Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

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  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Willow Springs

  Copyright © 2007 by Jan Watson. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of models copyright © 2006 by Brian MacDonald. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of country house copyright © 2006 by Franz Aberham/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Author photo copyright © 2005 by Brenda Metzler/ Hart Studios. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jessie McGrath

  Edited by Lorie Popp

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Watson, Jan.

  Willow Springs / Jan Watson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-1472-3 (pbk.)

  1. Rural women—Fiction. 2. Wives—Fiction. 3. Lexington (Ky.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A8724W55 2007

  813′.6—dc222006039083

  Build: 2017-04-07 14:59:00

  For Charles and Catherine Prather Watson

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  He spoke the wondrous word, and lo,

  Creation rose at His command:

  Whirlwinds and seas their limits know,

  Bound in the hollow of His hand.

  —FROM THE BAPTIST HYMNAL, 1875

  My humble gratitude to:

  Jerry B. Jenkins, the Christian Writers Guild, and Tyndale House Publishers for opening the whirlwind of publishing to me.

  Lorie Popp, my editor, and Jan Stob of Tyndale for caring so much about the rest of the story.

  Mark Sweeney, my agent, for your belief in me.

  Terry Taylor, my first reader: you have an editor’s eye.

  Grass Roots Writers, my wonderful and talented compatriots.

  Special friends: You’ve carried books, arranged signings, chauffeured, repaired my house, provided nourishment for my body as well as my soul, and even walked the dog. You kept me bound in the hollow of His hand.

  Ed Maxwell, MD: You steered Drew and me through yet another storm. I could not give myself to writing if I did not know my son was safe.

  The staff of Oakwood Residential Facility in Somerset, Kentucky—my heroes and Drew’s friends at his home away from home.

  My children—Charles, Catherine, Andrew, and Stephen: you are my richest blessing.

  Maggie, who keeps everything in perspective and reminds me that life’s about chasing sunbeams.

  My readers: I love and appreciate you.

  And to my own angel. Honey, this is all for you. I’ll see you on the other side.

  1883

  With each turn of the buggy’s wheels, each jaw-jarring rut in the well-traveled road, Copper Brown Corbett felt more alone. She wished she could rewind the clock, take back the day, and return to Troublesome Creek. Why was she here? Who was the stranger beside her? She’d never known a man who wore a piece of silk knotted at his throat like a notice saying who he was, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Why didn’t Simon take off his coat and roll up his sleeves?

  This was all a mistake. She never should have married him.

  The early summer sun beat down on the rolling carriage. Taking off her hat, a silly concoction of feathers and lace, she fanned herself with its brim. Perspiration soaked her hair at the temples. If she were home, she’d run to the creek, and if Mam wasn’t watching, she’d shuck her dress and jump in for a swim. It would be so cool there where the willows wept upon the bank.

  The sway of the buggy lulled her. She leaned back and propped her unshod feet on the old dog who snored on the buggy’s floor.

  Clip-clop. Clip-clop . . . The horse’s hooves pounded on the packed-dirt trail. Click-click-click . . . A stick announced its presence, trapped in the spoke of a wheel. Sunlight sparkled through a canopy of leaves as the buggy entered a shaded tunnel of towering beeches, oaks, and maples. Copper’s hat dropped to her lap. Resting her head against the leather seat, she dreamed of home. . . .

  Compared to the other houses up and down the holler, the cabin on Troublesome Creek was spacious with its big front room and two tacked-on bedrooms. Copper Brown’s great-grandparents had first homesteaded on the creek. There had still been a few marauding Indian bands about when her grandfather built the sturdy cabin, but most of the uprising was over, settled by Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton and their ilk many years before. They’d had more trouble from bears and wolves than from scalp hunters.

  Copper could see her family—Daddy with his bushy white beard; Mam, shoulders squared, her hair pulled back in a bun; and the twins, Daniel and Willy, teasing each other, causing no end of trouble—sitting around the round oak table for supper. They’d all clasp hands, and Daddy would say grace. But there was no plate set for her. She wouldn’t have a piece of the crispy-brown fried rabbit. Her chair sat empty and forlorn, pushed back behind the door.

  The dream of supper made Copper’s stomach growl. She cast a sideways look at her husband and hoped he hadn’t heard the indelicate sound. Sitting up straight, she gazed ahead; then disbelieving what she saw, she got on her knees to look out the back. The mountains—her mountains—were behind her now. Way in the background she could see their proud silhouettes, like the humps of kneeling camels, a shadow land fading from view. The horse pulled the carriage up puny knobs and across fields as flat as a skipping rock.

  Panic seized her heart in a moment of wild fear. “Stop! Let me off.”

  Simon Corbett turned his head at the sound of Laura Grace’s voice. “What is it? I thought you were sleeping.” He reined in the horse, glad for a moment’s rest, and reached for the hand of his seventeen-year-old bride.

