Magnolia Summer (Southern Seasons Book 1)

by Melanie Dickerson

  She forgot about pretending not to care. “It is quite late.”

  He sighed as he approached, then sank down in the wooden chair beside her. “I’m a lot later than I intended. If you’re tired and want me to leave, I understand.”

  Celia said nothing, only stared at him. Something was bothering her besides his lateness. He kept his head down so that his hat cast too much of a shadow for her to see his eyes. Light from the lantern was flooding the porch from the window over her shoulder, but he didn’t turn in her direction, so she couldn’t see his expression.

  A sudden thought made her stomach clench. What if he was acting aloof because he regretted what he’d said to her last night, the part about wanting her to marry him? He might try to take it back.

  But Celia didn’t want him to think she held him to it. In fact, she too wished he hadn’t said it. His little proposal had sent her into a pit of panic and confusion she hadn’t climbed out of yet.

  But perhaps she shouldn’t let him get off that easily. “You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

  “Is Almira here?”

  “Yes. How did you know? She’s asleep in my room.”

  “I drove her here. Thanks for letting her stay.”

  “She’s welcome as long as she needs a place.”

  “It could mean trouble for you if her father finds out she’s here.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.” It was true, she wasn’t—not afraid for herself, anyway.

  “Did Almira tell you what happened this morning?” The hesitation in his voice raised prickles of alarm on the back of her neck.

  “What do you mean? She only said that her father found out she was with child, that she was afraid he would do something terrible to her, so she ran away.”

  Truett nodded several times.

  “What’s going on, Truett? Why aren’t you looking at me?”

  “I am looking at you.”

  Celia darted her hand toward him and snatched off his hat before he could react. The light from the windows behind them streamed over the side of his face.

  Celia emitted an involuntary squeak. Truett’s eye was black and blue. The eyelid was swollen half-shut, and his cheekbone was purple.

  “What happened?” Her voice sounded strangled as she choked on the lump in her throat. She reached toward his face but didn’t touch him. Even a light touch would probably cause him pain.

  “It’s nothing. Just a bruise.”

  He shrank into the shadows so she couldn’t see it anymore. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward her, into the light. “I want to see it.”

  “No.” He pulled back.

  “Let me see it!” She jumped up and grabbed him by both arms. She tugged, trying to pull him out of his chair. She couldn’t even budge him, but he sighed, hung his head, and stood up.

  Taking hold of his chin, she turned his head toward the light.

  “Someone hit you.” She leaned closer. “Have you been fighting?”

  “Uh, not exactly.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  Celia realized she was standing closer to him than propriety allowed. Not to mention that they were alone together, late at night. If anyone caught them, her reputation would be ruined.

  “Please tell me. Why can’t you tell me?” She couldn’t disguise the anxiety and anger in her voice. Why was he keeping a secret from her?

  He stared down at his feet. “Telling you serves no good purpose. It doesn’t matter what happened.”

  “It matters to me. Tell me.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She grabbed his upper arms. He didn’t budge.

  “Tell me.” She ground out the words between clenched teeth.

  He leaned his head back and let his eyes roll back in his head. Then he sighed. Again. He finally looked her in the eye and took hold of her, so that they were both holding each other’s arms.

  “I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to cry or fly into hysterics.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she never “flew into hysterics.” But she bit back those words and said, “I promise.”

  He sighed again.

  “Would you stop doing that?” All that sighing was fraying her already-shredded nerves.

  His throat convulsed as he swallowed. “Everything is all right. Don’t worry. But Sheriff Suggs came—”

  Celia sucked in a breath so loud it sounded like she was inhaling a cricket. “Sheriff Suggs?”

  Truett frowned and lowered his eyebrows at her. “Now, Celia, you promised.” He squeezed her arms tighter.

  It was Celia’s turn to swallow hard. “All right. Go on.”

  “He brought Almira to me and wanted me to end her baby’s life. I told him I wouldn’t do it. He got angry and hit me. That’s it.”

  “Oh, Truett.” She was breathless and a little dizzy. “That horrid man! He’s evil. But you poor, poor thing.” She stared at the result of the violence inflicted on his face. She pictured Suggs’ fist slamming into his eye.

  “I think I better sit down.”

  Truett helped her back into her chair. “Breathe. It’s all right. Just breathe.”

  Celia kept her head down and tried to comply. Breathing. In and out. She began to feel less light-headed. Truett said everything was all right, so maybe it was. Her head stopped spinning and she began to breathe more normally.

  She looked up. “You didn’t hit him back, did you?” Please, God, let him not have hit him back!

  “No, I didn’t hit him back.”

  “Oh, thank you, Truett.” But the sheriff would hate Truett now. How long would it take him to figure out that Truett was the hooded horseman?

  Chapter 22

  Truett squatted in front of her and held her hands. His heart turned to mush in his chest as he gazed at her. Tears glistened in her eyes as she focused on his bruise again.

  “Now, Celia, you promised not to cry.”

  “Who’s crying?” She smoothed her expression. “I’m not crying.” She reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “It’s a really ugly bruise, isn’t it?” Truett said.

