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

by Stephenia H. McGee

  I picked up the pen and twirled it in my fingers. Finally making my decision, I put the pen to the paper.

  The door flew open. I dropped the pen and it rolled off the table and clattered on the floor. I turned to see Luke standing next to the sheriff. His face looked stern, his ocean eyes as dark as a stormy day. Neither of us spoke.

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Ben cleared his throat. “Well, Emily, Luke has come to bail you out. You’ll have to stay in town and return for court Thursday morning.”

  “Thank you, Luke,” I squeaked.

  He gave a curt nod but didn’t speak.

  “You’re free to go.” Sheriff Ben held the door wide and I walked through it, leaving the papers behind. I kept my eyes on the floor, unable to bear the look on Luke’s face again.

  Outside, I took in a deep breath of the sticky air and wished none of this had ever happened. I desperately needed a massage to work out the knots in my shoulders. I rolled them back and stretched my neck, neither of which helped.

  “Come on,” Luke said. “I’ll take you home. Then we need to talk about what happened today.”

  I followed him to his truck and climbed in. The tension in the air settled on me like a thick coat of smog: choking, dark and filthy. We rode in silence. For some reason, I expected him to take me back to Ironwood. Instead, he parked at Dee’s.

  I put my hand on the door handle to get out and go inside when Luke stopped me.

  “Wait.”

  I twisted in my seat to look at him. He stared straight ahead. “Emily, really, what were you thinking?” His voice was thick, and the emotion in it made my heart drop.

  I fished for the best answer, but didn’t get a nibble. I sighed. Honesty seemed to be my only option. “I wasn’t thinking. I let my anger get the better of me.”

  “I can’t believe you actually punched an old lady.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. The disappointment in his voice made it even worse. He was right. What kind of demented person hits the elderly?

  I lowered my head. “I know. I’m really sorry.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She said the house should have been hers. She waved papers at me and told everyone I was a criminal. Then she said I was nothing but the worthless daughter of an illegitimate son of a drug addict.”

  Luke remained silent for a long time, then looked up at the roof of the truck and took a deep breath. “That was an awful thing for her to say. I know those words must have hurt you and made you angry.”

  My turn to be silent. Not the response I expected. The fact that he didn’t lash out at me made me feel even worse. “It still didn’t give me any right to hit her. I feel horrible about it. I’ll do what I can to make it right.”

  Luke looked at me, searching. “Will you? You would go and ask her forgiveness? Show mercy if she says terrible things to you again? Because that’s what it will take to make things right. Is that what you are willing to do, Emily?”

  I bit my lower lip. “I want to say I will do those things. I want to be able to. I just don’t know if I can. I don’t know if it is in me to show her that kind of compassion.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.”

  Moisture flooded my eyes and the back of my throat burned. I’d hoped Luke believed better of me than I did of myself. That hope dwindled with just two words.

  “But it’s not in any of us,” he said softly.

  My gaze snapped to his face. His intense eyes were focused on me. “That kind of love and compassion can only come from God.”

  I shook my head. Enough already! I yanked open the door. “Thank you for bailing me out. I’ll pay you back.”

  I jumped out of the truck and dashed for the safety of the house, now thankful Dee only locked the door at night. I didn’t have to fumble with the keys and give Luke a chance to catch up to me. Inside, I could hear Dee in the kitchen. I dashed up the stairs, running like a child in trouble, and slammed my door shut. I turned the lock and leaned against the door, holding my breath. No footsteps followed me. I slid down the door and crumpled into a heap.

  Feeling lost and alone, I let the dragon out of his cage as the bitterness consumed me.

  August 18, 1862

  They’ve come for Charles. I knew it wouldn’t be long. This war is coming like a mighty beast swooping over the land, devouring the souls of all in its path. It won’t be much longer until it reaches Ironwood. The Confederates want Corinth back. The men said that Van Dorn is gathering troops to take the city from the Yankees. Charles says that now that they have made it into Mississippi it will not be long until they reach Oakville. He will soon decide if he will choose to join the fighting so many of the men have already gone to. Too many ladies from town are now widows. Too many mothers have lost sons.

