Magnolia Summer

by Melanie Dickerson

  Truett almost laughed at her clumsy attempt to make the sheriff think he wasn’t hurt bad. Not only was she high strung, she could spit fire, too. And it was more fun to watch when it was directed at someone besides him.

  Celia made the sheriff wait until she had fixed blankets and pillows for Truett to rest on in the back of the wagon. When she told the sheriff she had one more pillow to get, he yelled at her and jumped up onto the seat. Truett squeezed her wrist and whispered, “I’m not hurt that bad. A slight injury, remember?”

  She sat down beside Truett and his nest of blankets. “Sheriff, you may go now.”

  Suggs grumbled under his breath, spit a long stream of tobacco juice at the dirt, then set the horses in motion.

  At least James and Almira had gotten away.

  Once they arrived at the jail, Celia refused to go home. She gave Truett all the blankets and quilts, pushing them between the bars, since the sheriff wouldn’t let her carry them into his cell herself. Then she settled herself on the floor and leaned against the wall next to his cell. She said she just wanted to make sure the sheriff didn’t do anything to him on the sly. Truett thought about telling her that if the sheriff wanted to kill him, there wouldn’t be anything she could do about it. But he decided against it.

  The sheriff locked the cell and walked out, leaving them alone.

  “Is your side hurting you?” Celia asked.

  Truett was propped up, half-lying, half-sitting on the cot, the scent of mildew and sweat rising from the thin straw mattress. “No, not much.”

  “Can I run over to your office and get you something? Some medicine?”

  “Later I’ll need to change my bandage. You can go get some things for me then.”

  She brightened. “Of course.”

  After they’d been there for an hour or so, Sheriff Suggs came back in. He thrust out his chest and wore a satisfied smirk.

  “It looks like there’s going to be a hanging after all.”

  Celia sat up straighter. Truett waited for the sheriff to say more.

  “I’ll be hanging the Hartleys before sunset.”

  Celia gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “It seems they thought they could hide out in an old shack in the woods, but I found ‘em. Got ‘em tied up outside.”

  Celia sprang to her feet and looked out the window. “Oh, you’re horrible! Those men don’t deserve to die just because they opened a store. And it’s against the law for you to hang them without a trial. What kind of beast are you?”

  “You look a-here, missy. I’ve had enough of your mouth.” He shook his finger in Celia’s face.

  Truett wished he could break that finger. He stood to his feet and walked to the other side of his cell.

  “She’s right, Suggs. You won’t get away with it this time. The authorities—”

  “Shut up!”

  Truett shrugged, feigning indifference. “All right. But the hooded horseman will probably stop you again.”

  “You’re the hooded horseman!” Suggs roared, stalking toward him.

  Suggs grabbed the bars and Truett stepped back, not wanting to encounter his foul breath.

  “You’re the hooded horseman, and you’ll hang for it. Nothing can save you. You assaulted a sheriff and his deputy. You shot at a lawman, and you’ll hang. Not even your daddy or his judge friend can save you.”

  Truett regretted the sheriff had said those words in front of Celia. She turned white as cotton. He hoped she didn’t faint on this stone floor. He couldn’t catch her and she might hit her head.

  “Celia, go sit down.”

  She didn’t obey, but the color came back in her cheeks as she glared at the sheriff. “You’re an evil man. If you hurt those men or Truett . . .” She appeared to be trying to think of something, clenching and unclenching her hands by her sides. Finally, she blurted, “God’s going to punish you!”

  “So I’m going to hell?” Suggs laughed an ugly belly laugh. He continued laughing as he sauntered out the door.

  Celia approached him, her eyes locked on his. He went to her, his heart twisting as she reached through the bars and put her hands around him. He drew her as close as he could. She rested her forehead against his chest, her cheek pressed against a bar.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” he whispered in her ear. “I behaved foolishly. I should have written Judge Richardson a long time ago.”

  “It’s not your fault. You were just trying to do the right thing. Who knows if the judge will even respond to our letters?”

  A hitch in her voice told him she was crying. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  “Hey, now, don’t cry. Of course the judge will respond. The sheriff is probably bluffing. The townspeople will finally stand up to him and keep him—” . . . from hanging Sam and Isaac. He stopped himself from finishing the sentence. He didn’t want to remind her. Besides, it was almost too painful to say out loud. After all, if Truett hadn’t interfered, the men would have lost their store in the fire, yes, but they’d at least be alive tonight, instead of possibly. . .

  “Let’s pray, Celia. Pray for a miracle.”

  Celia nodded and closed her eyes. Truett whispered a plea for God to save Sam and Isaac from getting hanged by Suggs. “God, we need a miracle.”

  Celia was still crying. He dabbed at her cheeks until she took the handkerchief away from him and wiped her nose.

  She looked up and took his shirt in her fists, gazing intently into his eyes. “I love you, Truett. No matter what happens, I love you, and I think you’re the most wonderful man in the world. God has shown me how wrong I was, how twisted and confused my thinking had become. Nothing is more important to me than loving you. And I just want you to know that.”

