Carrie shook her head. The light caught the pearly luminescence of her earrings. “We already have breakfast on Thursday.”
“You only eat once a week?”
She huffed, amused. “I have books to drop off after closing. Shut-ins that live up on the ridge.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
She blinked, puzzled. “Why would you want to?”
Because you intrigue me. All buttoned up, neat and tidy, and fresh as a flower. When his curiosity was roused, he never backed off until it was satisfied.
If he was truthful, he felt a connection with Carrie, whether because of Brody or their obvious shared love of books or something else. He wanted to know her better.
“Research,” he lied, smooth as warm butter. “I need to get the lay of the countryside anyway.”
“Oh, right.” Her eyes twinkled. “A place to commit murder.”
His smile was intentionally diabolical. “Exactly.”
“In that case, you’re staying across the road from the creepiest place in Honey Ridge. You should check that out first.”
“Yeah,” Brody piped up. “The old gristmill. People say it’s haunted.”
“Haunted, is it?”
The South was full of supposedly haunted places. Hayden had never given the stories credence. But then the dream flashed in his head, the dream about a Yankee miller and the Portland Grist Mill.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
—William Faulkner
1867
IF THE WATCH was an omen, Thaddeus faced a dismal future.
Late in the evening on the first hot, sticky day of walking, he’d reached inside his vest to check the time only to come away empty. A search of his carpetbag proved every bit as futile. His silver pocket watch was gone.
Distraught to lose this final link to Amelia and the past he never wanted to leave behind, Thad considered turning back to retrace his journey.
Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he contemplated a long, hungry walk that would likely turn up nothing. He didn’t even know where to look. The last he’d seen the timepiece was on the train before disembarking. A train bound for Chattanooga and beyond.
For an hour, he sat under an oak by the side of the dusty trail, head in his hands, and mourned. More than the loss of his timepiece, Thad mourned what the watch represented. Amelia. Their love. Their life together.
Gone. Everything that mattered gone.
He’d given up the familiar and his future in Ohio to come to this hostile state. Losing the pocket watch felt as if he was giving up the last vestige of who he’d been, of who he was. It felt like letting go of Amelia and Grace all over again.
He considered making camp for the night, but night was still hours away, so he finally roused himself and, weary now in a way he hadn’t been, trudged onward.
Without the watch, he kept time by the morning and evening of each day as God had done in Genesis, though he quaked to compare himself to the God who gave and took away.
Each night he lay his head beneath the oaks and willows, listened to their whispers, thankful he traveled in summer, though mosquitoes and chiggers feasted on his flesh until he had no place left that wasn’t covered in itchy bumps. Last night, he’d stolen an ear of corn from a farm and gnawed the raw kernels after river fishing proved unsuccessful. He’d found blackberries growing along the river’s edge, but too many berries pained a man and he’d learned to be careful.
At the third daybreak, after a night on ground soppy with southern dew, he ate a handful of those same berries, then dipped in the river, the cold water soothing his insulted, itchy skin. Then he hiked up and over a long, wooded ridge, confident that a township wasn’t far away. Yesterday, the number of farms had increased, and he’d stopped to ask directions. The cautious-eyed occupants had mercifully obliged, though not one single Southern soul had offered the Northern wayfarer a meal or shelter.
Now with the sun blistering his neck and his belly snarling around the berries, he entered the edge of a town that according to William’s map must be Honey Ridge, Tennessee.
Outside a tidy cottage a pair of chickens pecked. Thaddeus fought the urge to wring a neck in the name of survival as he had done during the war even though thou shalt not steal was as ingrained in him as his belief that all men were created equal. The cottage owner, no doubt, needed the birds every bit as much, and they were not his to take. Not since the war ended. He and the Union might be the victors, but the vanquished foes would soon be his neighbors and his employers. He’d best not steal their chickens.
As he hurried on, a young widow, evidenced by her black-dyed dress and veil, tossed a dishpan of water out her front door, barely missing him. She looked up and smiled an apology, her face tired already this morning. He touched the brim of his hat, aching a little as he suspected she was a war widow and wondering if he or Will or someone he knew had taken the life of her man.
A wagon rumbled past, drawn by a single mule. Horses were in short supply, seized by the armies and never replaced. Like towns and cities everywhere across the war-torn regions, Honey Ridge had seen better days. Only a handful of businesses had survived the lean times, others were boarded up, and the charred remains of a large building scarred the town square.
A melancholy hung over the South as thick and oppressive as humidity.
Beneath the shady porch of the mercantile, an aproned man swept the boardwalk. Hoisting his bag, Thaddeus approached.
“Good morning, sir.”
The merchant stopped sweeping to stare at him, his squinted gaze taking in Thad’s unshaven face, rumpled clothes and carpetbag.
“Morning.”
“Is this Honey Ridge?”
“What’s left of her.” The man, eyes cautious beneath a wrinkled brow, his brown beard salted with gray, leaned his broom against the wall. “Looks like you’ve been traveling.”
“Yes, sir.” Thad rested a boot on the edge of the boardwalk. “Name’s Thaddeus Eriksson. I’ve come to work at the Portland Grist Mill.”
