The Soldier's Wife

by Cheryl Reavis

  He frowned at that last remark, baffled by something she’d said once again.

  “Now do you reckon you can find them taters I told you about?”

  “I can find them—it’s one of my more recent skills—finding crops people think they’ve got hidden.”

  “And the cabbages? I need some to wrap my knees.”

  “Those, as well,” he said despite the fact that he had no idea about the way she meant to use them.

  “You wrap cabbage leaves on your bad knees, and they feel better,” she said in case she needed to clear up any confusion.

  “Cabbage,” he repeated.

  “That’s right. You’re going to come back with them, ain’t you? ’Cause if you ain’t, if you’re heading on out of here now that you told her about Thomas Henry and you got the chance, I’d just as soon you leave them right where they are and don’t take them with you.”

  He looked at her, seeing what could only be worry in her eyes.

  “I’m coming back,” he said. “With everything you sent me for—unless I get simple-headed again somewhere along the way or this horse gets to thinking it’s in another cavalry charge.”

  She grinned, but the grin quickly faded. “I’m scared, Jeremiah.”

  “About what?”

  “About Halbert and what he’s saying. One time there was this here woman what lived up on Little Smoky Ridge. They put her in the Jefferson jail.”

  “For what?”

  “For what he’ll say Sayer is doing. With you. That poor woman went to jail and they took her young-uns.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Gives you something to ponder over,” she said.

  “Well, it explains why you’re so determined to get me out of the way today.”

  “Does, don’t it?”

  “What’s to be done, then?” he asked. “About Halbert and his tale-bearing?”

  “You got the whole day to yourself. You think of something.”

  “What are you trying to do, Rorie—give me a reason not to come back?”

  “No,” she said. “I might know you’d up and miss what’s right in front of your face. When you go from here, I’m giving you a reason to take her and them young-uns with you. Sooner or later, one way or the other, Halbert will have this here land. Every bit of it. He might have to do something so bad he’ll get hisself hung for it, but he’ll have it. I believe that in my heart, Jeremiah. I believe it.”

  “Sayer loved—loves—Thomas Henry.”

  “Well, he ain’t here, and he asked you to take care of her, didn’t he?”

  “Not...exactly,” he said for the second time, and she gave him an exasperated look at having to hear that tired excuse again.

  “Don’t matter if he did or didn’t—exactly. He wanted Sayer kept safe. We both know that. I reckon you’re a man who could do it—keep her safe.”

  “She’s got roots here.”

  “I told you she weren’t born and raised here. Her only connection was Thomas Henry and he’s gone.”

  “She’s not going to go riding off with me.”

  “Why not? You got a wife or two stuck somewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then. One thing I know about step-husbands. They are silver-tongued devils, and that’s a fact.”

  Jack mounted the horse. He had nothing to say to that. Silver-tongued devil or not, he would have to say if asked, that Rorie Conley was just as crazy as he’d thought the first day they met. Crazy—and sharp as a tack.

  He rode past the cabin windows on his way out. He could see Sayer sitting at the table, apparently still reading the last words Thomas Henry had written.

  * * *

  Keep her safe.

  Easier said than done.

  You think of something...

  He was more concerned about the “something” Rorie had thought of.

  Take her and them young-uns with you when you go.

  He couldn’t do that. He was in trouble with the law. And he couldn’t stay—for the same reason.

  He had known women in Lexington to be sent to jail for immoral behavior—there was a good chance his own mother had been one of them. And he’d heard of women being rescued by the Magdalene societies. But one thing he knew for certain, those women were nothing like Sayer Garth. He had no idea whether or not Thomas Henry’s uncle would actually drag Sayer into court, but the threat of it would likely be all the leverage he would need. And if it did come down to some legal proceeding, he didn’t know if Rorie had enough standing in these parts to be believed or not. He thought one thing was certain. Sayer wouldn’t sacrifice Amity and Beatrice—and see them go into an orphanage somewhere—no matter what the consequences.

