Within the Candle’s Glow
by
Karen Campbell Prough
WITHIN THE CANDLE’S GLOW BY KAREN CAMPBELL PROUGH
Published by Firefly Southern Fiction
An Imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614
ISBN: 978-1-938499-64-7
Copyright © 2015 by Karen Campbell Prough
Cover design by Elaina Lee, www.forthemusedesign.com
Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:
www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com
For more information on this book and the author visit:
www.karencampbellprough.com
All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line, “Within the Candle’s Glow by Karen Campbell Prough published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”
Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION r. NIVr Copyright c 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Eva Marie Everson, Jessica R. Everson, Carolyn Boyles, Shonda Savage, and Jennifer Leo.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Campbell Prough, Karen.
Within the Candle’s Glow / Karen Campbell Prough 1st ed.
Praise for WITHIN THE CANDLE’S GLOW
A gifted storyteller, author Karen Campbell Prough draws you into the simple beauty yet complex pain of Ella Dessa’s world—a landscape of rich characters, smooth prose, and memorable moments that woo you with the promise of romance.
~Elaine Marie Cooper
Author of Saratoga Letters and Fields of the Fatherless
Within The Candle’s Glow is a well-written story with fascinating characters and a setting so real you can see it. A real page turner that’s hard to put down.
~Barbara Warren
Author of Deception, Gathering Storm, and Dangerous Inheritance
Acknowledgments
I cannot express how grateful I am for the special people in my life—the ones who have urged me to keep writing or have asked if there is a second book about Ella Dessa. What began as one book, The Girl Called Ella Dessa, now has a companion book. Within the Candle’s Glow can now be presented as the gift of romance in Ella Dessa’s life.
First and forever, it is God’s gift of the written word, which I must be thankful for, each and every day. God gave humans many ways to express themselves. Creating stories that teach or entertain is just one way, and I love writing.
I am thankful for a husband who supports my desire and urge to write. Ed stands by me in all my attempts to create a finished product—a story from the past. He goes the extra mile and recently bought me a small folding cart to transport my box of books into a book store.
My gratitude to Eva Marie Everson and Firefly Southern Fiction, an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, is immeasurable. Without her wonderful abilities and initial encouragement, I could not have fulfilled my dream of seeing my books in print.
And to the readers, who pass the word along about my book, I cannot thank you enough. You seem to take such joy in telling others about it. It just amazes me! Thank you.
Dedication
To the readers who keep asking me when the next book is being released: thank you for your excitement and support during the past year. It has meant so much to me.
Contents
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 1
Saturday, June 13, 1840
The impact robbed her of breath as the icy mountain stream swallowed her limp body. The swift running water seized her, twirled her in a semi-circle, and sucked her deeper. A burning pain on the left side of her neck and shoulder numbed her senses. Rough fingers gripped her upper arms. The hands snatched her air-starved body free of the watery tomb.
Her lips parted. Ella Dessa Huskey clawed at the heavy quilt tangled about her body, her lungs straining to suck in air. The darkness enhanced the nightmare’s grip. She caught her breath and cried out.
A hand patted her back.
“Shh, Ella Dessa! Wake up!”
Carrie Clanders’s concerned whispers rippled through Ella’s mind and coaxed her away from the suffocating fear—the same way a soft current beckons to a fallen leaf and swirls it into calmer waters.
“I’m awake.”
As her heartbeat slowed, she fingered the bumpy scars marring her left shoulder, lower neck, and collarbone. The disfigurement ended between her breasts.
Carrie sighed. “Was it the dream?”
“Yes. Why am I dreamin’ of the attack? It’s been years since it happened! I was ten.”
The younger girl tugged at Ella’s arm. “Lay down. I’ll hold you.”
#
“Ella Dessa, you best step out of the Georgia sunlight or fetch a bonnet.” A hand-painted board, advertising “Beckler’s General Store,” hung on the rear wall. It bounced as Jim McKnapp strode past with his purchase.
“I dislike bonnets.”
“I know, but you don’t want to get sunburned before Saturday’s picnic.” Jim stepped from the loading platform into the bed of a farm wagon.
“I won’t burn.” She stood on the dusty ground beside his team of horses and threaded her fingers through the dark sweaty mane of the nearest one. “The sun feels good. I’m tired of bein’ inside.” She didn’t mind lingering in the dazzling sunlight if it meant she’d be close to Jim.
“Your freckles will show up for the picnic.” Winking, he smiled in her direction and placed the sack on top of two larger bundles stashed between wooden barrels.