  Her eyes were filled with anguish. He might as well take advantage of the situation.

  “I think if you kiss it, it will make it feel better.”

  She stared at his battered eye. Instead of scolding him for saying such a thing, she slowly took his face in her hands and leaned forward. Her breath grazed his cheek in a way that made him ache to hold her and kiss her. But he held his breath to see what she would do next.

  She brushed her soft lips against his bruised cheekbone. The spot tingled somewhere between pain and pleasure. Then she pulled his head down an inch lower and brushed her lips over his eyelid.

  His heart pounded as her warm lips caressed the corner of his eye.

  He opened his eyes just enough to see the halo of light around her head. He could barely make out her features, but her eyes were closed. He leaned forward and kissed her, as if continuing the kiss he had started the night before.

  His heart soared. This was going better than he’d imagined. No, wait. He still had to ask her to marry him. What happened to his promise to himself not to kiss her until after he proposed?

  With great reluctance, he forced himself to end the kiss and back away from her. He cleared his throat, rose, and retrieved his hat from the porch where she had tossed it. He sat down beside her again. When he looked up at her, she was pressing her hands against her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  He was pretty sure she was talking about kissing him, not tossing his hat.

  “I didn’t mind.” Truett felt the goofy grin spreading across his face. “It was very nice.” He stared down at his hat. Now how was this supposed to go again? Oh, yeah.

  He turned to Celia, then sank to his knees in front of her. He placed one hand over his heart while he gra
bbed her hand.

  “Celia, I love you. You are the most beautiful, intelligent, delightful woman I’ve ever met. God said, ‘It is not good for a man to be alone,’ and since I’ve met you, I most emphatically agree with Him. You would make me the happiest man in the world if you would say yes to my proposal of marriage. Celia Wilcox, will you marry me?”

  Celia couldn’t speak for a moment, but then her spine stiffened. “You talk of your happiness. What about mine?”

  Truett blinked three times in quick succession. “P-pardon?”

  “You just got hurt by a crazy, mean sheriff. The same sheriff who wants to kill you. Now he knows for sure that you’re an enemy. How long before he realizes you’re the hooded horseman? And what happens to you then? What happens to me?”

  He pursed his lips and sat back on his heels.

  “I have dreams and goals and plans. No man wants a wife with such ambitions!” She stood, paced three steps away and back. “I never should have kissed you. I still can’t believe I did it—this was the third time! It isn’t like me.” She realized her voice was rising and she forced it back down to a hoarse whisper. “I’ve always been self-controlled. But when I’m around you, I lose my mind!” She thrust her finger at him. “And don’t you dare smile, Truett Beverly. I never should have danced with you. That’s how it all started. You made me forget how much I want to get away from here and get back to Nashville.”

  “But Celia.” He leaned forward and took hold of her hands again, holding them tight so she couldn’t pull away. “I wouldn’t keep you from your goals and ambitions. We’ll go to Nashville, if that’s what you want.”

  He knew it wasn’t that easy. Their families needed them here. Thoughts were churning so fast through her mind she could barely lay hold to one. “And what about those wanted posters? What happens when it all catches up to you and the sheriff hangs you?” She was getting hysterical again. “How can you even ask me—”

  “Celia, please. We can figure out a way. And if we go away from here, Suggs will not be able to capture me.”

  “But your family, your mother, and Griff. I couldn’t ask you to leave them.”

  He let go of her hands and rubbed a hand across his face. He knew she was right. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want to be right.

  “Somehow things would work out.” His voice sounded sad, but he didn’t look up at her. He looked so vulnerable, with his bruised face and his hair falling down over his forehead. She longed to brush it back and kiss him again and make him forget what she had just said. Her gaze unintentionally settled on his perfect lips.

  No, no more kissing.

  He’d just asked her to marry him. Marry. The very word filled her with terror.

  Truett’s voice was quiet and contrite. “I guess you’re right after all. A man whose life is in as much doubt as mine has no right to think of marriage. Forgive me.” Then he stood and strode off the porch. His boots barely skimmed the steps on his way to his horse. He mounted and started down the lane, away from her.

  Celia sank weakly into her rocking chair. “Oh, Truett, I’m sorry,” she whispered, too softly for him to hear.

  Maybe it was for the best. But she felt sick inside, miserable and confused as he rode away. Would she ever feel normal again, content and at peace, sure of her future, as she had before Father died?

  Oh, God, please save Truett from Sheriff Suggs. And help me not to kiss him again until then.

  Not that Truett would ever kiss her now anyway.

  Why didn’t I kiss her?

  Truett arrived at his office the next morning as the sun began to peek through the trees. He sat his desk, still mad at himself for leaving Celia the way he had the night before, and prepared to write a letter to his father.

  He shouldn’t have let himself get upset, but her reaction had nettled him. Before he proposed to her, the thought had been nagging him that he didn’t actually have the right to ask her to marry him. With Sheriff Suggs breathing down his neck, his life was practically forfeit. And it was true that his family needed him to stay in Bethel Springs. But he had pushed those thoughts away because he wanted her so much, wanted Celia in his arms and in his life. So when she threw his own fear up in his face instead of happily saying yes to his marriage proposal, he’d let himself get so frustrated that he just left.

