With Colvin gone, Jubilee took up residence once more in the cabin. Her hands were like ice blocks as she started a fire from the few remaining embers. Once her fingers warmed, she brought the coins out of her pocket. They needed to be hidden. Jubilee climbed on the rough table and located the canvas bag she kept behind a loose board in the eaves. Not much left. The stash might last two months if she were careful. After climbing down, she pulled the bench as close to the hearth as possible. Some birthday. She sighed. At least a warm fire burned in the fireplace. Perhaps now she’d have a time of peace.
* * *
Spring arrived and by mid-April, Jubilee’s desire for peace fought with her need for food. She’d dropped a good amount of weight since Colvin’s visit. All the meager supplies she’d managed to purchase in January had long since been used. She’d run out of flour six weeks ago, and out of salt in early February.
She’d killed five of the chickens, one by one, save the last hen and one rooster. Now she only took an occasional egg for breakfast, hoping there’d soon be a new brood of babies. Otherwise, the chickens would be gone too.
Elsie, the old cow, had been nothing but a sack of bones wrapped in leather in early March, although now she found tender grass to revive herself. She’d gone dry, and without a bull, she wouldn’t freshen soon.
Jubilee turned her attention to the task at hand and drove the cutting edge of the shovel into the packed sod once more with her bruised heel. She paused a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow and survey her accomplishment. The small eight-by-ten patch of newly-turned soil made it hard for Jubilee not to let discouragement grip her.
Her stomach clenched in hunger. A drink of water would help, but the bucket and dipper stood a good twenty feet away, which was too much work. She thought of the thin wild onions and dandelion greens she’d laid on the table for lunch. The meager meal duplicated what she’d eaten every day for weeks, but she could hardly wait to devour them. Yet she had to wait. This garden was vital and had to be big enough to allow her to store sufficient food until next year. She sighed. It needed to be four times this size.
Jubilee pushed herself away from the handle of the shovel and rambled to the water bucket. She settled in the new grass and grabbed the dipper. Her life depended on getting the ground dug, raked, and ready for planting by mid-May.
Her ears picked up another sound. Her brow wrinkled and her eyes flew open. A horrible dread washed over her. Hoof beats. Distant, but very real. Her head snapped up.
Colvin.
Of course him. Who else? Seldom did anyone come out this far. Her weary body, so tired before, tensed with fear. She glanced from the woods behind her to the barn. Where could she hide?
The creak of saddle leather was audible now. He’d soon be coming through the tree-lined pathway. The cabin blocked his line of sight if she headed for the trees now. But it had to be now. She turned and trotted past the outhouse, praying she’d reach the woods before he saw her.
Another sound stopped her dead in her tracks. Whistling. Colvin never whistled. She changed direction and crept to the side of the cabin.
* * *
Rafe sat easily in the saddle. He tilted his head toward the sky and shielded his eyes with his right hand. Had to be near past lunch. He looked ahead and saw a break in the thick branches. That had to be it. He urged his Appaloosa to a faster pace, anticipating laying eyes on his new property.
Sure enough, the trees broke and Rafe took the path. He located a clearing up ahead. As he emerged through the tangle of limbs, he pulled the animal up in surprise. The barn, the biggest he’d seen in the area, greeted him like a castle on a hilltop. He grinned. Colvin had said it was worth twice the land and he had, for once, told the truth.
He swung his gaze to the cabin. The front porch sagged, nearly detached from the main house since the foundation had given way at the steps. He’d have to walk uphill to reach the door. Stumps, waist high, littered the yard. The place would require some industry, but he hadn’t come to sit on his thumbs.
His eyes caught a movement at the edge of the shack. What was it? A face?
“Hello?” he called.
Silence greeted him. His hands yanked the shotgun from the scabbard at his leg, and he urged Horse closer to the house. He dismounted quietly and motioned the animal to stay. Horse, well trained, stood steadfastly, watching him.
Rafe sidled up to the left corner of the cabin with his gun held across his chest. In one swift movement he stepped out, weapon raised, prepared for anything. But the yard stood empty. With quick movements, he pressed himself to the wall. He reached the back corner again and popped out in ready stance, shotgun cocked.
It was a girl. She stood with hands out next to the outhouse, about fifty feet away. Hunched over, she poised for flight. He took a deep breath and brought the gun down. As thin as she was, she presented no threat. Must be a neighbor girl.
“Hello?” he called again, and she back-pedaled a half a dozen steps. “Wait. This the Stallings’ Place?”
She stepped behind the outhouse and peeked at him.
“Hey there. Can you tell me if this is Colvin Stallings’ place?”
She never moved. Was she addled? He strode toward the outhouse. Time for some answers.
No sooner had he taken a step, when she took off running. He jogged to get a good glance at her, but by the time he reached the outhouse, she neared the edge of the trees beyond what had once been a cleared field. Now, scattered with young trees and weeds, it’d soon turn the open meadow into a woods. He gave a sigh. What did it matter? She was probably trespassing and wouldn’t return.
He turned and took a step toward the shack. The hand pump caught his attention. Ah, that would come in handy after a long day of tending crops. His eyes fell on another sight. A shovel was stuck in the soil, the handle straight up in the air, mid-row in a small patch of freshly turned dirt. He stopped short, wheeled around, and studied the edge of the woods. Why would a woman be digging in Colvin’s yard? This had to be the place. The barn matched the description.
He moved to the back door of the shack and pushed it open. What he saw made him want to choke his dead cousin. The floor appeared swept. In front of an ashless fireplace, a table stood, topped with a bowl of dandelion greens and wild onions. Herbs and strips of cloth hung from the ceiling. But, worst of all, was the worn quilt on a straw mattress on the floor, directly to the right of the door. The bed was carefully made.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. Colvin had sworn no one lived on the place and now this. Rafe turned and looked toward the trees. Did that girl live here? Was she a squatter? Well, he could hardly set up house until he found out. With an aggravated grunt, he left the shack and mounted Horse. He’d have to find her.
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AUTHOR BIO
Misty Beller writes Christian historical romance, and is the author of The Lady and the Mountain Man. She was raised on a farm in South Carolina, so her Southern roots run deep. Growing up, her family was close, and they continue to keep that priority today. Her husband and two daughters now add another dimension to her life, keeping her both grounded and crazy.
God has placed a desire in Misty’s heart to combine her love for Christian fiction and the simpler ranch life, writing historical novels that display God’s abundant love through the twists and turns in the lives of her characters. Connect with Misty athttps://mistymbeller.com.
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