Heir of Hope: Return to Ironwood Plantation (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2)

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Heir of Hope

  Copyright © 2015 by Stephenia H. McGee

  Kindle Edition

  www.StepheniaMcGee.com

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Though some locations and certain events are historically accurate, names, characters, incidents and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the author’s intent.

  All rights reserved. This book is copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without the author’s written permission. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only the authorized editions.

  Cover Design: Indie Cover Design

  Cover Model:

  Library Cataloging Data

  Names: McGee, Stephenia H. (Stephenia H. McGee) 1983 –

  Title: Heir of Hope; Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2/ Stephenia H. McGee

  336 p. 5.5 in. × 8.5 in. (13.97 cm × 21.59 cm)

  Description: By The Vine Press digital eBook edition | By The Vine Press Trade paperback edition | Mississippi: By The Vine Press, 2015

  Summary: A New Jersey orphan inherits a Mississippi plantation and finds an ancestor’s Civil War diary hidden in the attic.

  Identifiers: LCCN: 2016918318 | ISBN-13: 978-0-9978660-4-9 (trade) | 978-0-9978660-9-4 (POD) | 978-0-9978660-8-7 (ebk.)

  1. Contemporary Christian 2. Clean romance 3. Plantation mansion 4. Historical elements 5. Redemptive healing 6. Overcoming past abuse 7. Women’s issues

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt: Leveraging Lincoln

  Books by Stephenia H. McGee

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for retuning with me to Ironwood. You might find it interesting to know that I actually wrote Heir of Hope (not the original title) before I wrote The Whistle Walk. However, I soon realized that Lydia and Ruth’s story could not be contained only with in the diary. Technically, these books can be read in either order. For those of you who have already read The Whistle Walk, I hope you enjoy seeing Lydia’s perspective on some of the scenes from the first book.

  For those of you who are new to Ironwood, the town of Oakville is fictional as is the Ironwood plantation. However, the name “Ironwood” came from my own family’s estate and I used actual names from my ancestry chart for many of the characters. The inside of the Ironwood house is based on Cedarwycke plantation located in Hamilton, MS as well as the descriptions used for the potato house and kitchen. I’d like to say a special thank you to Ms. Susie Wright for allowing me to use Cedarwycke as an inspiration for Ironwood. I even used the unique plantation name for Lydia’s family home.

  The outside descriptions of the mansion (as well as the photo of the house on the cover) are based on the Herron House, located in Oakland, MS. Although the house was technically built in 1907, the outside still looked like a perfect Ironwood to me. At the time of this writing, it is a lovely bed and breakfast run by Sam and Flora Vance. Thank you both for your wonderful hospitality and for allowing me to use pictures of your home for my Ironwood.

  I hope you enjoy Emily’s story and a new chapter in Ironwood’s history.

  Happy reading!

  For Momma

  For all that He’s brought us through,

  For all that we share, and

  For all that exists beneath the veneer.

  “To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.”

  William Faulkner

  My name is Emily Burns, and this is the story I never intended to write.

  Back when my life made sense, I dreamed of being the next breakout novelist. But this isn’t the masterpiece I visualized presenting to publishers. Nonetheless, perhaps if I put it on paper it will stop burning in my mind and cease pushing its way into my dreams.

  Maybe if I get it out I will finally have some peace.

  So, where to start? When writing fiction, they say the proper thing to do is to drop the reader somewhere in the middle of the action and let them figure out what’s going on. That’s called a hook. Well, since this isn’t fiction, I’m going to commit a cardinal sin and do something entirely different. I’m going to start at the beginning—the time at which my very predictable, ordinary life got turned upside-down.

  It began just one day after I first ventured south of the Mason-Dixon Line, at the start of a relaxing retreat full of writing and the long anticipated chance to start my novel. That’s where life handed me something far more interesting than even my overactive imagination could have produced.

  My thirtieth birthday found me alone, overworked, and generally fed up with my life, and I needed out. No more excuses. Time to get serious about that book. So despite my boss’s protests, I cashed in my vacation time and packed my bags for two gloriously free weeks.

  Fast-forward a few phone calls and a short flight later, and I’d settled into a remote cabin nestled in the towering pines blanketing the northern Georgia mountains. I’ve always loved the mountains. I still remember camping once when I was a kid. That summer held the last good memories of my parents. Anyway, I’d taken the first step and gone to a happy place. Then came the most important of all moments in writing: starting.

  I stared at my computer for a good twenty minutes before I took a break and checked e-mail, played games, and posted results to stupid quizzes on Facebook. Okay, so maybe the cabin wasn’t that remote. But, I couldn’t get too far from civilization, because, seriously, every writer needs the Internet. You know, for research.