  He’d imagined her accepting him willingly, coming into his arms and kissing him, but it had all turned out so differently. What had he done wrong? If he’d simply pulled her into his arms and kissed her, instead of letting her anger get to him, the night might not have ended disastrously.

  Truthfully, though, she was right. She deserved actual assurance that he wasn’t going to be killed, and the only way he could give her that was to deal with Sheriff Suggs according to the law, as he should have to start with. He hadn’t.

  But he would now.

  First, the letter to his father. Next, he would write to Madison County Probate Judge William Richardson, a friend of his father’s in Huntsville.

  In the meantime, Truett would give Celia space. She was a high-strung girl who undoubtedly hated letting anyone see her get upset—and he seemed to make her upset every time he was around. He would leave her alone, even though it would be painful to do so, until he was able to deal with Suggs once and for all.

  Sunday dawned clear and hot, promising to be as miserable as Celia felt inside. Several days had passed since the ill-fated proposal, and Celia hadn’t seen Truett once. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or devastated.

  Afraid of encountering her father, Almira didn’t accompany them to church. Celia felt her friend’s absence, even as she tried to stay calm about seeing Truett again.

  Lord, why am I so nervous? She could hardly wait to see him, and yet she had no idea what to say to him when she did. She wished she could stay away from him, but at the same time, she longed to look into his eyes and see that he forgave her and didn’t hate her.

  Celia didn’t intend to tell Truett, but she and Almira had written a letter to a judge in Huntsville. The horrible bruise on Truett’s face, and the thought of what Suggs wanted to do to Almira and her baby, had fueled her determination to do something to break the evil man’s hold over the whole community. She’d gotten the judge’s name from Truett’s mother when she’d come for a visit the day after Truett’s proposal, putting a hypothetical question to Mrs. Beverly about any powerful leaders she knew in Madison County. Not knowing if it would even get a response, she’d written the judge, outlining the sheriff’s crimes, and begged him to at least begin some sort of investigation into the corrupt sheriff.

  After arriving at church, Celia barely caught a glimpse of Truett before she sat down with her brothers and sisters. She tried not to stare at the back of his head, but her gaze was drawn to him over and over. She wished she could see his bruise, if it looked better than it had the last time she had seen him, but he never turned his head.

  Nothing of note happened during the preacher’s usual sermon, except that he coughed several times and looked rather pale. He must have come down with a summer cold.

  When the service was over, she watched as Truett put away his hymnal, tucked his Bible under his arm, and made his way quickly down the aisle. She hoped to catch his eye and give him a smile, but he never looked her way.

  She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to see her or talk to her after she threw his marriage proposal back in his face. And that hadn’t been the first time she’d rejected him. He’d probably never trust her again, which must be for the best. She’d prayed so much lately about whether God wanted her to stay away from him and pursue her goals, or if He wanted her to let herself make Truett Beverly “the happiest man in the world.” The idea still didn’t sit well with her, which must prove—if she needed proof—that she wasn’t ready for marriage.

  But neither was she able to move her family back to Nashville and pursue her business dreams. She hadn’t received any reasonable offers to buy their farm. As she exited
the church, Celia wanted nothing so much as to hide herself away somewhere to have a good cry—another thing she never used to do.

  How had life become so demoralizing?

  The next day, Celia and Almira sat on the porch peeling the ripe tomatoes over two big pots. They would cook them and then seal them in jars for the coming winter. It was a monotonous task and Celia was glad to have a companion for conversation.

  “Almira,” she said, speaking slowly. It was too hot to do anything quickly, even talking. “I’m surprised your father hasn’t come looking for you. Doesn’t he know we’re friends?”

  “No.” Almira shook her head. “I didn’t talk to my father much.” She stared at the tomato she was peeling. “He changed after Mama died. It was as if he didn’t feel he had to be kind, or even civil anymore. He holds a grudge against all black people—and against Truett and his family, too.”

  “Truett’s family? Why?”

  “His father was the overseer for Truett’s grandfather’s plantation, but according to my father, Truett’s grandfather fired him for no reason and hired a Negro to take his place. Truett says his grandfather caught my grandfather beating the slaves and fired him.” Almira sighed. “Truett’s story is probably the true one.”

  Almira frowned and let the peeled tomato drop into the pot before picking up another. “My father was never very loving, and after Mama died, he ignored me. I took to following James around. He was so interested in every living thing. He knew which plants were good to eat and how to grow taller cotton plants, which kinds of bugs were beneficial for crops, and which were bad. He got everybody to eat collard greens and watercress and even wrote an article about it that was printed in the Farmer’s Almanac. He knew a lot of the poor folks around here don’t get much meat, and he said these greens would keep them strong.”

  “Oh! I read something about that in the Nashville newspaper. I had forgotten his name and hadn’t realized that was James. He is something a science genius and only came back to Bethel Springs because he wanted to help his community. I remember the thing about the native plants he convinced everyone to eat.” Quite impressive.