straight out to split more wood.

  Celia was washing dishes at the dishpan in front of the window. She glanced out just in time to see Will bring the ax down from over his shoulder toward the block of wood standing on its end. But his angle was off. The ax glanced off the wood and struck Will in the leg.

  Celia stared, expecting to blink and wake up.

  Will held his leg and turned toward the house. Dark liquid soaked his pants in an ever-widening circle, the red seeping between his fingers.

  “Will’s hurt.” Celia lost her breath, her face beginning to tingle.

  “What?”

  Celia grabbed two clean towels out of the basket by the kitchen table and ran out the door. Lizzie was right behind her.

  Will stood holding his leg. “Will, sit down.” Celia grabbed his leg and held it up, forcing him onto the ground. She pulled his pant leg up to get a better look at the wound. It was pouring blood, dripping through her fingers and onto the ground. She wrapped one towel tightly around it and then tied the other towel over it to keep it snug.

  Will moaned and gasped.

  Everything began to spin. Oh, God, help me! “Dr. Beverly. I’ll go get him.”

  “He’ll already be at his office.” Will spoke through clenched teeth. “He gets there at 6:30.”

  Celia’s head pounded. She needed to get Will to Dr. Beverly’s office. Did she know how to hitch the horses up to the wagon? Will needed to get to Dr. Beverly as soon as possible. “Keep up the pressure to stop the bleeding, Lizzie, and I’ll get the wagon.”

  Celia ran to the barn and led two horses out to the wagon.

  Someone was coming up the lane. Ruby Pritchard, her brother, and her grandmother. But at that very moment, Harley and Tempie bounded out of the house toward Will and Lizzie. When Tempie saw the bloody towels around Will leg, she screamed—not once, but over and over. Harley added to the confusion by yelling, “How’d you do it, Will?”

  Ruby’s brother, who was a couple of years older than Will, ran over to help Celia hitch up the horses. Tears of gratefulness pricked Celia’s eyes as he quickly did the job that would have taken her so much longer. Thank you, God.

  With Nathan’s help, Celia picked Will up and placed him on a quilt in the wagon bed. She turned to Ruby. “Can you watch Harley and Tempie while we take Will to the doctor?”

  “Of course. We’ll take good care of the little rapscallions.”

  Ruby’s grandmother called, “You just take Nathan here with you to Doc Beverly’s, if you need him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard. We’ll manage.” Celia climbed onto the seat and took the reins while Lizzie scrambled into the back with Will, holding a fresh towel.

  Not wanting to jar Will around too much, Celia set out at an easy but steady speed. Every moment her brain screamed at her that they needed to hurry, but when she turned to look at him, his face was so pale and tight with pain, she forced herself to keep the horses at their slower pace.

  It seemed to be taking so long to get there, she began to wonder if the town were moving away from them. Every muscle in her limbs was tense, as if straining to get there faster. Finally, they rounded the bend that brought the town’s main street in view. She shuddered with relief and glanced back at Will. “We’re here. How are you holding out, Will?” Her breath hitched in her throat at his quivery attempt at a smile.

  “Not too bad, sis.”

  “Are you sure? Because you look . . . scary.” The light-headed feeling was back. Oh, God, take care of my brother. I couldn’t bear it if he lost his leg.

  Celia pulled the wagon up in front of Truett’s office. She jumped down from the wagon and ran toward it. Truett was already coming out to her.

  The relief of seeing him there, looking so strong and capable, made the air rush back into her lungs. “Will’s hurt. He’s in the wagon.”

  Truett was striding to the wagon before she could blink. He jumped onto the spokes of the wheel and reached over the side. He hefted Will out and carried him past Celia as she held the door open.

  “What happened?” Truett laid Will on the table, which was covered with a white sheet, in the small examination room.

  Lizzie sat down in one of the chairs along the wall. Celia hovered beside Will.

  “He was splitting wood and the ax came down on his leg.”

  Truett removed the towels around Will’s leg.

  “We were trying to stop the bleeding.” Celia was unable to take her eyes off what Dr. Beverly was doing, even though the blood-soaked towels and trousers made her stomach turn over sickeningly. It was Will’s blood, blood that he spilled obeying her grouchy order to split wood.

  “You did well. It looks like the bleeding has stopped.” The doctor leaned closer to the wound.

  Celia leaned away, her face beginning to tingle again.

  What was wrong with her? She wasn’t one of those silly girls who fainted at every little thing. She’d never fainted in her life, and she didn’t plan to start now. But she wasn’t sure how to get rid of this strange feeling. She tried taking a deep breath, but that seemed to make it worse.

  She had to be here for Will. She took his hand from where it lay beside him on the table. He squeezed slightly. He was half-sitting, propped on his elbows, staring at Dr. Beverly as he gently probed the wound. Celia wondered how either of them could stand the sight of the ghastly open flesh and fresh blood.

  Oh, God, why did I send Will to split wood this morning? This never would have happened if she hadn’t been in such an irritable humor. Why did she always have to be so grumpy and irritable in Bethel Springs? Will never complained, never sulked, never refused to do what she asked. What if his leg got infected, turned gangrenous, and had to be amputated?

  Celia tried to keep her eyes off the wound, but they were drawn like moths to a candle. Poor Will. You didn’t deserve this.

  Celia’s vision began to cloud and then spin. The room grew hazy. “I think I better sit down.” She let go of Will’s hand and concentrated. I will not faint. I will not faint.

  Through her clouded vision, she saw Dr. Beverly looking at her. Don’t look at me. Take care of Will . . . Oh, God, don’t let me faint. It would be too humiliating. But the dark edges closed in on her. She felt herself being lifted, and then she didn’t feel anything.

  Chapter 9

  Truett felt around, making sure the bone wasn’t chipped or broken. Then he noticed the weak sound of Celia’s voice. He glanced up from Will’s wound.

  Celia was pale as a ghost. She’s going to faint.

  Truett stepped toward her just as her body started crumpling, reaching her just in time to catch her and lifted
her into his arms.

  Her eyes were closed, but though all the color had drained from her face, she was still beautiful. She fit perfectly in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder.

  He wouldn’t have pegged Celia Wilcox, of all people, as a swooner, but she had fainted at the sight of Will’s bloody leg.

  “Celia? Oh my! Is she all right?” Lizzie peered over his arm at her.

  “She’ll be fine. I’ll just lay her down in the other room.”

  Lizzie stayed beside Will while Truett carried Celia into the back room, where he kept a couple of cots. He wished he could just hold her, cradling her against his chest for a few moments. This exasperating, high-strung woman did strange things to him, and he didn’t know why. She was more fascinating than other woman he’d ever known. He’d called on a few back in New York, and escorted some to parties or dances, but they always either disappointed or bored him after a while. But Celia . . . she was different.

  His conscience smote him. It was surely wrong to feel this warmth that was seeping all through him like hot molasses.

  Besides, he had to get back to Will.

  Carefully, he lowered her to the cot and slipped his arms from underneath her. She stayed completely still. Her hair had come loose from her braid. He reached down and smoothed it back, brushing several strands off her cheek. She looked so pale. He checked her pulse. It was steady.

  He had to close Will’s wound. Celia had only fainted and would be fine, he reassured himself. He’d come back in a few minutes to check on her.

  Celia opened her eyes and glanced around the strange room. She could remember standing beside Will, watching Truett . . .

  Think, think. The last thing she remembered was everything going black and the feeling of someone lifting her.

  Her stomach dipped. “I fainted.” How humiliating!

  “Celia? Are you all right?”

  “Lizzie?” Yes, Lizzie. In the doorway. With Truett.