  I took a deep breath. Time to get to work. Put the proverbial pen to page, or, rather, fingers to keyboard. The blank page stared back at me. I drummed my fingers and narrowed my eyes at the flashing cursor’s impatience. I’d taken three classes and read all kinds of How To Write and Sell Your Novel books. I could spout all the rules on point of view, creating tension, and developing plot. I knew the fundamentals. How, after all that, could my computer screen still be blank?

  Nevertheless, there I was, angrily tapping the backspace key because yet another opening line just wasn’t enough of a “zinger” to make me the next best-seller. And then the doorbell rang.

  Ordinarily, this wouldn’t—pardon my cliché—make me jump out of my skin. Even people without friends e
xpect to hear the familiar ding-dong once in a while. There’s always the UPS man, Girl Scout, or political activist to account for. But, here in my rustic paradise, I didn’t think I even had a doorbell.

  I cracked the door open and peered out. A round-faced, bespectacled older man in a grey suit stood on the porch. He smiled warmly. I eyed him suspiciously, mentally shifting through any of the cabin’s contents that might serve as a weapon. He looked harmless enough, but a woman alone in the woods could never be too sure.

  “Miss Emily Burns?” The man’s thick Southern drawl coated each word in a sticky layer of gentlemanly charm.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been looking for you. You’re not an easy woman to find.” He lifted a hefty manila envelope.

  I recoiled behind the door, ready to slam it in his face.

  He took a step back. “Forgive me. My name is Buford Cornwall, and I am a lawyer from Itawamba County, Mississippi. I’m here to talk to you about your estate.”

  I eased the door open farther but still kept my hand on the knob. “Ita-what-a?” I looked at him as if he’d just escaped his padded cell. “Estate?”

  “It-uh-whum-buh,” he drawled out, “and I’m here to talk to you about the estate your great-aunt left to you.”

  “You’ve got to be mistaken,” I said, knowing this poor fellow had trudged through the red dirt in his tasseled loafers for nothing. I wasn’t the kind of gal to have any sort of estate.

  “No, no. I’m quite certain. Took me quite a bit of research, but I tracked you all the way through the child welfare system. Then, wouldn’t you know it, found you on Google.”

  I frowned. Good old Google. Who needed private investigators anymore, when anyone could be hunted down on the Internet? “Well, Mr., uh…”

  “Cornwall. Buford D. Cornwall. But, you can just call me Buford.”

  “Right. Mr. Cornwall, maybe we’d better talk about whatever it is you’ve got in that folder.” I studied him a moment longer, until my curiosity overpowered my cynicism, and then stepped back from the door, allowing him entrance to the one-bedroom cabin I hadn’t bothered to clean. I eyed the dirty dishes in the sink, hoping he didn’t notice the pried-open soup can still sitting on the counter.

  He hustled in without hesitation and let the bulk of his frame settle into one of two wooden chairs at the small table that served as both a dining space and my writing desk. It protested with a slight groaning sound. I fought the urge to do the same.

  Shuffling my papers around as if they were something important, I gave myself a moment to collect my thoughts. My parents died when I was ten. My father grew up in the system. My mother never knew her father, and her mother died of cancer when Momma was twenty-three. I had no relatives. I know, because surely one of my three social workers would have diligently looked for some before dumping me into New Jersey child services.

  “Mr. Cornwall….”

  “Buford.”

  “Buford. I’m afraid I don’t understand. What estate?”

  He opened the envelope and pulled out a large color photograph. “This one.”

  His pudgy fingers pushed the image toward me. A house. No, not really a house. More like a mansion. One of those old Southern mansions in Civil War movies, with white columns and everything. I looked back up at Buford, not quite sure what to make of it.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  He looked confused. “No, Ma’am. This here was the home of Miss Adela May Harper, your great-aunt.” His voice softened slightly when he spoke her name, but then quickly returned to its smooth, business-like drawl.

  I shook my head emphatically. “No, I don’t have any relatives.”

  Buford raised a fuzzy eyebrow. “Miss Adela was your father’s aunt. She told me so herself, two months before she died, when she made some adjustments to her will.”

  My forehead wrinkled as I sorted out the implications of Buford’s simple statement. “But, my father said he grew up in the system. He didn’t have a family.”

  Buford nodded slowly and looked at me for what seemed like a very long moment. “Your father’s mother, Adela’s baby sister, dabbled in some, well, not very nice things. She brought home boyfriends who were less than reputable. One night, probably after having been beaten again, your father ran away. He was fifteen. Adela said she reported him missing, but they never heard from him again.”

  I studied a knot-hole on the plank surface of the table. “So, then, if that’s true, how’d you find me, and how are you even sure you’ve got the right woman?”

  “Adela never gave up looking for Jonas. The day she came to me to change her will, she’d finally gotten a lead on him. Said he’d gone north and changed his name, taken on the last name of some poet or something.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Robert Burns. His favorite.