“Not goin’ to the picnic.” She wrinkled her nose. “Neither are my freckles.” She usually hated to have her freckles mentioned, but she found it hard to show any resentment at his comment. Jim’s wink erased any offense.
“Why will you miss the picnic?” He brushed dust off his hands.
“I think Mr. Beckler will keep the store open.”
“Naw.” His deep gray eyes widened. “Walter wouldn’t.”
“He might.” Ask me to go with you.
“Sure is.” She tried not to stare and switched her attention back to the horse. “Good thing there’s plenty of trees near the church—for shade and to prevent freckles.”
He chuckled. “But if we don’t get some rain, all the picnickers might jump in the stream to cool off.”
“If there’s water still flowin’ by then.” She fiddled with the leather harness, wishing to stall his departure. “I s’pose Samuel will be there?” She raised her eyes and met his intent look.
“At the picnic?” He stepped from the end of the wagon to the shaded platform and frowned. “My brother wouldn’t miss it.”
“Because there’ll be food?” She watched him lift another sack.
A hint of a smile showed under his dark mustache. “You know my younger brother, always appearing where there’s food—especially pies. He’ll go the whole hog.”
“That’s the truth.”
“He takes after Papa and might outgrow me. He’s got wide shoulders.” He stepped back into the wagon. It rocked under his weight, and the horses turned their heads to investigate the movement. “He’s a big boy.”
“Samuel’s not a boy.”
“No, he isn’t. He’ll soon be a man.”
I’m no longer a little girl. Cain’t you see that?
His eyes reflected the granite boulders tucked into the upward thrust of the low mountain behind the store. There was a hint of russet brown in their clear depths. Dark strands of hair curled under the edges of his felt hat.
“You speak as if it troubles you—him growin’ up.” She shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun.
Jim shrugged. “That don’t bother me.” He crammed the sack in place. “Maybe I still see him as my younger brother.”
“He’ll always be younger.”
“Hmm, you’re right.” He grinned. A faint dimple showed in his right cheek. “Your cheeks are pink splotches. Step into the shade before I’m blamed for your sunburn.”
“Yes, sir, ‘though it ain’t likely you’d be blamed.” With an exaggerated sigh, she grasped the material of her faded blue skirt and ascended the hewn steps to the loading platform. “I sure don’t see much of you or Samuel.”
“Sam mentioned that yesterday. I heard him bemoan the fact school’s out for a few months.” He hefted one more sack and returned to the wagon.
Ella laughed. “I don’t believe everyone agrees with him.” She slipped into the shadows and leaned against the log wall. “Most are thrilled to be free of schoolin’, and I think your brother-in-law appreciates a break from teachin’.” She folded her arms across her waist—content to watch him load the farm wagon.
“Konrad said as much.” He pushed at the last item he stacked. “I hope this load doesn’t slide when I reach Palmer’s Ridge. I forgot my heavier rope. Falling rocks damaged part of the trail Sam and I cleared. The rough spots make this old wagon sway.”
“Want to borrow some rope?” A loose strand of hair fell alongside her right cheek. She tucked it behind her ear and eyed the firm muscles in Jim’s upper arms. His shirtsleeves failed to conceal their strength. “Mr. Beckler has plenty.” She would’ve been content to watch him all day—even in the dazzling sun.
“Naw. I guess the heavy barrels will act as a brace.” He fiddled with the sacks and rearranged them.
He’s perfect, not like me. I’m scarred for life.
Her right hand touched her neck. Last night’s nightmare still had the ability to cause her legs to shake. The high collar of her blouse left an inch of bumps exposed. Ella wished she hadn’t pinned her hair back in a tight coil. With her hair down, the scars would be hidden.
“You seem a trifle sad today. Got worries?”
“No.” She shook her head and laced her fingers together under her apron. “I was thinkin’ of my mama earlier today. It’s been awhile since I hiked the mountain to tend her grave.” A sensation of loneliness encircled her chest. She pressed her lips together to stop them from quivering. She didn’t want to seem childish.
“Samuel usually takes you up there—back to the old homestead.”
“Yes, he does. Although, ‘cause I live with Velma Clanders, findin’ time to slip away from all her little ones is a problem. They want to go with me.” She shrugged. “I prefer to be alone or with Samuel.”
“I understand.”
She watched him grasp a smaller cotton poke of cornmeal and carry it to the wagon. She wished she had the courage to ask him to accompany her to Mama’s grave. Her imagination created a picture of them hiking under a canopy of trees. Maybe, he’d take her hand.
“Ella Dessa?”
She blinked, saw his perplexed frown, and realized she hadn’t been listening to him.
“Your thoughts drifted away like a windswept vulture.” He chuckled.