  Truett’s slid his hand behind her neck and he kissed her lips. He longed to pull her closer, but the bars prevented it.

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re so beautiful when you tell me you love me.”

  She gave him a shaky smile. “Is that the only time I’m beautiful?”

  “No. You’re also beautiful when you smile, and when you’re mad at me, and when you’re yelling at Suggs, and even when you cry. You’re beautiful all the time . . . especially when you’ve just been kissed.”

  She caught her breath and stared at his lips.

  The sound of a door squeaking on its hinges forced them apart. Truett winced when his mother walked in. Would she break down at seeing him injured and in jail? But when his father followed right behind her, his heart soared as hope filled his lungs.

  “Mr. Beverly!” Celia gasped, relieved at the sight of Truett’s father. The man was a strong presence and carried himself with a cool aloofness that commanded respect. But somehow Mrs. Beverly’s panicked clucking and hovering also calmed her. Celia leaned against the wall while Truett reassured his mother that everything would be all right. His father, on the other hand, stood stoically glaring into space, limiting his words to short, half sentences about not tolerating these outrages.

  Celia continued sending up silent prayers for the miracle they needed, the miracle that would save Annie’s family, her father and uncle, and Truett too. God was making a way to rescue them, she was sure of it. She only hoped He would hurry, since Sam and Isaac’s time was very short otherwise.

  After the passing of perhaps another hour, Grady Skidmore, who’d helped them fell their leaning tree, burst through the door.

  Truett moved to the edge of his cell. “What is it?”

  Celia’s stomach sank. Had Annie Hartley’s father and uncle been hanged already?

  “I’ve got news. And it’s not good, I’m afraid.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Mr. Beverly demanded.

  “The Hartleys didn’t get lynched. Someone came and rescued them.”

  “Who?” Truett asked.

  “The hooded horseman.”

  “What?” Celia glanced at Truett. How could that be?

  “The bad news is that the hooded h
orseman was . . . well . . . Suggs shot him.”

  Celia held her breath as she waited for him to continue.

  “Who?” Truett gripped the bars, his knuckles turning white. “Who was it, man?”

  “It was Griff.”

  Chapter 30

  Truett’s heart jolted. Mother cried out, a little shriek, then sank into Father, who held her up and helped her to a chair.

  “He was still breathing, last I knew,” Grady added quickly. “He was shot in the shoulder.”

  Truett’s knees went weak. But then he grabbed the bars and shook them. “Let me out of here! I have to tend my brother.”

  “Where is he?” Father swiped a hand across his chin.

  “Suggs’s men are bringing him back to town on a wagon.”

  “Suggs will pay for this.” Father’s voice boomed inside the small jail house.

  “Yes, he will.”

  Everyone turned to see who had spoken. The man was well-dressed in a dark frock suit and black tie, and he made his way from the door to Truett’s father.

  “John.” He clasped Father’s hand and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here to help.”

  Celia pressed herself against the bars of Truett’s cell. “Oh, Truett.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. His legs felt heavy and wooden as he held her hand through the bars.

  Suggs walked in the door. “What’s going on here?”

  “That is what I would like to know.” It was the stranger who turned and faced the sheriff. His eyes blazed. “Are you Sheriff Suggs?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Judge William Richardson, and you are under arrest.”

  Sheriff Suggs’s jaw hardened and a muscle twitched in his cheek.

  “I’m taking you back to Huntsville,” he continued, “to face a grand jury investigation into your alleged illegal activities, including the lynching of several men. And if the boy doesn’t survive you shooting him, I’ll have you convicted of the murder of Griffith Beverly.”

  Suggs seemed to have cleared his face of all expression. He stared straight ahead, his lips pursed.

  Judge Richardson glared at Sheriff Suggs and pointed at Truett, “I demand you release this man, as he obviously is not the hooded horseman.”

  Suggs reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Judge Richardson took it from him. Then he tossed it across the room at Celia. She caught the key and inserted it into the lock. The door swung open. Truett rushed outside to find Griff.

  Celia stood frozen as Truett ran out of the jail.

  “You.” Judge Richardson turned to Grady. “Come with me. I want you to take me to Isaac and Sam Hartley so they can identify the rest of the sheriff’s men.” Judge Richardson looked out the window. “Though I believe my deputies have them all rounded up right outside.”

  Truett was free, but would he be able to save Griff? His last brother.

  She stood in the doorway and watched as Judge Richardson, with six or seven deputies, took Sheriff Suggs away, his hands cuffed behind his back. The sheriff’s face was red as a beet, and he spewed curses at everyone in sight. When the sheriff slowed his step, one of the Huntsville lawmen shoved his shoulder.

  Celia and Truett’s parents hurried out with one mind, no doubt—to find out if Griff was still alive and if there was anything they could do to help Truett tend him.

  Poor Griff. He must have stolen Truett’s black cape and hood, which they’d left in the cave, and gone after Suggs. Mrs. Beverly’s face was white, almost ashen, and she gripped her husband’s arm.

  Her chest hollowed out at the thought that Griff might die. And her stomach wrenched at the pain Truett and his family would feel if he did.

