“The only sort I want.”
Epilogue
THE GOLDEN GATE GAZETTE
Thursday, July 26, 1860
CANDIDATE FOR MAYOR HENRY HILL TO WED MISS HELEN MORGAN OF THE GOLDEN GATE GAZETTE
Henry Hill, noted attorney and candidate for San Francisco mayor, wishes to announce his engagement to the lovely Helen Morgan, an employee of our own Golden Gate Gazette. The Gazette wishes to congratulate Mr. Hill on his fine choice of a wife, and the future Mrs. Hill on her decision not to continue her brief but illustrious career as a crime fighter. In response, Miss Morgan replies that being the wife of a politician will be adventurous enough for her.
APPLE DUMPLINGS SAN FRANCISCO STYLE
Ingredients:
2 tablespoons of butter
2 tablespoons of sugar
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 teaspoons cinnamon
½ teaspoon grated orange zest
1 cup raisins
8 large apples
1 piecrust, unbaked
White of one egg
Topping:
1–2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Mix together butter, sugar, nutmeg, vanilla, cinnamon, grated orange zest, and raisins. Core apples and stuff butter mixture inside. Cut piecrust into circles and wrap apples completely with crust. Twist dough closed on top and trim excess. The dumpling should look like a small bag. Place each apple in a custard cup (a large muffin tin is an acceptable substitute) and brush with egg white. Sprinkle with topping and bake in 350-degree oven for 30–45 minutes or until crust is brown (time will vary depending on size of apples).
Bestselling author KATHLEEN Y’BARBO is a multiple Carol Award and RITA nominee of more than sixty novels with almost two million copies in print in the US and abroad. A tenth-generation Texan, she has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award as well a Reader’s Choice Award and is the winner of the 2014 Inspirational Romance of the Year by Romantic Times magazine.
Kathleen is a paralegal, a proud military wife, and an expatriate Texan cheering on her beloved Texas Aggies from north of the Red River. Connect with her through social media at www.kathleenybarbo.com.
Sadie’s Secret, a Secret Life of Will Tucker historical romantic suspense novel, is in stores now, as is Firefly Summer, the first in the contemporary Pies, Books & Jesus Book Club!
Dedication
To anyone who has been scarred by life, both on the inside and on the outside.
To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they may be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.
ISAIAH 61:3 NKJV
Chapter 1
The Shaw Plantation, outside Williamsburg, Virginia, May 23, 1865
Permelia Shaw’s stomach growled. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she gazed out the front parlor window. Evening shadows fell upon the cedar and birch trees, coating them in a dull, lifeless gray. Gray like the Confederate uniforms that had been conspicuously absent from Williamsburg these past three years.
Except those that were torn and covered in blood.
A moan rumbled from her belly again. Though she’d eaten an hour ago, the meager fare had not been enough to assuage her hunger—a recurring condition during this horrendous war. Four years was a long time, a lifetime for a young girl who had been only nineteen at the beginning. A lifetime in which she had grown from a pampered daughter of a wealthy plantation owner to a mature woman who could fend for herself.
“I’m hungry.” Sitting upon the flowered sofa, her sister, Annie, voiced Permelia’s thoughts. “Jackson said he’d come by with some meat today.”
Permelia rubbed the blisters on her palms and gazed down at the dirt beneath her fingernails, trying to gather what patience she had left after her long day’s work. “It is not right to take food from that man, Annie.”
“Oh fiddle. Who cares?” her sister whined.
Spinning around, Permelia made her way to the mantel. Striking a match, she lit the gilt-bronze sconces on either side of the fireplace. Golden light spilled into the parlor, chasing away the gloom and cascading over Annie’s lavender taffeta evening gown. No matter the war, no matter their destitute condition, Annie always dressed to perfection.
Just like their mother had done. A quality sorely lacking in Permelia. Sorrow dragged her to sit beside her sister, who drew her lips together in one of her perfectly adorable pouts.
