As she folded the creased paper, her thoughts drifted to the empty log cabin, higher on the mountain. Mama had suffered beatings at Jacob’s brutal hands. And after one of those beatings, with blood dripping from a smashed lip, her mama revealed how she was forced to marry Jacob. Her father had struck a deal with Jacob, combining his daughter and a piece of the land into one bundle.
“But Mama, you never tolt me Jacob weren’t my real pa.”
She could hear her mama’s whispered words. “Ella Dessa, never marry a man who don’t love you. Promise me that.”
Ella had no desire to judge her own mama, but she accepted the fact it was impossible for Jacob Huskey to be her father. Her mama had known him barely two weeks, before she married him against her own desires—forced into a loveless union by Ella’s grandfather. Mama had told her the story, but left out the telltale detail written within the Bible. The secret had been revealed in the front pages of a book Meara knew her detestable husband would never attempt to read. That single clue, accompanied by the love letter tucked into the Bible, had helped Ella figure out the truth.
Years ago, Velma had seen the strange record in the Bible. Now Ella prayed the woman had forgotten its existence.
Ella lifted the last item from the box. It was a tiny piece of fragile paper.
The memory of Jacob opening her mama’s trunk a week or so after the burying still made her tremble with fury and resentment. She had secretly observed the hateful man steal a drawstring bag, but drop a folded piece of paper.
She later found the piece of paper that fluttered away, unseen by Jacob. The note revealed there was gold in the bag. It belonged to a man named Miles Kilbride. Her mama’s handwritten note said if she died, the gold was to be given to Ella Dessa.
“I’m glad I found out you ain’t my pa, Jacob Huskey,” she muttered. Carefully, she replaced the yellowed note and closed the box. She hugged the square cache to her chest and considered her choices. She imagined herself handing Miles the Bible and the box. She’d be able to watch his face and judge his initial shock and reaction.
No! Mama’s reputation would be soiled.
Miles Kilbride’s past love for her mama had to remain a secret. She’d be the only one who knew he was her real father.
Chapter 4
“Giddap!” Walter Beckler clucked his tongue. The two horses stepped forward. “Now aren’t you glad I insisted we all go to the picnic?” He sat on the wagon box with Velma tucked close to his side.
“There weren’t no arguin’ with you,” Velma whispered.
“Well, I got your attention. No other man in the cove has done that,” he said with an air of pride.
Ella and the six children sat in the bed of the wagon. The rough ride bounced them against one another. To stay seated, even Velma had to grab hold of someone—Mr. Beckler.
The instant blush on Velma’s cheeks gave the thin woman some color, causing her to appear closer to her correct age, instead of ten years older. Even so, Ella figured there had to be at least a thirty-year difference between Velma and the storeowner. But the span of years and life’s tragedies might knit the two of them together.
Ella heard Mr. Beckler lost his wife to a fever when he was only thirty. He had never remarried. She assumed he’d appreciate a young wife. Velma had gone through years of torment at her husband’s hands, before he ended up buried alive while digging for gold near Dahlonega. The woman might welcome a mature man who doted on her.
As the wagon bumped along the trail, Velma’s oldest son, Scott, studied the glow on his mama’s face. His hazel eyes grew sharp—much like a circling hawk’s penetrating stare. His eleven-year-old glare could alarm a polecat, so Ella nudged him with her elbow.
“Stop lookin’ like a crazed rattler.”
“We don’t need a new pappy.” His brow scrunched above the bridge of his straight nose.
“Oh, listen.” She whispered, “Wouldn’t it be nice to live with someone who owns the store?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Why, I bet—you’d get candy every day.”
Scott grinned. The gap between his front teeth showed. “You might be right.” There was a conspirator’s undertone in his voice. “That’d make it all worthwhile, eh? I’ve seen the sweets he hides behind the counter where you stand. I think I’ll tell him to marry Mama. Like … next Saturday?”
“You’re silly. Don’t say a word to him ‘bout it. You might spook him.” She gave the boy an impulsive hug. “Your mama deserves to be happy.”
