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

by Stephenia H. McGee

  I lunged, sending the spike right through the devil’s eye. He staggered backward, blood oozing from his face. I grabbed Ruth and swung onto Snowflake. An enraged roar erupted behind us, but I dug my heels into the horse’s flanks and we bolted forward.

  Snowflake ran in a headlong gallop and we didn’t look back. I don’t know if he still lies there, dead in the blood and mud. I cannot keep from hoping so.

  The horse galloped all the way back to the barn and then jerked to a halt with her sides heaving. I know someone must have been there—someone helped us down, took us to my room, and tried to pry Ruth’s hand from mine. But I would not let her go. Worried voices dropped questions on my ears, but I heard none of them. I pushed them all from my room and locked the door, holding Ruth and me safely inside. The tears took us then. I do not know for how long.

  She is in my bed now. Asleep in my nightgown. She seems at peace. I tried to sleep as well, but the images kept coming. Terrors from my past and terrors of the present.

  The dawn is coming now. Its rays are breaking across the storm weathered ground. Its light touches across Ironwood, but it cannot reach my heart. The darkness there only grows. But I will no longer hide it. I will use it to fight. This is my home now, and I will do everything I can to protect it.

  I clutched the diary to my chest, an inundation of emotions battling inside of me. My sides heaved and I forced myself to remember I was not really there with them on the plantation. Yet, I smelled the cotton and heard the soulful singing. I felt the drenching rain and the wind pulling at my hair. Somehow in the reading, I saw what she saw and felt what she felt.

  With sudden clarity I realized my own writing always fell far short of invoking emotion. I removed the emotion from my stories because I’d removed it from my life. I clutched the diary tighter as if it could save me from the sudden self-awareness that threatened to override my defenses. I’d become cold. Strong, maybe, but distant, and captive to the darkness that haunted me. I shuddered.

  Safely alone, I let my barriers inch down and allowed myself to feel the emotions warring in my soul. Disgust, pain, anguish, empathy and the feelings of pride and vindication when Lydia thrust the spoke into the villain’s eye, all flooded my senses. I wrestled with the shame of wishing she had killed him and buried his body in the woods because somehow, I thought his death could pay for all the wrongs done to her and to Ruth.

  And to me.

  Tears ran down my cheeks. I gathered the covers around me and buried myself beneath them in a pathetic attempt to control the emotions the diary both caused and echoed.

  Was this the truth of life? Were all men lying in wait to devour the weak? Did they all harbor desires to take what they wanted from whoever they could? I thought this depravity developed from a generation ruled by the booming pornography industry, but reading Lydia’s words I knew it had existed long before. My fantasies of times long past where men were gentlemen and protectors proved to be nothing but shams and shadows of lies. Such men never existed outside of fairytales. None of them were honorable.

  The dragon uncurled and refused to be contained any longer. I let go of all hope and let him take over my thoughts. I was cursed—from a cursed family. I came from a line of people who were abused, who might have been abusers themselves. They bought, sold, and used people like they were animals, with no regard for the sacredness of life.

  I drew a long breath. The dragon was terrifying, but it made me stronger. The walls I’d built around myself would hold. I did not need anyone, especially a man. I could survive on my own—alone.

  But, I didn’t really want to be alone. Somewhere deep inside, I wanted someone to rescue me from my self-imposed prison. But who could I trust?

  Luke filled my mind. I pushed his image away, but his words from Sunday could not be ignored. Forgiveness. If I did not forgive, I would be lost to the monsters that clawed inside of me. The bitterness they brought would destroy me. I knew it to be true, but I could not forgive. My secrets weighed on my heart until they robbed me of life.

  Lydia had fought back, so I could too. We had much in common. If only I could talk to her—she would understand. I wriggled out from under the covers and looked at the book again. To know the heart of this woman yet never know her was unfair. We could have been great friends. I closed my eyes and sighed. I would be strong like Lydia.