“Without Jackson’s help”—Annie thrust out her chin—“we wouldn’t have been able to keep our furniture, our gowns, and most of our things. Not to mention the occasional pig and rabbit he brings for supper.”
Permelia touched her sister’s arm. “But it’s wrong to entertain his affections, Annie. Not only is he the enemy, but you’re engaged.”
“I haven’t heard from William in over three years.” Annie waved a hand through the air. “For all I know, he is dead.”
Permelia’s heart collapsed. “You shouldn’t say such a thing. You haven’t heard from him because you stopped writing to him.” She slid her hand into a pocket she’d sewed inside her skirts, where the hard shape of the coin brought her comfort—hope that he was still alive, though his last letter had been dated eight months ago.
Annie’s eyes moistened. She lowered her chin. “It was this war. I couldn’t bear the thought of him on the battlefield.”
“There, there.” Permelia flung her arm around her sister’s shoulders and drew her close. “It is, indeed, a hard thing to consider.” She knew that fear all too well for she had thought of nothing else for three years. What she couldn’t understand was how her sister could abandon the man she loved in his darkest hour. When he needed most to read her comforting, loving words. But Annie was different from Permelia. More sensitive to such brutalities.
Drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, Annie dabbed her eyes. “Why hasn’t Jackson come to call in over two days?”
The quick shift of topic from William to Jackson made Permelia wonder who the tears were really for. “Now that the war is over, perhaps he’s gone home.” At least she hoped so. The Union soldier was all charm and good looks. A man who had taken advantage of Annie in her weakened condition.
“How can you say that?” Shrugging from Permelia’s embrace, Annie rose and straightened out the braided ruffles of her gown. “He said he loves me. He said he would never leave me.”
Though the words bristled over Permelia, she studied her sister, trying to understand. The war, the Union occupation of their town, both had taken so much from Annie. Including Colonel William Wolfe, a month before their wedding. No wonder Annie had rushed into the arms of the first man who offered her his protection and love. Yet …
“Jackson shouldn’t say such things when you are betrothed to another.” Permelia held out a hand toward her sister. “Besides, never fear, I’m sure William will arrive any day now.”
Annie swerved about, her hoop skirt nearly knocking over a porcelain vase on the table—one of the objects Mr. Jackson Steele had returned to them. “Everyone leaves me. Papa left me, then Samuel. Then William.”
Rising, Permelia eased beside her sister and took her hand, swallowing down a burst of her own sorrow as she remembered the letter from President Davis announcing the death of their father at Cross Keys. And the one that followed informing them that their brother, Samuel, was listed as missing in action. They’d never heard from him again and could only assume the worst.
“Then Mama last year.” Annie faced Permelia, her eyes swimming. “I cannot lose Jackson, too.”
Permelia squeezed her sister’s hand. “Many have lost much during this war. Some their entire family and homes. We have each other. And God. He has taken good care of us.”
“I have taken care of us.” Annie tugged her hand away. “By accepting Jackson’s courtship. Otherwise those Yankees w
ould have stolen everything we had.”
Permelia’s jaw tensed. “So I suppose my toiling in the fields every day is of no consequence?”
Annie’s eyes softened, and she gave a gentle smile. “Don’t be cross, Permi.” Turning, she traversed the room, then settled back on the sofa. Her smile faded beneath a heavy sigh. “Oh, what are we to do?”
“We are doing fine. Thank goodness Papa left the plantation to us in the event we should lose both Samuel and Mama. Besides, we have Martha, Elijah, and Ruth to help.”
“Slaves,” Annie said with contempt.
“How can you say that?” Permelia took a seat beside her sister. “They are family now. This is their home, too. With Elijah’s help, we will plant tobacco like Papa did and start all over again.”
“Us?” Annie’s face scrunched into a knot. “Women growing tobacco?”