  Truett leaned over Griff’s shoulder as he worked to get the small round bullet out of the bloody flesh that just wanted to close in over it. Finally, he pulled it out and held it up, examining it to make sure it was intact. Convinced no fragments were left behind, Truett dropped the metal slug in the slop bowl and reached for the needle he needed to sew up his brother’s wound.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip and the pain in his side from his own bullet wound became more difficult to ignore. His blood loss made his legs weak and trembly, and his hands were beginning to shake. But he had to get this wound sewn up.

  Someone touched his arm. When he glanced up, Celia offered him a glass of water. While he drank, she dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief—which was a good thing. He didn’t want his sweat dripping into Griff’s wound.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped after gulping the entire glass of water.

  “Someone has to look out for you.” She took the glass as he went back to stitching. Thankfully, Griff was still asleep from the laudanum he’d given him.

  “Not feeling faint, are you? Just stay back and don’t look at what I’m doing.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is Mother all right?”

  “She’s well. She’s lying down in the back room, and your father went to speak with Judge Richardson.”

  Soon he’d finished the last stitch and tied it off. He wiped most of the blood away, and Celia helped him bandage it.

  “You make a good . . .” He paused, blinking as the room tilted. “. . . nurse.”

  “Sit down.” Celia took his arm and led him the two steps to the bench along the wall. He sank down and stretched out, face first across the bench.

  When he opened his eyes, Celia was bathing his face with cool water and a cloth.

  Two men picked him up and carried him, and he was too weak to protest.

  The next time Truett opened his eyes, he was lying on one of two cots in the back room of his office. His mother and father were standing nearby.

  “Where’s Griff?” He tried to sit up, but everything started going black again, so he lay back down.

  “I’m here, Truett.” Griff’s voice sounded calm, if not very strong. He was lying on the other cot.

  “Are you all right, Griff?”

  “Uh-huh, all right. Mama said you were sick.”

  “I’ll be well soon.”

  “I brought you some water.” Celia’s face came into view.

  Father helped him sit up and he drank down the glass of water.

  “Is Griff drinking enough?”

  “Yes,” Father said. “He’s been up twice.”

  “Walking?”

  “Yes, but he’s still a bit weak.”

  Truett was grateful for his father and mother’s presence, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Celia’s face. Could it be true that she loved him? Her expression certainly was different from her usual look. Kind of soft and sweet, kind of like when they had just kissed.

  He reached out his hand to her and she took it, squeezing it.

  “Your bandage needs changing.” Celia swallowed, as she was obviously thinking of the blood that had soaked through his bandage.

  Although he’d rather have Celia help him, he was afraid of her fainting. Besides, of course, that it wasn’t proper.

  “We shall help him with that, my dear.” Mother squeezed Celia’s arm and gave her a quick hug. “You go on home and get some rest.”

  Celia opened her mouth as if to speak, but then she bit her lip instead. She nodded and gazed into his eyes as she walked toward the door and out of sight.

  A few days later it was Sunday. Celia got herself ready for church, then helped get the twins ready as she urged Will and Lizzie to hurry—but gently, her heart feeling oddly peaceful.

  The sky was gray and overcast, and Celia glanced around for Truett’s mother so she could ask how Truett and Griff were doing. Will had gone every day to check on them at their home, where they were convalescing, so she knew they were both improving, but it was a surprise to see Truett and Griff sitting side by side, with their mother and father next to Griff, when she entered the church.

  Her heart tripped over itself. Did she dare? She strode right down the center aisle to their pew and h
eld her hand out to Truett’s mother.

  Mrs. Beverly took her hand, breaking into the widest smile, and stood and embraced her. “You sweet thing. Thank you for sending that soup to us. It was delicious. I think it had healing properties, because just look at Truett and Griff!” She pulled back and extended her arm to the two young men.

  “They look as if they are nearly recovered.”

  She felt nervous as she smiled first at Griff, then at Truett, but when he winked at her, her smile widened and she nearly laughed.

  Celia longed to sit beside him and hold his hand through the church service. But that would not be proper, as there had been no official announcement about their plans to marry. Instead, she sat in another pew with her family.

  After three songs and a prayer, Preacher Massey, apparently recovered from his summer ague, stood to deliver the message. “‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ One of us here today can boast this kind of love. Griffith Beverly. His noble, selfless acts will become a legend in these parts . . . a true story the people of Bethel Springs will tell their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, of how he risked his life to deliver innocent men from the noose of a lawless sheriff.

  “Griff is known by all, but did any of us realize what a big heart he has? Did any of us know what a difference he would make in Bethel Springs and Madison County?” Preacher Massey solemnly bowed his head. “Let us pray.”

  After the sermon, Celia stood with the congregation to sing the final song. As she did, she noticed several people looking over their shoulders. She turned too. Isaac and Sam stood at the very back row, along with Annie and several others from Annie’s family. Celia gave a tiny wave, and Annie smiled and waved back.

  When the last song was sung and the last prayer said, Celia hurried into the aisle, but Annie and her family were gone.

  When Celia and her siblings arrived back home, they found Mama in the kitchen, cooking.