The Prodigal's Welcome

by Billerbeck, Kristin; Darty, Peggy;

  His interest in their home led her thoughts toward his farm in Kentucky. “I do hope you find your farm in good shape when you return to Kentucky,” she said. “Perhaps your brother-in-law has seen to it that the farm has been kept up.”

  He turned his face sideways to answer her. She saw his profile from a different angle and noticed that his nose was perfectly straight. The jaw was broad with prominent bones capping his cheeks.

  “I have my doubts about my brother-in-law. James has no interest in the farm. I suspect Mother may have trouble dragging Katherine back to the farm if she’s become spoiled to city life. Katie is spoiled anyway, being the baby,” he said, chuckling softly.

  He hesitated as they rode on. “It’s hard to believe that the redheaded pixie I left is now a lady of sixteen. She may even have a beau.”

  “What does she look like?” Grace asked, curious about his family.

  “She’s a fiery little redhead given to temper tantrums. I doubt if Mother has managed to curtail that temper through the years. But the war may have changed Katie, too.” He sighed. “It would really make me sad to return to find my spunky little sister is now a very serious woman.”

  “She probably has a beau; she may even be married,” Grace said. “And I imagine she’s very pretty. Are her eyes like yours?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t when she heard the admiration in her tone.

  Jonathan didn’t seem to think anything of the question, however. “As a matter of fact, they’re exactly the same color of blue. That’s the only resemblance. She has small features and pretty hair, very thick…like yours,” he added softly.

  Grace perked up. Automatically, she lifted a hand to touch a strand of hair curling over the shoulder of her dress. So he had noticed her thick hair, which she always thought was one of her best features. That pleased her.

  “What plans do you have for Riverwood?” he asked in a sudden change of subject.

  Her thoughts moved back to the home she loved. She couldn’t imagine being separated from it, as Jonathan had been. “Well,” she began, then paused to ponder her future. “The main thing is to keep the taxes paid so that carpetbaggers don’t buy our land for next to nothing.” She shook her head, recalling the horrible stories she had heard. “With Confederate money worthless, and no way to make money on the land, it’s very difficult to pay the taxes; but if they’re not paid, the land can be sold off for as little as a dollar an acre. My father and Mr. Britton, the banker, were best friends, and because of that, Mr. Britton has been generous and patient.”

  Grace pressed her lips together to keep from saying more. The truth was Mr. Britton was having financial problems himself. He couldn’t afford to keep holding her note. She would have to figure out a way to pay him back by the end of the year.

  “You mentioned that a neighbor married for the sake of the family, to extend the land lines—I believe that’s the way you put it. I imagine you have been presented with offers.”

  Grace shrugged. “I would never marry for that reason.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “Because I will never marry unless I truly love the man.”

  “You seem quite certain of that,” he said, tilting his head sideways again, as though trying to read her expression.

  “I am. And furthermore, it won’t be easy for a man to live with me.”

  He chuckled at that remark. “And may I ask why you would say something like that?”

  She smiled to herself, remembering an old argument. “Father used to say, ‘Grace, with that strong personality, you’ll never find a man who can live with you.’” She gave a short laugh and looked out across the barren fields. “It was my thirteenth birthday, and I had thrown a temper tantrum because Mother insisted on a tea party to celebrate my birthday. What I really wanted to do was go with Father to Tuscaloosa to a horse and cattle auction.”

  “At thirteen you wanted to do that?” he asked, laughing.

  She thought he seemed overly amused at her honest statements, but she took it good-naturedly. “I hoped to talk Father into buying me a fine horse,” she explained. “I had already chosen a name. Darkfire.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Father agreed with Mother, and I had to endure a silly tea party. I never got the kind of horse I wanted.”

  “Well, I’ll bet your father was secretly proud of your spirit. I think it’s admirable for a woman to be a bit independent.”

  She was pleased by that remark, one so different than she would have heard from most of the boys she had known. They would expect her to be meek and mealy-mouthed like—

  She broke off her train of thought, reminding herself not to be unkind about Agnes.