She was close to all of Velma’s children. Ella felt thankful her abusive stepfather had abandoned her and left the cove. The six children seemed like siblings. A fleeting consideration jumped through her mind.
If the time should come, and Mr. Beckler asks Velma to marry him, will I be welcome in his home?
“Why were you an’ Scott whisperin’?” Thirteen-year-old Carrie held little Adam on her lap and scooted across the wagon bed. With arms tight around the boy’s belly, she asked, “What’s the secret?” Her light-hazel eyes sparkled with interest.
“Let go!” Adam twisted sideways and bumped Carrie’s chin with his head. His chubby fingers plucked at her hands. His bottom lip protruded.
“No, you ain’t standin’ up.” Carrie rubbed her chin with one hand and held him with one arm. “Sit.”
Remy, Mae, and Rosemary sat at the end of the wagon, their legs dangling off the edge. Their bare feet brushed the tall grass growing between the ruts in the trail. They all turned to stare at Ella and hear the answer to their big sister’s question.
“Shh!” Scott mashed his finger against his lips and motioned with his left thumb at Mr. Beckler’s back. “We was talkin’ of the candy in the store.” His voice blended with the swishing noise of the rolling wheels and the horses’ hooves. “Figgerd we’d be allowed pieces—if we got to be family.”
With stares of wonderment, all the children—except Adam—turned to watch the interaction between their mama and the storeowner. Ella could tell she had solved one problem for Velma. The children would be thrilled to welcome Mr. Beckler as a new father.
She giggled to herself, reached for Adam, and lifted the three-year-old out of Carrie’s imprisoning grasp. She snuggled him close, pressing her lips to his sun-warmed cheek.
“Do you like candy?” She watched his solemn dark eyes light up.
“Yes.” He twisted in her lap and placed little hands on either side of her face. “Sugar candy?” Dark curls hung in his eyes.
“Yes. Look, we’re here.” She brushed aside his curls and pointed. The horses turned onto a dirt lane leading to the log church.
They circled the building to a grove of shady oaks and maples. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of families seated under the trees. Horses, mules, and a few scrawny oxen fed in the flat field of waving grass beyond the picnic area. They had either been staked or hobbled so they wouldn’t wander. Wagons stood empty, wooden tongues dropped to the soil, reminding her of tired hunting dogs.
She grabbed the sideboard as the wagon rumbled over exposed tree roots.
“Watch your heads!” Mr. Beckler waved at them when the wagon passed under a low oak.
The riders ducked and giggled as they fell against each other.
Ella hugged Adam and kept him from tumbling to the ground. Then she spied Jim leading his black horse to the high, windswept grass. His wide shoulders accented the narrowness of his hips. He brought the tall horse around, patted its shiny neck, and bent to stake the animal.
When he straightened, he faced their wagon and waved his hat in the air.
She smiled, lifted her hand in greeting, and fought the urge to jump off the bouncing wagon. Instead, she bowed her head and snugged Adam’s squirming body close to her chest.
Silly goose. He didn’t wave at you. He waved to everyone.
Shouts and whistles of welcome rang out from other picnickers. Velma beamed with shy pleasure.
Under the trees, the large quantity of blankets and multi-colored quilts test
ified to the number of families gathered for the picnic and fellowship. A fresh breeze, blowing the length of the cove, fluttered the tree leaves. Makeshift tables, of hewn boards and skinny logs for legs, reminded Ella of newborn calves—standing on wobbly legs in the parched, yellowed grass. Every available surface functioned as a place to set wooden bowls, tin plates of food, and baskets of goodies.
All food brought to the picnic went on the temporary tables, so neighbors could share and taste one another’s recipes. A barrel of cool spring water flattened the tall grass where it stood. A gourd dipper, available for filling cups and jugs, bobbed within the barrel’s wide opening. It was too early for ciders and most berry juices.
By craning her neck, Ella Dessa got another peek at Jim. He shook hands with a man and turned to a dark-haired girl in a white dress.
Sophie Wald!
Ella had to twist sideways to continue watching Jim, because Mr. Beckler decided to circle another tree with the wagon. A stab of jealousy caused her to catch a breath. Jim had bent to listen to whatever the pretty girl said. Ella fancied she heard a soft peal of laughter as Sophie touched Jim’s arm.