  I turned off the light and drifted into a fitful sleep, dark and dreamless. I awoke with the morning sunrise and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the birth of the new day. Lydia’s words echoed in my heart. The sun’s rays could never reach the darkness there.

  I dressed quickly and slipped out of the house before Dee woke for breakfast. My pitiful four-cylinder roared like a racer in the early morning silence, no doubt drawing the neighbors from their slumber.

  Empty buildings and deserted sidewalks greeted me as my car wound through the streets of Oakville. Most of the residents still sipped their coffee, getting ready for the workday. Yet, Ironwood called to me like a melancholy siren, and I could not resist its tune. I pushed the little car through town and down the long drive, stopping abruptly in front of the house.

  I stepped out of the car and stared up at it, wondering how many more secrets it held. I fished the keys from my pocket and let myself in.

  My Ironwood.

  Was this the way Lydia felt when she claimed this house as her own, the day she stepped into her role as its lady so long ago? Well, I was the lady of the house now. I walked up the stairway, running my hand over the banister. Had Lydia done the same? Did her hands contribute to the smooth wornness? My mind retraced her descriptions of her room.

  My breath caught. The dream! The room at the end of the hall looked exactly as she had described it in the diary. Why had I not realized it before? The white basin I’d seen in the corner, the large bed, and the dresses in the armoire.

  I walked to the end of the hall. The modern decor greeted me, unchanged since I’d seen it my first day in the house. Still, a sense of knowing flooded over me. She and Ruth had been in this very room. This was their home—my home.

  I shook my head. Why did I let myself get carried away? But then, was it so bad if I let myself be swept away in this riptide and then see what waited when I surfaced? What did I have to go back to in New Jersey anyway? A tiny apartment I could no longer afford in a city where I had no job, no friends, and no family? At least here I had Lydia’s legacy and the home she loved.

  I sank to the floor. I have no idea how long I sat in Lydia’s room thinking about all the things I knew about her and all the things I wished I could forget about me.

  “Emily?”

  Luke! I jumped to my feet. “Oh! I didn’t know you were here.”

  He looked a little sheepish. “I’m sorry. I saw your car, and the front door was open….”

  “It’s okay. You just startled me. I didn’t realize I left the door open.” I took a deep breath, hoping my appearance didn’t betray me. We stared at each other. I brushed invisible dust from my pants. “I guess we should get started.”

  Luke tilted his head. “Yeah….” He paused, maybe waiting for me to say something more. I didn’t. “Well,” he continued, “I think we should begin in the kitchen since it’s the newest addition to the house.”

  “Fine,” I said, my mind drawing up images of Ruth, Lucy and Betsy preparing meals in the kitchen out back, long before kitchens were part of the main house. I followed him down the stairs and forced myself to stop thinking about the past.

  Luke poked his head under the cabinets and looked behind panels on the walls. He inspected every nook and cranny with a flashlight, with me following behind him feeling useless and a little silly. Hadn’t we already done this with the inspector? The repeated procedure did nothing to help my petulant mood.

  Finally the awkward silence grew to be too much, even for me. “Well? What do you think?”

  Luke flashed me his naturally white, although slightly crooked smile. “Good news. This place l
ooks to be in really good shape for such an old house. I think we can get by on much less than I first thought.” He looked around the house with appreciation. “It’s amazing how this house has been around so long, and been through so much, yet still looks this good.”

  “It must be well-built—strong.”

  Luke looked at me sort of funny. “Yeah. I guess that’s true. How about we go to town and get the supplies, then I’ll get to work on the few pipes that need attention and you can start with the painting?”

  Two separate jobs in two different locations. Probably for the best. “Sounds good to me.”

  The ride to town proved uneventful, the periods of silence broken only by Luke’s cheerful monologue about the town’s history and people. I tried to look interested, but my mind wandered despite my best efforts.