“Why not? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be so independent? To run this plantation by ourselves and answer to no one?”
“I hate this dull, old plantation. All I want is to get married.” Annie gazed out the window.
Permelia studied her sister, wondering how they could be so different, wondering how Annie could so easily throw away a liberty that few women enjoyed. If their brother did not return, whoever Annie married would inherit all the land. Permelia had accepted that fact. But for now, she relished her freedom, relished being in charge of the plantation that had meant so much to her father—and now to her.
“Ah, William,” Annie said dreamily. “So successful, so wealthy, and so handsome.”
Permelia smiled. “And honorable and kind and good. He is still all those things, Annie. If God permitted him to live, he’ll be here soon to marry you.”
“Do you really think so?” Annie’s eyes regained their sparkle.
“Yes.” Though the thought both elated and pained Permelia. Elated her that William lived. Pained her that he would never be hers.
“Then I shall marry him and live in New York, wealthy and happy and strolling the streets on the arm of the most handsome man in the city.” Annie sat up straight and spread her skirts around her. “He is handsome, isn’t he, Permelia?”
“Yes, very.” Permelia’s face heated, and she turned away. Handsome indeed, but so much more than that.
While her sister went on about all the cotillions, plays, and concerts she and William would attend, and the attention they would draw as they sauntered down the Boulevard in New York, Permelia returned to her spot at the window. Darkness settled over the Virginia landscape. A slight breeze stirred the hair dangling about her neck, bringing with it the scent of wild violet and moist fern. Pulling the coin from her pocket she caressed it lovingly—the coin William had given Annie in Central Park as a vow of their love the night the war had separated their families. Permelia had carried it on her person ever since Annie had tossed it out her window in a fit of rage. She brushed her fingers over the engraving on the back:
“Love never fails. W.W. Central Park.”
She prayed that was true. For if William ever came to claim his bride, Permelia would need all the power of her love for both William and Annie to keep her own heart from crumbling.
William Wolfe nudged his weary horse down the path. Weary like him. Removing his cap, he wiped the sweat from his brow. His head throbbed, his back ached, and his legs cramped from riding for five days, stopping only long enough to sleep. He must see Annie. He couldn’t wait another day. Another minute. Even for a quick bath and shave in Williamsburg to remove the stench from his clothes. Besides, the condition of the town had spurred him onward: the crumbling buildings, whiskey-drinking loafers, and hundreds of graves dotting the churchyards. Not to mention the hate-filled looks of the citizens as he rode past in his Union uniform. He’d heard Williamsburg had been occupied by Union forces since early in the war. But what he hadn’t expected was that his fellow soldiers would have caused so much destruction. His only hope was that the pernicious Union arm had not stretched as far as the Shaw plantation, an hour outside of town.
Darkness transformed the landscape into a battlefield of prickly monsters and sinister dwarfs. Or perhaps it was just his war-weary mind. William rubbed the back of his neck. An owl pealed a hoot, hoot from his right, sending a chill over his skin. He chuckled. He’d faced the enemy head-on in battle. Was he now afraid of the dark?
Or perhaps exhaustion and excitement had befuddled his mind. Regardless of the late hour, he must see Annie. He must ensure her safety. He must know if she still loved him.
And whether she would still love him after she saw his face.
William swept fingers over the ripples of burned flesh on his right cheek. Though numb to the touch, the pain of molten iron lingered in an agonizing memory.
He was no longer handsome. He was disfigured, a monster. Wounded on the outside and on the inside in a war that he could not wrap a shred of sense around. A war in which he’d seen thousands of his fellow Americans die.
Ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, William released a heavy sigh and patted the bundle stuffed in his coat pocket. Dozens of letters from his beloved Annie. Letters that made him believe she would love him no matter what he looked like. Letters that had exposed a heart so pure, so loving, it astounded him that he’d not seen it in her before.