  “I was independent for sure,” she said, laughing with him. It occurred to her that it was good to hear the sound of her own laughter ringing in her ears.

  They rode on in silence, and Grace relished the smell of wildflowers and the feel of a horse moving beneath her. Having Jonathan Parker riding in front of her was no hardship. She sighed to herself. This was turning into a perfect day.

  All too soon they were approaching Whites Creek, so she sat up straight and thought about what she had to do.

  The main street was flanked by twin rows of small wooden shops with oak trees behind them for shade. Long wooden hitching rails paralleled the front of each shop, and Grace counted three sorrels and two bays tied out front. A fancy buggy was parked in front of the general store, and further down the street near the livery, she saw a team of mules and an old wagon.

  Along the uneven boards that served as walkways, a few women, in dark calico and frayed sunbonnets, sauntered along, their market baskets swinging from their arms.

  “The general store is the second building there,” she pointed.

  As they turned toward the hitching rail in front of the store, Grace was suddenly aware of bold stares sweeping over her. Across the street at the livery, a stranger had appeared beside the wagon. He stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed on Jonathan.

  Grace glanced away, scanning the boardwalk again. She recognized the faces of some of the merchants, peering from doorways, but they were not smiling at her.

  Mrs. Primrose, who helped her husband at the store, was crossing the street from the bank. A look of curiosity worked over her face as she stepped into the street and struck a path toward Grace.

  Jonathan had dismounted and had extended his hand to help Grace down. She had a sudden urge to refuse his help, knowing that Mrs. Primrose was trained on her like a hawk swooping down on its prey. Looking into Jonathan’s nice eyes, however, Grace took his hand and dismounted.

  “Grace?” Mrs. Primrose yelled, trying to catch up. “How is your mother?”

  Grace took a deep breath and forced a smile as she turned to face the older woman, who wasn’t even looking at her. The beady eyes studied Jonathan, taking in every detail.

  “She’s all right, Mrs. Primrose.”

  Grace was about to turn in spite of the fact that the woman stood directly in their path, still staring at Jonathan.

  Grace averted her eyes to her riding skirt, brushing it carefully as though too preoccupied to introduce her traveling companion.

  Jonathan merely tipped his hat, saying nothing, for which Grace was thankful. She dared not introduce him, for if he opened his mouth and Mrs. Primrose caught one Yankee syllable, she might flog both of them.

  Jonathan seemed to understand as he fell in step beside her, and they stepped up onto the boards leading into the general store. Glancing over her shoulder, Grace saw Mrs. Primrose turn to speak to a couple passing by in a wagon.

  “I’ll do the talking,” she said, under her breath.

  She had hoped the beautiful day would send everyone to their fields and gardens, but many had chosen to make the trip to town to restock supplies.

  The smell of leather and plug tobacco was strong as the door of the general store swung back at Jonathan’s touch. In the rear, seated on upturned nail keg
s, Grace spotted several men she recognized. They were huddled up around the hearth. In winter, the hearth at the general store was the meeting place for drinking coffee and swapping tales. There was no fire in the hearth today; still they sat and talked. One of the men, wearing the gray trousers of his uniform, was heatedly relating a story to the others.

  “The Yanks took all our horses, our mules, the brass-trimmed carriage, and ever’ last wagon we had. They raided the smokehouse and pantry and left us nothing. Had three bales of cotton down in the shed—”

  He stopped in midsentence as all the men noticed Grace and Jonathan. From the corner of her eye, she could see all heads swivel toward her, then Jonathan. She lifted her chin and headed toward the counter. “I need a hammer and some nails,” she said as Mr. Primrose walked up to the counter. “And do you have any tomato plants?”

  “None today,” he said, looking from Grace to Jonathan, taking him in from hat to boots. “Could I help you, sir?”

  “He’s with me,” Grace answered quickly.