Why torture myself?
“This is good.” Mr. Beckler reined the horses into shade under a huge maple. “No one will get sunburned here.”
Ella jumped to the grass before the storeowner could change his mind. She placed Adam on his feet, patting his backside. “Don’t you stray.” When she turned to search for Jim, he was gone. Sophie had taken a seat on a quilt occupied by her parents and younger brother.
Like the hum of honeybees, a sweeping murmur of whispered questions filled the air around them. But Velma held her head high. She stood in front of the wagon box, leaning forward to place her hands on Mr. Beckler’s hefty shoulders.
“Listen to the gossip blossoming.” With a triumphant smile, he lifted her down. He chuckled deep in his throat as his hands released her thin waist. “Why, I guess they’ve never beheld a group this large in one wagon. Here comes my sister, Agatha. She and the girls are joining us. They caught a ride with Rebecca and Lyle Foster.”
“Oh. Mr. Beckler, I’m ashamed we filled the wagon an’ made your sister seek another ride.” Velma stood with a hand on his arm, gazing up at him. Splotches of pink tinted her cheeks.
He gently patted her hand. “Don’t fret. She wanted to snuggle Rebecca’s baby girl.”
Between the church and the trees, a plump hourglass figure plodded toward them. The gathered ruffles at the bottom of her voluminous gray dress swept the trampled grass. Her time-etched face showed a smile of delight. A white collar topped the snug long-sleeved dress, which buttoned over her full bosom. Her silver-streaked, dark hair, parted in the middle, took the liberty of loosening itself from a severe roll at the back of her head. Two long strands twisted free in the breeze.
“Agatha, sorry we’re late.” Mr. Beckler reached in the wagon, pulling out a stack of quilts. “You children spread these.”
They grabbed corners of the multi-designed quilts and laid them out on the ground, smashing the fragrant grass. Ella eyed the gorgeous covers with their delicate stitches looping in intricate patterns. She wondered how Velma felt at the sight of them, knowing she’d be seated on the handiwork of Mr. Beckler’s deceased wife.
“Walter, I thought you got lost.” Agatha Hood’s black bonnet hung by its ties and dangled down her back.
Agatha’s voice sounded too high-pitched and bubbly for such a heavy woman, but it made Ella smile. She waved and received a wide grin in return. The woman’s heart of kindness knew no stranger. Down through the years, Agatha and her husband had taken in orphan girls and raised them to adulthood. But the unexpected death of Agatha’s husband, ten years before, had forced the woman to move to the cove.
She sought a home with her brother—a lonely widower with a small store to run and space for children to grow. Mr. Beckler had taken up where his brother-in-law left off. His generous nature and big log home had provided shelter for otherwise homeless boys and girls.
Two girls, about Carrie and Mae’s ages of eight and thirteen, lingered behind Agatha. They were picking yellow dandelion heads from among the tall grasses, but Scott stood and whistled to them.
“Mary! Lessie! Come on!”
The girls left the flowers and ran to join the other children. With hugs and laughter, the children found spaces on a quilt and plopped in a circle. The adults opened baskets and distributed the food.
“Don’t eat yet.” Ella’s well-placed hand stopped Adam from wolfing down a golden biscuit.
“We got here later than other folks.” Walter Beckler’s smile included all the children. “No sense laying our food out on the tables. They’ve almost finished eating. I reckon the children are itchin’ to scatter and play with friends. So, let’s pray!” He bowed his white head. “Our Father, we thank you for friends and food. One fills our hearts and the other fills our stomachs, but friendship is the most wonderful. Amen.”
“Amen,” Velma repeated. The flush in her cheeks deepened. Her hazel eyes glistened with undisguised happiness.
Walter sat beside her on the quilt, offering a plump turkey leg from his basket.
“I saved this one for you.” His shoulder touched hers. “Couldn’t abide the young’uns fighting over it.”