Rounding a large oak, his eyes beheld the Shaw plantation house. Still standing! Three Greek-style columns guarded a wide front porch on the first and second levels. Moonlight dripped from the roof like silver rain, making it seem surreal—an ancient palace in another world. Yet the lantern light flickering from the parlor window and in one of the upstairs rooms spoke of an earthly reality. Of living, breathing people inside.
William nudged his horse onward. “We’re almost there, fellow.”
The beast begrudgingly complied, even heightening its pace as the gravel crunched beneath its hooves, mimicking the pounding of William’s heart. He halted before the house, slid from his saddle, straightened his coat, and slowly made his way up the stairs to stand before the door.
He raised his hand to knock when he heard the distinct cock of a gun, a booted footfall, and the words in a female voice. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
Chapter 2
The musket shook in Permelia’s hand. The intruder turned his head in her direction, but she could not make out his face. What she could make out was that he was tall and muscular. And that he wore a Union uniform. All three things together portended disaster. She had spotted him from the window, sent a trembling Annie upstairs to rouse Elijah from his bed, then grabbed her gun and sneaked around the side of the house.
“I said, don’t move. I know how to use this.”
“I have no doubt of that, miss.” His voice was low and rich, like the soothing sound of a cello. Somewhere deep within her, it nipped a memory. A pleasant one, for her heart took up a rapid beat. He lifted his hands in the air, revealing the gleam of a saber hanging at his side.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Permelia demanded.
“Miss Shaw?” He addressed her as if he was making a social call. “Is that you?”
Again the voice eased over her like warm butter. She gulped, attempting to steady the musket. “And who, sir, are you?”
Lowering his arms, he took a step toward her. Memories assailed her exhausted mind—memories of Union soldiers rampaging through her home, tossing everything they could find into sacks: jewelry, silverware, expensive vases and figurines, her father’s collection of East Indian tobacco. All accompanied by the sound of her mother wailing in the distance.
And one soldier in particular who wasn’t satisfied with only objects. Whose eyes burned with lechery as he crept toward Permelia in her chamber.
“It’s me, William.” William. The name echoed through the night air as if traveling through molasses. Permelia shook her head, corralling her terrifying thoughts.
The soldier took another step toward her. No, not again! She must defend her fam
ily. Her sister, herself.
She fired the musket.
The crack split the dark sky. The man ducked. His horse neighed. Smoke filled the air, burning her nose, her mouth. Grabbing the gun, he ripped it from her hands. But instead of assaulting her, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He smelled of gunpowder and sweat and earth.
“It’s all right, Miss Shaw. It’s me, William. You’re safe now.” The comforting words drifted upon that familiar voice, sparking hope within her. William? Against all propriety, she melted into him, never wanting the dream to end. For surely it must be a dream. The same one that had made her endless nights bearable these past years.
But then he was gone. A whoosh of chilled air sent a shiver through her.
“What you doin’ there!” Elijah shoved William back and leveled a pistol at his chest. Martha, ragged robe tossed over her nightdress, appeared in the doorway, lantern in hand, their twelve-year-old daughter, Ruth, behind her.
William raised his hands again. “Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?” He chuckled and a quizzical look came over Elijah’s face.
Shaking off her stupor, Permelia charged forward. “It’s all right, Elijah.” She nudged his pistol aside. “It is Colonel William Wolfe, Annie’s fiancé.”
“Then why did you shoot at ’im, miss?” Elijah studied William but did not release his firm grip on the weapon.
“I was about to ask the same question,” William said, his tone playful.
Permelia faced him, his expression still lost to her in the shadows. “I’m so sorry, Colonel Wolfe. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Quite all right, Miss Shaw.” He lowered his hands. “I’ve grown used to being shot at.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Martha held up her lantern and moved forward. “Annie’s fiancé. We thought you was dead.” The light crept over the porch and up his blue trousers, blinking off his saber and the three gold buttons on his cuff, and brightening the red sash about his waist.
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 14