  Everyone in the store was looking and listening now. She stole a glance at Jonathan and saw that his expression was solemn. He pursed his lips and looked around, meeting each stare directly. Nodding briefly at those who were gawking, he turned to Grace.

  She breathed a sigh of relief until her supplies were spread over the counter. Grace froze. There was no point in reaching into her handbag; she hadn’t enough money to cover the purchase. She could feel the blood rise to her cheeks as she stared at the sturdy new hammer, unsure what to do next.

  Jonathan had wandered over to a shelf where jars of homemade pickles and relishes had been placed with a sign that read PLEASE HELP THE WIDOWS OF THE CONFEDERACY. Jonathan removed a jar of each and returned to the counter.

  Mr. Primrose totaled the bill and announced the amount. Saying nothing, Jonathan placed some money on the counter. Mr. Primrose examined the newly minted bills, looking pleased.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, looking at Jonathan.

  Jonathan nodded as he picked up the package, and they headed for the door. Grace felt the boards vibrate beneath her feet as Sonny Jackson lumbered up to her. He must have been hunkered down somewhere in the back of the store, for she hadn’t seen him before. If she had known the town bully was lurking about, she would never have entered the store. Sonny spent his time looking for someone to pester, hoping to stir up a fight.

  His pale, watery blue eyes were set between straggly brown brows and thick cheeks. Thin brown hair straggled down from his soiled derby hat, and as usual, his clothes were wrinkled and soiled, though he no longer worked in the fields.

  “Hello, Miss Grace. You and yore ma doin’ all right?” He stood beside the door, his fat thumbs hooked into the loops of his belt.

  “We’re fine,” she said curtly, sidestepping him as Jonathan reached out to open the door.

  “As a friend of Freddy’s, I hafta look out for his little sis. Who’s your fancy friend here?” He had followed them out onto the sidewalk and was standing directly in front of Jonathan, making a show of looking over Jonathan’s frock coat and pinstriped trousers.

  “Sonny, I think you need to mind your own business,” Grace said. “You and Freddy were never friends; in fact, he hated your guts.”

  She could have bitten her tongue once the words were out, for this was all Sonny needed to urge him on.

  “Yeah, well I still say Freddy would want me lookin’ after his kin. Don’t believe I ever seen you around these parts, mister.”

  “You wouldn’t have seen me unless you were a soldier in the army,” Jonathan said coldly, glaring into Sonny’s eyes. “And I doubt that you were.” He was taller than Sonny by three or four inches, and the fact that he could look down on Sonny seemed to gall the bully even more.

  Sonny sputtered for a moment before muttering a curse and diving into Jonathan’s chest. He caught Jonathan off guard. Jonathan’s hat toppled, and the package in his arms spurted from his grip as he was knocked back against the door.

  Grace dived for the package, then reached for his hat. Like bees to a hive, a crowd was gathering, whispering among themselves. “A Yankee,” someone muttered.

  Grace took a firmer grip on Jonathan’s hat and their package and yelled at Sonny. “Stop it,” she cried, just before Jonathan ducked beneath Sonny’s swinging fist.

  Moving with the grace of a cat, Jonathan sidestepped him, then slammed a fist in the center of Sonny’s sagging belly. Sonny groaned and bent double, his arms swinging wildly.

  In the next instant, Jonathan’s arm shot out again. His fist caught Sonny on the chin, and the bully reeled back. He landed in the street, doubled over, an expression of disbelief on his face.

  The men raised their voices, urging Sonny to get up. Grace hurried to Jonathan’s side, handing him his hat. “Please, let’s get out of here.”

  Then Ned Whitworth stepped around the corner, and Grace had never in her life been so glad to see the stern sheriff. He stepped in front of Jonathan, whose eyes were narrowed on Sonny. Grace could see that Jonathan was ready to finish the fight. She turned to the sheriff, tugging his sleeve.

  “Sheriff, this man is a family friend and—”

  “A Yank,” someone snorted.

  “A no-good, slimy Union soldier,” another joined in.