  I cannot bear to see Charles go off to war. I have only just found him. I cannot lose him now. His cousin Mr. Daniels and two others have tried to convince him to go, and I worry their words will sway him. I hid at the door and listened until Ruth caught me. I told myself I would let it go and think no more it. Yet, here I sit, writing about it instead. Enough. I’m moving on to other things.

  I have been busy with Ruth’s story. She is able to write, but her words are often confused and hard to decipher. She’s asked me to copy her words for her, and I have agreed. It will give her something to pass on to her children.

  In her room I took out my writing utensils and dipped my pen in the ink well. I spread open a new book of pages and wrote The Story of Ruth.

  “Now,” I said, “we shall start at the beginning.”

  Conflicting emotions skittered across Ruth’s features, but finally she began to speak. The pain in her voice often brought tears burning to the back of my throat, but I managed to keep them from sprouting in my eyes. Often I had to pause in my writing to allow her to gather herself enough to continue. After what felt like several hours, we decided we’d accomplished enough for one evening.

  “Shall we work on it some more tomorrow?” I asked, hopeful she would wish to continue the project. I packed away my utensils and kept my face turned from her. It would not do for her to see me too interested in such a project.

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  Ruth led me to the door, and I patted her arm. “I will be a great thing. A story you can pass on to your children and your children’s children.”

  Ruth’s eyes tightened, but she quickly whisked the expression away. “Good night, Ma’am.”

  And we once again returned to “Ma’am”. How was I to take this woman? “Well, Good night, Ruth. I will see you in the morning.”

  The next days passed in much the same way. In the evenings I would come to her room and copy her stories, adjusting the words and maintaining proper format. Together we have been making a good transcription of her life before she came here. It keeps me busy on the many nights when Charles is preoccupied with the business of running the plantation. If he were to leave, how will I be able to carry on the care of Ironwood on my own?

  I keep her book hidden. I don’t really know who would be interested in it, but I just want to keep it safe. It is not the only thing I have been hiding of late. The ladies over at the Hollingsworth place heard the Union soldiers were raiding houses in Tennessee, taking valuables for their cause. There are a few things that I treasure in this world. Momma’s brooch, the pearls Daddy gave me on my fifteenth birthday, a comb that my grandfather brought back from England for my grandmother, and my wedding ring. That will never leave my finger, but I now keep the other trinkets safe in my jewelry box. I fear a time will soon come when I will need to find an even more secure place for them.

  Nothing more has been happening around Ironwood. I continue to grow in my faith and my love for Charles. It is a path I vow to walk daily.

  August 20, 1862

  The days are stifling hot, and the only relief we can find comes when the sun dips lower in the sky. Today I decided I was tired of meeting in secret, and that Ruth should
sit with me in the garden in the late afternoon. She was finished with her work, and I saw no reason why we could not enjoy the relatively pleasant day under the shade tree.

  “You know the rest,” Ruth said, looking up at the swaying tree branches. “Ain’t nothin’ more for me to tell.”

  “I only know it as I saw it, not as you saw it,” I told her, taking a moment to pull my shoulders back and relieve the aching muscles. I had been writing for more than an hour and the light waned with the decent of the sun. Soon Ruth would have to return to the kitchen to help bring out the evening meal.

  “That makes no sense. We both saw the same thing,” Ruth said.

  I shook my head. “No, I was on my way to buy fabric when I saw a striking young Negro woman with fire in her eyes defy a man trying to beat her. I don’t really know what you saw. Or how you felt.”

  Ruth’s eyebrows pulled together. “That’s how you saw me?”

  “Yes. And that’s exactly my point. How I remember that day is different from how you remember it.”