“I’m sorry.” Her cheeks grew warm. “What were you sayin’ besides a thing ‘bout vultures?”
“I said Sam might further his studies next year.” He patted the final purchase and wedged it with two sacks of grain. “He’ll have to leave these hills.” A tinge of sadness crept into his deep voice.
“He’ll return.” She had mixed feelings about Samuel’s plans. His friendship meant a lot to her.
“Yeah, but he might outgrow this hilly land. The world out there is spreading, leaving this curved valley behind. We’re secluded and hidden. It’s a holler—a cove, without room to welcome more people. The gold mines bring in trades and additional people south of here, but we’re isolated.” The restless shuffling of the horses caused the wagon to rock. He braced his feet against the movement. “My oldest brother left us.”
She shook her head. “Samuel isn’t like Duncan.”
“I wouldn’t come back.” Jim stared at the low mountain slope behind them, his stance rigid. His long fingers curved into fists at his sides. “But my parents’ homestead will become my sole responsibility, even though Papa’s land purchase from the Indians wasn’t part of my plans.”
“What do you wish for?”
He drew in a deep breath.
“Nothing, I reckon. I’ll always be needed here.”
“Because of your papa’s health?”
“Yes.” Jim faced her and tugged on the brim of his hat. It shadowed his eyes. “I sure appreciate this new platform. I don’t have to go down the steps and lift things to the wagon. Where’d Walter get the idea?”
“His sister saw it in Richmond on one of her trips east.” She watched him unroll his shirtsleeves and cover his tan forearms. She inhaled to counteract the strange ache in her throat. “Agatha thought her brother handy enough to build it. She drew sketches to guide him.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Most folks say how they like it.” To her left, the narrow platform ran the length of the store’s rear wall. “How’s your papa’s knee?”
“Bad. He’s weaker. Can hardly hobble.” Jim’s chest moved with a dispirited sigh. “He tries to help. It isn’t good with the pain he’s suffered. Like most old farmers, he’s stubborn.” He used the back of his hand to wipe his forehead.
“Jim, ‘sides your family—it’s all he has.”
“I know. It tortures me inside.” He laid his hand on the sweaty shirt covering his chest. “I sense he thinks I’m taking over, stealing the remainder of his life. It kills me to see him sit on the porch and stare at the woods. I know he’s itching to go hunting or do a little panning for gold.”
“You’re not takin’ his life.”
“I feel like I am.” Jim tugged on the reins and looped them over the wagon’s rough box, which doubled as a seat. The two horses ignored him. They stood with heads drooping, tails swishing at persistent flies.
“I’m sor
ry.” She got the wildest desire to step over the end of the wagon and wrap her arms around him. Instead, she hugged her own waist. “I bet he’s proud of you and Samuel.”
Somewhere in the distance, a quail called for its mate. The sound was melancholy.
“Proud?” He faced the direction of the bobwhite quail’s persistent call. “Don’t know. I hate telling Papa he can’t help. I camped in the farm wagon last night, near our back fence and creek. Snuck off without him.”
A hint of sadness softened his voice.
“Why camp there?”
“I repaired a fence without him trailing after me. It was a beautiful night. The moon’s almost full. Would’ve been nice to share it with someone.”
“I saw it from our porch.” I would’ve loved bein’ there with you.
“Papa insists on raising stupid sheep, even with the wild animal attacks we struggle against nightly. Our ornery donkey brayed half the evening. Bears love sheep, you know.”
“Lamb on the table ain’t—isn’t bad. Samuel says it’s your favorite.”
He chuckled. “It is. In some ways, the sheep are worth it. I shouldn’t complain. Mother has her wool. The women in the cove buy it or exchange produce with us.”
“We all enjoy the mutton and need the wool.”
“It’s the battle against predators that makes me wish we didn’t raise sheep. I hate slinking around at night with a gun or setting traps. Got a large bear hide draped over the rail fence right now—not that it’ll keep other varmints away. Papa thinks it does.”
“Velma’s oldest boy, Scott, shot a bobcat stealin’ a chicken last night.”
“It happens.” He stepped out of the wagon and rubbed his hands down the thighs of his pants. “Look at my hands. Everything is either dirty or dusty.”
She gazed at his capable hands and imagined hers clasped in them. “Ahh, yes, we do need rain.”
“It has to be a soaking rain—a gully washer. We could use one that washes through the ravines and fills the streams. I know the new mill is struggling. I had to come here to buy meal and flour from Walter. No getting anything ground right now. Lyle Foster’s done all the diverting of water he can at the mill. He’s got a crazy flume built, but holding tank’s dry.”
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