  “Anyway,” Buford continued, “she said she’d found out he’d married and had a child, a girl, but he and his wife died twenty years ago in a car crash. She didn’t know the girl’s name. Only knew Jonas’s pseudonym and that his daughter would have been roughly ten years old when her parents died.”

  I studied Buford’s teddy-bear brown eyes but declined a response. He seemed sincere, and all his information checked out. Still, it was a lot to accept just yet. I nodded for him to continue.

  Buford cleared his throat and leaned into the slats of the chair. “Since she had no children of her own and Margret was her only sister, Adela said the girl would be her only heir. She asked me to start looking, so I did. But, the good Lord took her home just days before I found something.” He paused and leaned forward. “Adela left everything to you.”

  “Everything?”

  He nodded, his clean-shaven, caramel-colored double chin mashing together. “Yes. The house and all its contents, and the remaining balance in her checking account.” He pulled a paper from the folder. “Which totals just over seventy-five thousand, as you’ll see here.”

  I tried to swallow but found my mouth severely lacking the necessary moisture to do so. “And, you’re sure it’s me?”

  The lawyer grinned, revealing even, white teeth. “I’ll just need you to sign a few papers, please.” He pushed a fancy pen across the table.

  Five minutes later, I wished Buford a good trip home and closed the door. I’d promised to look over all the documents and meet up with him in a few days. It looked as though I’d be traveling deeper South than I’d intended.

  When Buford disappeared down the drive, I gathered the papers from the folder and stepped into the bright May sunshine. Thick, warm air settled around me, and I inhaled a deep breath of the clean air, letting its release from my lungs drag some tension from my body. I sat in one of the two rockers on the small front porch and listened to the birds twitter before opening the envelope again.

  I pulled out the glossy photograph of the house. It was absolutely beautiful. I studied it more closely. Chipped paint hung in flakes in several spots, and one of the front shutters sagged. Not that it mattered; I’d probably still get a hefty sum out of it. A small seed of hope sprouted tentative roots. Maybe, for once, something good was about to happen to me.

  I placed the photo on the side table next to my glass of lemonade and fished for another paper, the last will and testament of an aunt I never knew existed. Short and direct, it confirmed Buford’s story. Adela Harper had left everything in her possession to the daughter of her nephew, Jonas B. Harper, living under the name Jonas Burns. I stared at Daddy’s name. What did the B stand for?

  I laid the copies of bank statements on the table and removed a photocopy of a news article. Where had she found this? I ran my finger over the small picture of the pile-up.

  Crash Kills Three, Wounds Two

  A drunk driver took an exit ramp onto interstate 81 last night around 10:00 PM, meeting one car head-on and causing two others to crash. Jonas Burns, 33, a factory worker, and his wife Morgan, 30, a teacher, were both killed instantly in the head-on collision. Sama
ntha Kelly, 57, rear-ended the Burnses’ car and was taken by ambulance but died before arriving at the hospital. Authorities say the drunk driver and his passenger both sustained significant injuries but are expected to recover. Their identities have not yet been released. The police say the driver will be facing DUI charges and possibly….

  Enough. I already knew how the story ended. The paper knew the facts, but didn’t really know anything. Only I knew how Daddy had saved for months to take Momma out to a fancy restaurant in the city for their anniversary, how pretty Momma looked in her new yellow dress and how Daddy’s eyes shone. The paper gave no mention of them kissing their little girl for the last time and leaving her at her best friend Amy’s house. No, those weren’t the things that made news.

  I placed the paper face-down. It represented the first dark cloud in a series of thunderstorms that had caused my irreparable damages.

  “Enough of the past,” I said to the massive pines surrounding the cabin. They swayed in agreement. I needed to figure out my next steps for the future. I tapped my fingers on the armrest. I could use some guidance, some advice. But, who would I call?

  If I’d still been the praying type, I might have implored the Almighty, but God and I were no longer on speaking terms. So what? I could do it. Get a plan, steamroll through. No reason to change tactics now.

  I was already off work, so obviously step one meant traveling to Oakville to sort through all this. Step two would be to cash in the bank accounts, put the house up for sale, and head home. With that kind of money, I could take a year off and really sit down and do some writing. A break from my stuck-up boss would do me wonders.

  I went back inside to scout plane tickets I couldn’t afford. But, then again, seeing as how I’d just come into a fortune, maybe I could. A smile tugged at my lips. Today was the launch of a new future.

  My Internet search revealed the only real airport in Mississippi was in Jackson, and then I’d have to rent a car and drive at least two hours north to get to the barely-on-the-map town of Oakville. Unfortunately, I’d also driven two and a half hours from the airport in Atlanta to reach my rustic little retreat. So, basically I could pay three hundred dollars to take a two-hour plane ride and still drive four hours, or I could just drive the eight-and-a-half from the cabin. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the number for the rental car company. Maybe I could return the car in Jackson and fly home from there when this was all over. I needed to call the airline, too. I started making a list.