  She seemed to think about that for a moment. I didn’t rush her. A few birds twittered in the branches above us. The rose bushes released their delicate fragrance into the air. A few needed trimming, and I made a mental note to add that to my list. Ruth’s voice drew me back to the matter at hand.

  “I was sore, tired, and angry. Losin’ my sister, the last family I had, made me reckless. I didn’t care no more. I didn’t want that filthy man touching me. I knew I shoulda been actin’ good, hopin’ someone kind would buy me, and I’d have a better chance somewhere else. I knew it, but it still didn’t matter.” A strange expression crossed her face. “But I guess God had a plan anyway, ’cause outta nowhere comes this little white lady with a bonnet too big for her head yellin’ at that man like she was his master. Ain’t never seen no woman stop a man cold like that.” She wagged her head.

  I bit my lower lip to hide my smile and bent over my papers. It was getting too dark to see to write now, but it kept me from having to look at her.

  “Then that bold white lady comes across the street and offers to take me. Lord, I didn’t know what to think. Then ’fore I knows it, she’s got me ridin’ in a carriage with her and tellin’ me I’m gonna be workin’ in the big house. I remember tellin’ God he sure got a funny way of doin’ things.”

  I couldn’t help it then. Pride swelled in me and I laughed. Without thought I pulled her into a hug. “It is the beauty from the ashes! Who would have thought?”

  Ruth stiffened and pulled away from me, breaking the moment and sending my skyward thoughts plummeting back to reality. “Miss Lydia, you knows I care for you. But other folks ain’t gonna understand our friendship. With all this talk of war and people gettin’ antsy over what’s goin’ be happenin’ with the slaves, you’s bein’ so friendly with me might get you into trouble.”

  I stilled. Ruth spoke as one who had an understanding of life outside Ironwood. I studied her, wondering just how much she knew. “How do you know all that about the war?”

  “I got ears. I listen. So do all the others. We knows that new president they got up there is talkin’ about freein’ slaves. I know there’s stirrin’ ’bout it down here. I hears the men talkin’ while we cleanin’ up. They don’t pay us no mind, don’t think we knows what they’s talkin’ ’bout. But we do. We know. And we’s all listenin’.”

  A chill ran down my spine. I gathered the writings and shoved them under my arm. “It’s getting late, Ruth. You better hurry into the kitchen before Lucy has a fit. We’ll work on all this tomorrow.” I hurried off before she could say anything.

  Back in my room I pondered her words. It made sense they would be listening. And listening with keen interest. Conflicting emotions battled within me. My anger surprises me, but I cannot help but wonder if war comes to Oakville will they all run off? Charles treats them well. They are taken care of. And Ironwood’s survival depends on them. How would we make it if they all left?

  The other part of me tried to step out of my world and think of what it must be like in Ruth’s. They wanted freedom. The very thing every human longs for. To go and do as you please, to earn your own way, provide for your family.

  In some ways I can see no difference. Poor white men labor many hard hours in order to simply provide a home, food, and clothing to their family. The coloreds work many hours and while they are not given a wage, all that wage would buy for them is already given. Currency only serves as a means to the same end. The people at Ironwood have more to eat and better clothing than most.

  But then, they have no choices, either. What must it be like to never leave this land? To never make your own decisions about what you want to do with your life? But do any of us get to choose? We are all born into our places, and very few ever escape.

  My stomach churned. I could not imagine what it must have been like for Ruth. The pain she had been through. The treatment she had endured. She has been a captive all her life.

  A captive, yet in some ways freer than I have been. She is bound in body and free in spirit while I was free in body but my spirit remained trapped.

  Now I know both freedoms, but Ruth does not.

  From my window I can see the lights burning at the slave quarters. What they are doing down there? What are they thinking? Are they planning escape?

  I wonder—would I stop them if they tried?

  Would I even help them to succeed?