  Ignoring the offer, she jumped down from the buggy without his help. He watched as she hitched up her long skirts and ran back the way they had come.

  She didn’t run far, and he caught up with her easily enough. “Laura Grace?”

  She flinched at the touch of his hand but more so at the name he used. Her name was Copper. Copper Brown. Nobody but Mam ever called her Laura Grace and that too often in reprimand.

  She looked toward the mountains. A fool could see their colors ebbing, the trees bunching up, the rock faces wavering, running together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. A spurt of hot tears stung her eyes.
<
br />   “You never told me this would happen, Simon,” she sobbed. “You didn’t tell me the mountains would disappear.”

  Resting his hand on her shoulder, he said, “Oh, sweetheart, I never thought you wouldn’t know.”

  “How was I supposed to know they’d be all ironed out flat like this?” Her voice hitched. “How do you catch your breath when there’s nothing to hold things in place?”

  He took her arm and turned her toward him. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

  Stubbornly she tucked her chin.

  He raised her head. “Breathe!”

  Her breath was ragged and painful when it hit her lungs.

  “Deeper,” he insisted, his fingertips pressing into her soft flesh. “There, that’s better. Now keep your eyes closed and tell me what you smell.”

  “Trees and grass,” she murmured, “and, oh, there’s lavender and day’s-eye blossoms.” Her eyes popped open. “Wet moss and rocks. There’s a creek nearby!” Comforted, she leaned her face against his chest.

  “The air you breathe is the same everywhere,” Simon said. “It’s a gift from God that goes wherever you go. All you have to do is close your eyes, and He will send the mountains back to you.”

  Copper took in the fresh, starched-linen scent of him, relished the strength in his embrace, felt the tickle of his mustache against her cheek, and remembered, with a rush of feeling, why she’d left her dear mountain home, why she’d married this stranger. Oh, the heart was a treacherous thing.

  Stretching up, she kissed his cheek, then danced away. “We’ve got to find that creek.”

  “I’ll unhitch the horse,” he replied. “We can use a break.”

  “Oh, look!” She laughed and pointed at the gray-muzzled hound loping toward them on three legs. Her black high-tops dangled from his mouth.

  “Paw-paw, you silly old thing. Thank you.” She knelt to retrieve her shoes and patted his head. “Come on, boy. Let’s go get a drink.”

  “Can’t we stay here tonight, Simon?” Laura Grace asked from her perch on the bank of the gently flowing stream.

  Simon Corbett looked at his young bride. Her discarded hose lay beside her, and she splashed water with her naked feet. He was mesmerized. Had there ever been an ankle more perfectly formed? An arch in a foot so exquisite?

  “Harrumph.” He cleared his throat, then took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the corner of a spotless handkerchief. “I had thought to have our supper at the Wayside Inn, where we will trade out the horse, Laura Grace. I’ve secured a room there for the night.”

  “This is ever so much better. Don’t you reckon?” The eyes that looked up at him were the same curious silver green as the underside of the leaves that shaded her there. “We have that picnic Mam packed,” she pleaded. “There’s sure to be pickled eggs and fried chicken and cake. Makes me hungry just to think on it.”

  Inwardly Simon groaned as he hooked his wire-rimmed eyeglasses behind his ears. He’d looked forward to this night. He’d arranged for a spacious room with clean linens and a bouquet of fresh flowers picked from the innkeeper’s garden for his bride. Time enough, he cautioned himself. Time enough when we get home.

  With a sigh, he gave in. “Of course we shall stay here if that pleases you, my dear. I’ll fetch the basket.”

  The young couple spent their wedding night on a creek bank somewhere between her home in the serene mountains of eastern Kentucky and his in the bustling city of Lexington.

  The groom was happy. So happy, even though he had to share his bride with the raggedy hound who slept at her feet, twitching the night through in his old dog way, chasing rabbits in his dreams . . . aggravating Simon’s sleep, but he didn’t mind, really. He was content to finally hold Laura Grace as she slept, his nose buried in her glorious red hair.

  The folded quilt the bride slept upon did nothing to protect her from a maze of disquieting dreams of rushing water and endless hallways leading to countless doors, none of which opened for her.

  And much farther up the road, Alice Corbett Upchurch couldn’t sleep at all. She threw back her covers and eased out into the hallway. Bending her ear to her husband’s bedroom door, she was rewarded by seesawing snores.

  “Why can drunkards sleep when I cannot?” she muttered. But all the same, she was glad for his slumber. It gave her a measure of peace. Tugging the sleeve of her dressing gown over the ugly place on her wrist, she tiptoed down the winding staircase and into the kitchen.

  All she wanted was a cup of tea; no need to wake Cook. But where was the tea? Where was the tea ball? Why had Cook moved the everyday spoons? She rummaged through drawers and cabinets. At least the stove still gave off heat, and the kettle held hot water.