  But Thomas Henry’s uncle and his lust for the Garth land had nothing to do with him, and that was the truth of the matter. He had done what Thomas Henry had specifically asked him to do, despite his lapse into thinking Jack was the soldier he called “Graham.” He had delivered the letters and had repeated the dying words—most of them. Unfortunately, there was another truth: he didn’t want to go from here. It had nothing to do with his need to hide from Elrissa Vance’s jealous husband. He wanted to be in this place, despite the guilt he felt for inserting himself into the lives of a dead enemy’s family. He wanted to stay because of Sayer herself—and the fact that he just couldn’t seem to break his long-standing habit of looking out for orphans.

  We thank you, Mr. Murphy. Thomas Henry and I...

  He didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted...

  What? That was the question, and it was as troubling as what Rorie had suggested Halbert Garth might do to Sayer.

  And that was another thing. He didn’t think of her as “Mrs. Garth” even when he called her that. She was “Sayer” to him and had been since the night Thomas Henry Garth had died.

  Sayer.

  It was an unusual name for a woman, one he’d never encountered before and one that suited her well. She, too, was unusual. He could see it, just as her husband must have long before he was ever her husband.

  And here was yet another of Father Bartholomew’s Biblical truths, living and breathing right before his very eyes. The priest had spoken to the boys often about the importance of marriage and family, not from the pulpit, but during their Saturday-evening gatherings on the upstairs porch. A good woman is more precious than rubies, he said in that subtle way he had, and a man will know immediately when he has found her. That part must be true, Jack thought. Thomas Henry had apparently seen Sayer’s value even when they were still children.

  Such a man is very fortunate indeed, Father Bartholomew had told them, because she is a gift from God, one to be respected and cared for. And, more importantly, they should be thankful for her and should make certain to cherish her, for that was the way to fewer abandoned children in this world. “Abandoned children” was the hook that always caught their collective attention. It was something the priest and his young charges understood only too well.

  Jack didn’t remember what he had thought of these particular words of wisdom at the time, especially from a man who had never married. Not much, apparently, or he would have realized what a wrong path he was taking in proposing to Elrissa Barden. When he thought about her now, his last visit to her and his having to go on the run, he marveled at his own stupidity. He wondered if she was still living in Farrell Vance’s house or if she’d finally found some man gullible enough and ignorant enough of her husband’s authority to help her escape. For a brief moment, he felt sorry for the man, whoever he might be—and for Farrell Vance. For all his money, he wouldn’t tame Elrissa Barden unless she chose to be tamed. She had no fear of consequences when it came to obtaining her heart’s desire, and Jack didn’t for one moment entertain the idea that she might regret the lie she had told.
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  But there was no point in feeling sorry for anyone, even himself. It was a waste of time. If he’d learned nothing else after four years of war, he’d learned that.

  A young captain in the Orphans’ Guild suddenly came to mind. He hadn’t lasted long despite his being a brave man with a remarkable military mind—or maybe because of it. He was one of the “if onlys” Jack had been thinking about when he told Sayer about Thomas Henry. If only the captain hadn’t refused to take cover when the cannonballs were flying. If only a cannonball hadn’t fallen at his feet.

  If you get yourselves in a hot spot, don’t think about what you can’t do, he had told them earlier that day. Think about what you can—and do it. You will find something.

  “Something,” Jack said aloud, causing some unrest and anticipation in his mount. “Easy, old man. No battles today,” he said, reaching out to pat its neck. “At least not that kind.”

  He came to the path that led down to the old buffalo trace Rorie had told him about and he headed in that direction, despite her forceful plan for him to go to her cabin. He had something else in mind now, a “something” that might suit his dead captain, but likely wouldn’t suit Rorie Conley at all.