Ella smiled at his silliness and reached for her own piece of crunchy, fire-roasted turkey. She studied the other families. They sat in groups around the sides of the log church and under the trees. If they had gotten to the picnic earlier, she might’ve had a chance to sit with her best friend, Peggy—Jim’s sister.
She searched for the McKnapp family, finding them grouped with her teacher and his wife. Another man and woman, whom she couldn’t recognize at a distance, sat with their backs to her. Voices and laughter blended in the breeze. Children ran and played tag between the seated circles of adults.
“There’s Samuel.” Carrie giggled. “He’s lookin’ for you.”
“He’s found me.” Ella watched him jump to his feet and wave. The sun reflected on his blond hair.
She waved in return, but her eyes switched to Jim. He appeared to be in deep conversation with the man seated near him on the grass, his arms propped on his bent knees.
“Ella Dessa.” Agatha nudged her. Her plump hand held a well-cooked turkey wing. “I hear you have a nice garden.”
“Yes’um. It’s growin’, even with bugs nibblin’ it. I found the sunniest spot, just like you tolt me. I dug under leaves near the creek and mixed that dirt with field dirt.”
“Wonderful.” The older woman patted Ella’s skirted knee, leaving a greasy spot. “I knew you’d do it. Is the mint thriving?”
“We have it with tea.” She smiled. “I hope to make peas puddin’ end of this summer. Thank you for the recipe.”
“You have a knack for gardening. Let me know when it’s time to pick the peas. I’ll help—if’n my back allows.”
“Oh, I have help.” She nodded at the children. “They know they must lend a hand, right down to the least of them. Scott helped me raise a split-rail fence, but the deer still jump it. Velma’s old hound chases ’em.”
“Mary and Lessie enjoy working in our garden. When I lived in Richmond, our house was in town. I had a gardener …” Agatha squinted, and her eyes shifted away from Ella’s face and concentrated on something near the woods. “Now, who in tarnation is that?”
“What?” Ella twisted sideways, bumping Carrie’s shoulder.
A long-legged, dark horse stepped out of the tree line into the sunlit field. Its hooves crushed the scattered white blooms of wild carrot. A solitary, lanky rider, with a long gun poised across the saddle, angled his mount toward the gathering.
Straight-faced women urgently gathered the youngest of the children. A few men stood, seizing weapons from nearby wagons. An unordinary hush flowed over the picnickers. Only the loud cawing of a raucous crow, from the top of a dead pine, broke the eerie stillness.
“Velma—Agatha?” Mr.
Beckler stopped gnawing on a blackened turkey leg and laid it on the quilt. “I don’t like his looks.” He rubbed one hand across his greasy mouth and white mustache, never once shifting his eyes from the stranger. “If I wave a hand to you, rush all the children to the church. He mightn’t be alone.” His narrowed eyes swept the edge of the forest as he struggled to stand—wrinkling the quilt beneath his legs and boots. “I heard ‘bout trouble down in the mines. There’s thievery and random killing of innocent folks. Might be others waiting in the woods.”
His spectacles glinted in the sun, but Ella saw steely grimness in his eyes. He got his gun and stood with the other men. His ramrod stance and large shoulders didn’t divulge his age in years. Only his snowy hair and beard showed how much of life he had managed to live through—without deadly harm.
Six men from the picnic advanced on foot toward the rider—weapons ready.
“Can we help you?” someone called out, a chill of forewarning in the deep male voice.
It was unusual to have an outsider wander down into the cove’s narrow, flat curve between the mountain slopes—especially a rider emerging from the northern point. There were no roads or definite paths in that direction.
The stranger reined in his horse, lifting one hand. A faded felt hat with a ragged brim hid his face. His lean figure wavered sideways. It appeared he might slide from the tattered saddle.
“I mean no harm. Need … some vittles.”
Ella caught her breath at the sound of the stranger’s unusual deep accent and reached for Velma’s arm. “That voice … I’ve heard it before.”
Velma frowned. “So have I. Where?”
Jim held up his hand, indicating the man should remain where his horse stopped. “We’ll collect food for you.”
Ella squeezed Velma’s forearm. “Do you recall the men who brought word of your husband’s death? One was named Josh … Josh Ragget.”
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