  “Ma’am?” She heard Joseph’s soft drawl. “Will you be taking tea in the dining room?”

  The butler soon had her seated at one end of a long table, a tea service before her, one cup already poured.

  “Will you want anything else?”

  A question formed on Alice’s lips, but it wouldn’t do to have a conversation with a servant. “No, thank you, Joseph.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. Does the man ever sleep?

  She drummed her fingers against the gleaming cherrywood tabletop. Portraits of her husband’s ancestors—all round-headed, bald men with ears that stuck out like sprung screen doors—looked down on her from their lofty positions on the dining room walls.

  She couldn’t believe Simon was doing this to her. He’d thought she would accompany him to his sham of a wedding. Humph, Mrs. Benton Upchurch consorting with backward hill people? She thought not. She had a reputation to uphold; Benton was the president of the bank after all. And what of her plans for her brother?

  Well, we shall see. All I have to do is show Simon what a monumental mistake he has made. It shouldn’t take long.

  Taking herself to the library, Alice retrieved a sleeve of onionskin, her favorite tortoiseshell pen, and a small bottle of black ink from the lady’s desk. She returned to the dining room, turned up the gaslight, sat down, and began to write. The words flowed as she scripted the menu for a special dinner party. Everything would be just so: flowers, candlelight, several courses of food, and invitations to all the best people in town. Laura Grace Brown—Alice refused to acknowledge the Corbett—wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Copper snuggled between soft sheets and wondered why Mam was allowing her to laze about, this being a Monday, washday and all.

  “I’d best get stirring before Willy and Daniel come drag me out,” she said before she remembered that she was no longer in the cabin on Troublesome Creek. She was alone in someone else’s bed, a stranger in a strange place.

  She tried to remember how she’d got here the night before, after two and a half arduous days of travel over roads so rough she was quite sure she would never sit again. Exhaustion overtook her several miles from the city, and she had fallen asleep, her head resting on Simon’s shoulder. Vaguely she recollected being carried up the stairs and Simon’s murmuring reassurance. She recalled a melodious feminine voice and gentle hands pulling a nightgown over her head, then darkness and blessed rest.

  The scent of woodsmoke and the wisp of a hymn sung sweet and low drifted in through an open window and piqued her curiosity. Padding barefoot across the carpeted floor, she peered down into the backyard. A tall, thin woman, with skin as silky brown as earth turned over with a spade, stirred a pile of whites into bubbling wash water. She must be the housekeeper Simon had told her about. Sheets and pillowcases, already hung to dry, flapped in the early morning breeze.

  “Why did nobody wake me?” Copper called to the empty room, unsure whether to make her bed or rush out to help with the wash before she wasted any more time. Her cheeks stung with embarrassment as she frantically searched about.

  “Oh, land sakes. Where’s the necessary?” She peeked under the four-poster, then looked about the room. An ornate dresser with a three-sided mirror sat in front of an armless stool with a needle
point-cushioned seat. She rose to examine what seemed like half a dozen cut-glass vanity pots on top of the dresser. A note addressed to a Mrs. Corbett—wasn’t Simon’s mother dead?—leaned against a sterling silver posy holder filled with fragrant pink rosebuds and tiny violets. Slipping the note from the cream-colored envelope, she read:

  My darling wife, you are so beautiful in sleep. I couldn’t bear to wake you. I will see you midday. Searcy will tend to your needs.

  I love you, my own.

  Yours,

  Simon

  Copper laughed at herself. She was Mrs. Corbett! She pressed a kiss upon the note before she continued her search. There were three doors in the room. She tried the first and saw a hallway leading to a staircase. The second opened into a dressing room, where she glimpsed her clothing hanging from padded hangers. Her dressing gown was draped across a fainting couch.

  Fainting is not what I’m about to do, she thought as she opened the last door and found, of all things, an indoor outhouse! There was a wooden seat that had a box fastened to the wall above it. A long chain with a pull clattered noisily when she brushed against it.

  With relief, she looked around. A porcelain tub, big enough for two, stood on claw feet against the wall. A sink with a brass spigot held a man’s shaving mug and a straight razor. Below the chair rail the walls were paneled with white beaded board, and above they were papered in the same cabbage-rose print as the bedroom. There was a mirror, framed in the same beaded board, above the sink, and thick white towels hung on a rack beside it.

  Curious, she turned the knobby handle on the sink and jumped back in surprise as cold water splashed into the basin. “Well, I never!” She washed her hands and dried them on the merest corner of the sparkling clean towel.

  Closing the wooden lid to the pot, she hurried to the dressing room and knelt before her trunk. She ferreted out a favorite feed-sack shift and one of Mam’s worn aprons, nestled under the little pile of rocks she’d brought from Troublesome Creek. Selecting the smallest rock—just a pebble really—she held it to her nose before tucking it in the pocket of the apron.