  It occurred to him as he headed east on the trace that this was the only access road to the Garth cabin and that he might encounter the very people who, for Sayer’s sake, he was supposed to evade. But the ride down the mountainside was uneventful. He didn’t meet anyone along the way, and he thought that perhaps Rorie had been wrong in her expectation that Sayer’s neighbors would be arriving at some point to judge her behavior today.

  The nameless crossroad was about what he expected—a general store housed in a two-story wooden building, with a blacksmith and farrier’s shop close by. As he came nearer, he could see a livery stable beyond the general store, one that likely catered to the stages going to and from Jefferson, and attached to that, what looked very much like a jail.

  The blacksmith was clearly in demand, busily clanging away on a section of red-hot iron as Jack rode past. Little boys played marbles in the dirt at the side of the road, and a collection of men, young and old, sat on benches and straight chairs on the front porch of the store, likely refighting the war and bemoaning the fate of the newly conquered South. A few days ago Jack would have said that the South deserved whatever it got, but since he’d met Sayer and Thomas Henry’s little sisters, surprisingly, he no longer felt that way. His need for vengeance for the thirty-six tin cups on the dining hall mantel at the orphanage was clearly dependent upon his not knowing these people by name and sharing a sit-down meal with them. It was especially dependent on never having looked into a pair of dark, sad eyes.

  All of the men watched with interest as he approached. He knew that the crossroads would be the center of all manner of public and private business for miles around, and that his arrival was likely now at the top of the list of community concerns.

  He took his time dismounting and tying up the horse, and he touched the brim of his hat in a general acknowledgment of them all as he went inside. One of the men got up from the bench and followed him, either the proprietor or the one designated to find out who Jack was and what kind of dealings he had in mind.

  Jack had always liked general stores, finding them much more interesting than the more refined and much more limited Barden’s Dry Goods version. He liked the heady mixture of smells—all pleasant, for the most part—and the mystery of what might be lurking on the shelves, things that would give him pleasure. The floor had been heavily oiled over the years, and fresh sawdust had been put down. It squeaked as he walked around looking at the shelves, which must be helpful to the proprietor—no one could lurk about the place without him knowing it. Jack could feel the other man’s watchful eye on his every move. Most of the shelves were stocked with merchandise, which didn’t necessarily indicate that business was good. It was more likely that the stock the owner had managed to acquire before the South was completely closed off by the blockades and the Army of the Potomac had never been sold. Still, the items he picked up and inspected didn’t seem shoddy.

  He walked over to look at a number of posters tacked up on the wall near what must serve as a post office window.

  “You expecting mail?” the man asked.

  “No,” Jack said, keeping his attention on the posters, relieved that none of them seemed to pertain to him.

  “If you are, it might come here, but it’s more likely to be delivered to the courthouse in Jefferson. The clerk of court would have it. You’d have to go there and ask.”

  “I’m not expecting mail,” Jack said.

  “You looking to buy something?” the man asked.

  “Flour, sugar, raisins, molasses, bacon,” Jack said. “For a start.”

  “You got money or you aiming to barter?”

  “Money.”

  “I have to see it first.”

  The risk was great—no one likely had silver coins in these parts even before the war—but Jack pulled a small bag of silver dollars out of his pocket and opened it just enough for the man to see he had the means for them to do business.

  “How did you get these?” the man asked.

  “The usual way,” Jack said.

  “Whatever you buy, if you don’t spend all of a dollar, I can’t give you no money back. You’d have to take credit.”

  “Credit will do.”

  “You are planning on staying a while, then.” It wasn’t quite a question, but either way, Jack ignored it.

  “I’d need your name. For the ledger,” the man said, still trying.

  “Let’s see how far we get first. I’m going to look around. I’ll tell you when I see something I want. You keep a running list—tell me how much I’m spending as I go. You might as well know I’ve got a good idea what things cost and I’d appreciate it if you don’t jack up the price just because you know I can pay.”