“Jess Merriman. This is my store.” He jerked a thumb toward the dark entryway behind him. “Gadsden mentioned a cousin millwright.”
“That would be me.”
“From up North?”
Thad tensed. “Yes, sir. Ohio.”
“Well, son, you’re either brave or a fool. The war’s not over to some, but you’ll find welcome at my store. The wife has kin in Pennsylvania.”
Tension seeped out. Thad’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m obliged.”
On the opposite side of the road, a woman exited a milliner’s shop, a basket in hand, and started across in a jaunty, purposeful stride, her head held high, hair as bright as a copper penny gleaming in the sunlight.
He watched her, mesmerized by her energy and hair. She was color to the town’s tired drab, a slender redbird on a bland canvas of dust and unpainted buildings. Even the dull gray of her dress couldn’t hide her vibrancy. Her skin was pale peaches and cream, and her bright hair, though tucked up on the sides, sprang loose in headstrong ringlets along her cheeks and neck.
She was, in short, a stunning beauty.
At that moment, a wagon, going much too rapidly, sped down the dirt thoroughfare. The woman, halfway across, looked up in alarm, too late to get out of the way.
The mules kicked up a dust devil, and the woman cried out. The wagon barreled on past, the driver yelling at the out-of-control mules. Thad dropped his carpetbag and rushed to the woman’s side. She was on the ground, struggling to sit upright.
Thaddeus went to his knees beside her. “Ma’am, are you injured?”
Her chest rose and fell in breathy gasps. Her peach cheeks had turned as red as summer roses. She shook her head. Her bonnet was aske
w, her ribbons untied.
“I don’t think so. I am, however,” she said with a jut of her chin, “quite furious.”
A smile tugged at Thad’s lips. There was fire beneath that red hair.
“Allow me to assist you.” Without waiting for her reply, he slid both hands around a very narrow waist and easily lifted her to her feet.
She landed with her hands gripping both his arms to steady herself, and he couldn’t help noticing how utterly feminine and fragile she seemed to his superior height. Closer now, her beauty struck him like a blow. He’d not noticed a woman other than Amelia since he was eighteen. Noticing this one disturbed him. He loosened his hold and stepped back. Her hands still rested on his arms, too close, close enough that her rose scent tickled his nose and sent a hot spiral of memory through his body.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, in a drawl as thick and sweet as honey. “You are too kind.”
“Glad to be of service. Looks like the wagon had a runaway.”
“Sterling Bridges couldn’t drive a wagon if his life depended on it, and the silly man doesn’t have the decency of a field rat. He should be flogged. But you, sir, are clearly a gentleman.” She pouted prettily, and Thad had the uncomfortable feeling that she was flirting.
“Your bonnet,” he said, with a pointed glance. The garment skewed toward her left ear, dislodging handfuls of copper hair. Thad battled an overwhelming and altogether undesirable urge to smooth the mesmerizing curls.
To his relief, she released her hold on his arms to straighten her bonnet.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured as she bent to dust her skirt. “Would you look at that?”
The basket she had carried now lay crumpled in the dirt, at least a half-dozen eggs broken and seeping yellow.
“A shame,” he said, though he was tempted to scoop up the raw yolks, dirt and all, and gulp them down. “Let’s see if we can salvage any.”
They crouched together and gingerly picked through the sticky mess. Thad removed his handkerchief. “Use this to wipe off the unbroken ones.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” But she did, and another smile tugged at his mouth.
When at last they’d salvaged thirteen eggs, she said, “You’ve saved my morning, sir, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Thaddeus Eriksson, ma’am.” He handed her the damaged basket. “Just arrived in town. I’ve come to work with my cousin Will at the Portland Grist Mill. Perhaps you could direct me there.”
Her hand flew to her lips. She shrank back. “No!”
Puzzled at her violent reaction, he offered his best smile. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies for the way I must look. I’m a mite rusty around the edges from the long trip but eager to see my cousin again and be of service.”
As if the air had suddenly taken on a nasty smell, she tossed her nose up high. Thad resisted the urge to sniff his armpits.
“No one around here needs your services, Mr. Eriksson. Go back to Ohio.” Giving an insulted toss of her head, she stalked to a wagon parked in front of the milliner.
Thad stood in the middle of the main street with his mouth open and a furrowed brow. Had he mentioned Ohio to her? Had William changed his mind? Was Thad’s skill no longer needed at the mill? Who was she?
When the fiery woman slapped the reins and drove away, wagon rumbling like a distant storm, Thad heard laughter. Turning toward the sound, he saw the apron-clad merchant leaning on his broom, his salt-and-pepper mustache curled above a wide grin.
“Ran into a wildcat, didn’t you, son?”
Embarrassed, Thad dusted his cap against his britches. “What did I do?”
“’Sakes, man, you ought to know by now. It’s not what you did. It’s who you are. Nothing that woman hates more than a Yankee.”
Thad stifled a sigh. “Who is she?”
“That furious little firebrand is Miss Josephine Portland.”
“Portland?” Realization dawned and dread seeped into his tired, hungry body.