  We picked up supplies from his hardware store, and I chose a dark green paint for the shutters because I thought Lydia would like it. This adventure seemed to have adverse effects on my mental state, but I disregarded it as yet another one of my little quirks and just went with it.

  “So, what did you think of the church service?” Luke asked as soon as we were back in the truck and pulling away from the store.

  I eyed him. After getting through our dinner without him bringing it up, I’d thought I was safely free of the subject. “I wondered how long it would take for you to ask me that. But since we’re going there, how about you answer my question instead? Why didn’t you tell me you were the preacher when you asked me to go?”

  “Because you didn’t—”

  “If you say it’s because I didn’t ask,” I interrupted, “I’m going to hit you.”

  Luke lifted his free hand in mock surrender. “Easy, easy.” He ran his fingers through his hair, and the desire to feel how those tresses would feel between my own fingers leapt up and bit me with surprise. I quickly swept the unruly thought away.

  “I don’t know,” Luke continued, completely unaware of my traitorous thoughts. “I guess because I didn’t want it to seem like I asked you to come just to hear me speak. I wanted you to come to church because you wanted to, not because you felt like you had to come listen to me.”

  Never mind I hadn’t wanted to go at all. I could see his point, though. His grin chipped at my heart, and I found myself wondering if Luke might actually be all that he seemed. I sighed. Must this man lay siege to the walls I’d so tediously built? “Okay. I see your point. Still, a little warning would have been nice. I thought you were the handyman.”

  “I am.”

  “And the preacher.”

  “And the preacher.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Are you sure you’re not related to Dee? I swear I had this exact same conversation with her.”

  We both laughed, and the ease of it lightened my mood. “It was a nice service, as churches go.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  I turned my attention to the window as Luke pulled into the driveway. He cleared his throat. Great. That probably meant he was preparing to say something that would make me uncomfortable. I braced myself.

  “What did you think of the message?”

  I turned to face him. Of all days for him to ask. “Well, honestly, I think it all sounds well and good when you’re talking about forgiveness for things such as the neighbor’s dog tearing up your yard or someone cutting you off in traffic. I just don’t think that stuff applies to anything real.” I crossed my arms and shot him a look that dared him to argue with me. He took the challenge.

  “I think it especially applies to the real things. It’s for those things forgiveness means the most.” He cut the engine and shifted on the bench seat to face me.

  I didn’t respond. Yeah, right. I tried to keep my expression neutral. He knew my opinion and that was that.

  He ran his fingers through his hair again. If he kept that up he’d be bald by forty.

  “Forgiveness doesn’t mean what they did is okay,” he said softly. “It doesn’t mean everything is magically better. It doesn’t even mean you have to restore a relationship with that person or trust them again. Forgiveness simply means you let go of the burden that drags you down. It gives you peace.”

  Not wanting to continue the conversation further, I mumbled, “Okay,” and jumped out of the truck. Luke helped me unload the supplies and carry them into the house, letting the subject drop. To his credit, he wasn’t pushy. I found it harder and harder not to like him, although I knew better than to trust him. Lydia would agree.

  I grabbed my paint and supplies to start the task of scraping and applying a fresh coat to the front porch shutters. The whole house could use a fresh coat of white, but if I wanted it done it might be better to hire professionals. For now, I’d just have to make do with the shutters…and maybe the front door.

  I tried to pry the paint can open with no luck. After breaking two nails, I finally decided I would have to ask for help. I found Luke inside the front hall, checking a piece of molding that had peeled back from the wall. “Hey, I need a screwdriver to open that paint.”

  “Sure,” he said without looking at me. “In my tool belt by the door.”

  I found the belt lying on the floor and dug through the contents, putting aside a pencil and tape measure, and pricking my finger on a loose screw, but I didn’t find a flat screwdriver. “Hey, Luke? You don’t have one.”

  “What?”

  “A flat screwdriver. You don’t have one.”

  He walked over to me, the sunlight dancing on the dark waves of his hair. “Of course I do. You must have missed it.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I found a cross-ended one, but I couldn’t find a flat one.”