  A cool breeze tickled at my bare shoulder. I shivered and pulled the blanket up under my chin, burrowing into the warm quilt. The wind continued to pull at my hair, freeing the tresses scurrying across my face. Consciousness tugged at me, beckoning me to remember something important. Like leaving the window open.

  I’d sat by the door in my room at Dee’s for a long time, wondering if anyone would come for me. No one ever did. I suppose I shouldn’t have really been surprised. Besides, I could deal with things on my own. It served me right for ever starting to think otherwise. After my tears were spent and the hollowness left an ache, I’d crawled into bed not even bothering to change out of my clothes. Or eat.

  The night grew cooler. I snuggled deeper into the lumpy mattress. Funny, it always felt more comfortable. Probably just my sore muscles protesting. I flipped over. The breeze blew stronger.

  Awareness tugged at me, forcing me from the strange limbo in between sleep and full consciousness. I knew I hadn’t left a window open. I’d never opened the window at Dee’s.

  I cracked an eye, but it was too dark to see. I opened the other one and let them adjust to the dim light streaming in through the nearby window. As my surroundings started to take shape, panic gripped my gut.

  I was at Ironwood.

  Had I come over here in the middle of the night? I sat up in the bed, thick quilts falling off me, exposing me to the cold air. I rubbed my arms, wishing I had on sleeves instead of just a tank top. I swung my feet over the side and stepped over to look out my second story window.

  A full moon hung high in the sky. The gardens below were quiet. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary other than the fact that I’d been sleeping at Ironwood. “You need to keep your head on straight, Emily,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  I pulled the heavy window shut, closing off the frigid breeze. Wow, the summer nights could get way colder here that I thought. I hurried across the floor, wondering where I’d left my flip-flops. Feeling along the wall for the lights, I stubbed my toe and ran into a dresser but didn’t find the switch. I gave up. I could locate the familiar switch in the hall.

  I must have been more distraught than I’d thought if I’d come all the way back to the house to sleep in the guest room. I shook my head, trying not to let myself worry that I’d now begun sleepwalking. This place was seriously messing with me. Forget all the sentimentalities, small-town life, traditions and the handsome preacher. I had to sell Ironwood and get out of here while I still could.

  I slipped out into the hallway and, forgoing the light, shuffled toward the st
airs to check the thermostat. A faint glow caught my attention. I paused at the stairway, wondering if I should investigate or just get out of here. In horror movies curious people get killed.

  I put my foot on the first step. No. Stop being stupid. There were no axe murders in the house. Just dust and cobwebs and too much history. I pulled my foot back. I really should see what’s down there. My stomach rolled in protest to my logic’s firm insistence that nothing would get me.

  I crept slowly down the hall. The glow emanated from a small sliver of light escaping the bottom of the door to the last room on the right.

  I inched closer, careful to avoid any boisterous floorboards. The door stood slightly cracked. I leaned closer. A faint scratching sound made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  Ice water replaced the hemoglobin throbbing through my veins, spurring my heart into my throat. A surge of adrenalin begged my body to flee. My feet refused to obey the order. I held my breath, listening.

  The steady scratching sound stopped. I adjusted my position to try to see through the crack. A candle burned on a small roll-top desk with a stack of papers next to it.

  A hand reached out and worked across the page. The scratching sound resumed. Either I’d totally lost my mind or something really strange was going on. I was too afraid to test either theory.

  I slowly raised my trembling fingers to the door. It eased silently inward. Now I had a crack about an inch wide. I put my eye to the opening. A woman in a long white gown sat at the desk, dark hair cascading in waves down her back.

  My suspicions were confirmed. The house was haunted. The only other explanation I could think of meant I’d earned myself an all-inclusive trip to the nuthouse. I decided to keep my position and see what happened. I knew it had to be Lydia at the desk. I didn’t want her to see me because I needed time to observe.

  I waited while she continued writing. When she finished, she folded the papers and picked up the candle. I tensed, ready to bolt if she came this way. She tilted the candle, and a small stream of liquid wax poured onto the folded pages.