“Yes, sir.” Merriman chuckled again and pointed in the direction of the now distant wagon. “If you’re looking for the Portland Mill, just follow her trail of dust.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE PORTLAND MILL operation was a handsome endeavor. Nestled in a thick green wood with vines growing up the sides of the white-mortared red brick and with the sound of clean creek water bubbling over the wheel, the mill stirred a passion in Thaddeus that nearly erased the hostile meeting with one Miss Josephine Portland.
The woman engendered any number of feelings in him, most of which he didn’t know what to do with. Amusement, annoyance and, though it made him feel disloyal, attraction.
Seeing her again at the farmhouse could prove...interesting. But for now, his focus was his cousin and the gristmill.
With Will grinning at his side and his belly filled with cold corn bread, he roamed through the mill works, pausing to smooth his hands over the fifteen-hundred-pound runner stone, immobile now as the wheel waited for his expertise.
“Who’s been running this place?” He turned to the second cousin on his father’s side who’d brought him here.
William Gadsden was a fine specimen of man. At two years Thad’s senior, he maintained his regal military bearing and air of command. Lean and dark-haired with a wisdom born of sorrows, Will was a man to trust and respect, and the fact that they’d once climbed trees together and prowled on bare feet through Grandfather’s marble factory making a nuisance of themselves made him a man to like.
“Charlotte before I came. Now mostly myself.”
Thad heard the tenderness and admiration in William’s voice. “Charlotte? A woman ran the mill?”
“Wait till you meet her, Thad. She’s the strength that kept the farm and gristmill going when others would have faltered. She’s beautiful and kind and—”
Thad clapped him on the shoulder. “And you are a happy husband.”
“In a way I thought impossible during the campaign years and even for a time thereafter. Though God spared my life from the twin hells of combat and Confederate prison, Charlotte gave me a reason to live again.”
Forever and always, I will love you.
Thad turned away, pretending to study the pulley system used to move the grain to the upper floor. The iron needed oiling, parts needed cleaning, repair and replacing. There was much to do here. But it was not the mill that occupied Thad’s mind. Though he rejoiced in Will’s good fortune, he selfishly despaired in his lack thereof. What plan did the Almighty have for one such as him?
As if he knew he’d touched a tender spot, Will said, “I am truly grateful that you’ve come, cousin. The burden you carry does not go unnoticed.”
“As I am truly happy for you and Charlotte. You seem to have found your anchor.”
“I have.”
He, on the other hand, flailed in the winds of happenstance like a feather on a stormy sea. His foundation had been yanked from beneath him, and he had no solid rock on which to stand. He, like his cousin before him, sought a reason to live again.
“I never would have picked you for a farmer and a mill operator,” he said.
“That, my friend, is where you come in. The farm thrives. On the other hand, the mill limps along like a hobbled mule. I’m convinced we can do better with the right man at the wheel.”
“The family thought you’d return to the marble factory. Grandfather’s business would have been yours.”
A soft smile lit Will’s face. “Love is stronger than commerce.”
“Stronger than the anger and resentment a Northerner encounters here in the broken South?”
His cousin cocked his head and squinted. “Your journey was not a pleasant one, I take.”
“Nor my arrival. I met one of the Portland women in Honey Ridge this morning.”
Will’s eyebrows rose. “Did you now? Who would that be?”
“A beautiful redhead named Josephine.” He unwittingly recalled her rose scent, the fire in her eyes and the heat in her touch that had made him feel alive again, if only for those few seconds.
With a strange expression, part amusement and the other parts dismay and pity, William carefully asked, “How did that go?”
Thad smirked in self-derision. “Not too well. She wasn’t happy to make my handsome acquaintance, if you can imagine.”
“Josie bears strong opinions about most things...and people.”
“So I hear.” He relayed the manner of their meeting, ending with Josie’s abrupt departure and his walk to the mill in her cloud of dust.
William chuckled but quickly pinched his lip twixt finger and thumb and sobered. “Forgive me. I, more than anyone, understand the icy fire of Josie Portland.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“No man with eyes can deny that, but beauty is deceptive. Josie has a heart, but it is buried deep beneath her resentment and anger.”
“Perhaps she needs to come down off her high horse.”
Will frowned slightly, studying him. “Tread lightly, cousin. You’re a Union man.” Then he smiled. “Josephine Portland would happily slit your throat.”
Thad realized then that he’d been teetering on the edge, wondering if he should turn around and go back to Ohio, where, at least, he was not the enemy. But the aptly spoken jest, instead of deterring him, was exactly the impetus he needed to stay, if only to prove himself worthy of the challenge.
With a resurrected twig of his former self, Thad experienced the stirring of purpose along with the gossamer thread of something else, something long buried beneath a pile of ashes.
“Yes.” His lips curved. “I do believe she would.”
* * *
JOSIE KNELT ON the pine floor of the sewing room, scissors in hand as she salvaged worn shirts and discarded dresses collected from neighbors and friends, saving the buttons and cutting the still-serviceable pieces of fabric into precise squares for a new quilt top.
The Rain Sparrow Page 23