  “Phillip’s head,” he corrected and dug through the pouches on the belt, finally dumping everything on the floor. No screwdriver.

  “Huh. I wonder where it went.”

  I crossed my arms, feeling a little smug. “See? I told you.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, well. You can run next door and ask Miss Beatrice for one. Her farm’s right through the trees on the left side of the driveway.”

  I frowned. I didn’t remember seeing another house so close on our way in. He wanted me to hike through the woods in search of a hidden house? Not a chance. “Why don’t you go?”

  “Because I have work to do.”

  I gaped at him. “So do I!”

  He grinned. “Oh, all right. Come on, we’ll go together.”

  I followed him halfway down the driveway, and then we ducked through a line of trees and into the woods. A briar left an ugly scratch down my arm as a badge for my effort.

  “Why didn’t we take the truck?”

  “It’s quicker this way,” he said, glancing back at me with a twinkle in his eye.

  A few more steps and we came to a clearing that opened into a side yard for a large farmhouse sheltered from the road by a thick line of trees. The winding drive started much farther down the road. The thick scent of cattle soon drifted into my nostrils, and a quick survey of the land revealed a sizable herd just behind the house.

  “Just go on up and knock on the door. I see the shed door open, so I’m going to check there, then lock it up in case she forgot it’s open,” Luke said.

  I followed his orders and stepped up onto the wide porch to knock on the front door. I stood there for a few minutes, but everything remained quiet. No one’s home, I thought. I’d just started to turn when the latch scraped and the door flew open, revealing a shotgun barrel dead level with my face.

  I screamed and covered my head, instantly dropping to my knees.

  “Oh, Lord. This scrawny gal ain’t no threat,” said a distinctively elderly, yet surprisingly strong voice.

  I dared to raise my eyes. A tiny woman, probably barely over five feet tall, with a head full of gray hair, stood there looking at me as if I were the crazy one. I slowly gained my feet right as Luke thundered up on the porch.

  “Emily? What’s wrong? I heard you screaming.”

  I looked
at him, and then turned my eyes on the grinning little woman in the doorway, unable to say a word.

  Luke burst into laughter. “Miss Beatrice, why’d you have to scare her like that? She’s from New Jersey.”

  I didn’t see what my state of origin had to do with anything.

  Beatrice gestured at me with the weapon. “Wasn’t expectin’ company. Thought she could have been trouble.” She fixed her eyes on me. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Emily.”

  We stared at each other.

  Luke cleared his throat. “Miss Beatrice, may I introduce you to Miss Emily Burns, Adela’s great-niece and new owner of Ironwood.”

  The old lady smiled and offered me her free hand. I hesitated. She waited, lifting her eyebrows. Probably better not to offend her. I gave her fingers a quick pump and said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “You as well. Now ya’ll come on in and I’ll get us some tea.”

  She led us through the house and to a small sun room in the back. I sat on a wicker bench, and as soon as she disappeared into the kitchen I glared at Luke. “It’s a good thing I didn’t come here by myself or that crazy lady would’ve shot me!” I whispered through clenched teeth.

  The look of amusement on his face infuriated me. “She wouldn’t have fired at you, she just likes to be careful. She lives here all by herself, and Miss Beatrice has had quite a life. You can’t blame her for being cautious.”

  He looked at me as if he expected me to ask what he meant, but I refused to take the bait. It didn’t matter. He told me anyway. “She brought up five kids by herself during the Depression, ran this farm, and put all of her children through college. She’s a tough one. She doesn’t get out to church every Sunday anymore, but she’s got a solid faith.”

  How like Luke to throw in the church stuff.

  Just then Beatrice returned, her shotgun traded for a tray with three glasses of iced tea and a small plate of sugar cookies.

  “What’s that now? You talking about me, Preacher?”

  Luke grinned. “Yes, Ma’am. I was telling Emily about your five kids and running the farm.”