  Jack knew such a remark would likely offend the man, whether he was honest or not, but Jack needed to establish that he wouldn’t be cheated.

  “You got people around here?” the man asked as Jack began searching the shelves in earnest.

  “No,” Jack said. “Some gun oil. And a pot of honey—one of these small ones.”

  “Friends, then, I reckon,” the man said as he jotted down the additional items.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s your business here?” the man asked, clearly no longer willing to dance around what he really wanted to know.

  “I’m here by request—how much have I spent now?”

  “Five dollars and ten cents. Whose request?”

  “Add six sticks of peppermint candy to that and tally it up. Wrap each one separately.”

  “Whose request?” the man asked again as he reached for the lid on the peppermint-stick jar.

  Jack could hear some shuffling on the porch out front that either meant their audience was trying to get closer to the wall in order to hear better, or they were letting go of all pretense and coming inside for a better view.

  “Thomas Henry Garth’s,” Jack said. Jack handed him six silver dollars. “Put the money that’s left down as credit for Mrs. Garth.”

  He could hear the men from the porch come to a halt somewhere behind him.

  “You know Thomas Henry?” one of them asked immediately.

  “I just said I was here by his request,” Jack said. “Or did you miss that part?” He was smiling when he said it, and several of the men laughed.

  “Caught you out, didn’t he, Dan?” the store owner said.

  “Yeah, he did. But I wasn’t the only one with big ears. Thomas Henry in a bad way?”

  “No.”

  “Dead then, I reckon,” the man named Dan said.

  “He is,” Jack said.

  “I always liked that boy,” o
ne of the other men said, a veteran, Jack thought, because he was missing his lower left arm. “His daddy, too. Man of his word, Mr. Garth Senior was, ain’t that right, Benton?” he said to the store owner. “And Thomas Henry was just the same. I don’t ever know of him doing somebody wrong.”

  The conversation picked up among the men, mostly recounting things they remembered about Thomas Henry and his family, the kinds of things Sayer should hear, Jack thought.

  “You know for a fact he’s dead?” Benton, the store proprietor, asked quietly as the discussion of Thomas Henry Garth’s personal merits went on around them.

  “I do.”

  “You know his uncle? Halbert Garth?”

  “We’ve met,” Jack said.

  “I reckon you’ll think this ain’t none of my business, but don’t take offense at what I’m going to say. Somebody better get to Jefferson—find the lawyer up there to see if Thomas Henry filed a will. Ain’t but one lawyer in Jefferson as far as I know and I’d be wanting to get to him before Halbert hears Thomas Henry is gone,” he said, his voice still low. “Halbert Garth can make things happen. You understand me, son?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “People here think a lot of Thomas Henry, me included. And I’ve known Sayer since she used to come in here when she weren’t no more than this high.” He demonstrated just how high that would be with his hand. “Thomas Henry, he swept the floors in here and cleaned out the horse stalls and run errands for me just to earn enough money to buy her candy. We used to tease him something terrible about having a sweetheart, but he didn’t care. He earned what money he could and then he waited for her to come in here with that bossy cook they had up at her uncle’s big summer house—the woman was always buying up whatever fresh vegetables I had. Those people of Sayer’s, they liked a full set table, I reckon.

  “Thomas Henry, he acted like he weren’t interested in either one of them until the cook got busy going through the baskets and bad-mouthing what she found so she could drive the price down, and he called Sayer over to the candy jars and told her to pick out whatever she wanted. She was so happy about that—lit up like sunshine on a cloudy day. It was like she couldn’t believe her eyes and couldn’t believe somebody would do that for her. Didn’t happen but that once, though,” he said. “Her aunt found out about it and put a stop to it. That boy moped around here for weeks because she couldn’t come down to the store with the cook anymore. Now I reckon you’re here to satisfy a worry Thomas Henry had about his wife and his little sisters, and I think getting to Jefferson is one way to see that boy rests in peace. That’s why I’m telling you.”