  “Stop it!” Sheriff Whitworth snapped at the crowd. “If Miss Grace says he’s a friend of hers, then you people better mind your manners.”

  Sonny was stumbling up, swiping a fat lip with the back of his hand.

  “Ned, he started it.”

  “That’s a lie.” Jonathan glared at him, doubling his fist again. Then he took a deep breath, as though trying to calm himself as he dropped his hand to his side. “Sheriff, I didn’t start this fight, but I won’t run from it either.”

  The sheriff looked into Jonathan’s eyes, glanced at Grace, then regarded Jonathan again, nodding his head. “I believe you. But the fight’s over.” He glanced over his shoulder as Sonny moved behind him. “Don’t take another step,” he warned. “Or you’ll be charged and taken to jail.”

  Sonny was sputtering with rage, but the sheriff ignored him.

  Grace looked from Sonny to the sheriff, then the crowd. She was furious that Jonathan had been treated so rudely, and she was determined to get a word in.

  “This man saved my father’s life,” she said. “He took him to a hospital and befriended him before he died. You should be ashamed of yourselves, all of you!”

  Jonathan had taken his hat and the package from her. Placing a hand on her elbow, he walked her back to her horse.

  Sheriff Whitworth followed and stood beside them as they mounted their horses.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jonathan said, turning to the sheriff.

  “Don’t judge everyone here by Sonny,” Sheriff Whitworth said to Jonathan. “Fred Cunningham was a fine man and respected by everyone who knew him. I’m glad to know that someone repaid his kindness.”

  Grace smiled at the sheriff, appreciating his words more than he could possibly know. “Thank you.”

  Then they turned their horses around and rode out of Whites Creek without a backward glance.

  Chapter 5

  Jonathan had said nothing in the hour since they had left Whites Creek. When Grace could stand the silence no longer, she spoke up.

  “Let’s rest a minute.”

  He nodded and pointed to a grove of oaks near the road. When they had reached the trees, Jonathan swung down from the saddle. Grace let him help her down, although she could have managed on her own. But she was beginning to enjoy the feel of his arms about her, and she liked the consideration he showed her.

  He took off his hat and hooked it onto the saddle horn as he picked up the horses’ reins and led them toward a hickory sapling. Grace removed her hat and adjusted the hairpins in her chignon. Then she walked over and sank onto the grass, enjoying the cool shade. She felt hot and parched and thoroughly out of sorts.

  “I forgot to of
fer you water,” Jonathan said. “I drew fresh water from your well before I left,” he explained, removing the lid from a canteen. He handed her the canteen and sat down beside her.

  Grace drank greedily of the cool water. When she had finished she handed the canteen back to him. He reached out, and for a moment, his hand lingered on hers.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “You’re welcome.”

  His gaze trailed down her nose and rested for a moment on her lips. The pine scent that seemed so much a part of him touched her, and it was hard to determine if it were the man or the deep woods nearby that captured her senses. Her glance swept the smooth curve of his chin, then moved up his slim nose to the eyes, which he closed as he drank the water. She could see that he was as thirsty as she.

  Aware that she was staring, she turned and looked out across the landscape. A doe stood at the edge of the woods, its ears perked. Something moved behind the doe, something small and light brown. The doe had a little one.

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan said, breaking into her thoughts.

  She leaned back on her arms and looked across at him. A worried frown creased his brow, and his eyes were troubled.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For brawling with that idiot when I knew better.”

  “You put him in his place,” she countered, thinking how she had respected his actions, once she had had time to think about them.

  “It was a mistake. It will give some of them a reason to hate me more. And I don’t want anyone bothering you after I’m gone.”

  “After you’re gone,” she echoed, then caught herself. She looked back toward the woods, hoping to see the doe again. She didn’t want to think about Jonathan leaving. Not now.

  “I’ll be leaving soon,” he said, as though to emphasize his point.

  “Why?” She looked into his eyes and felt her heart quicken. She didn’t know if it was his kindness to her dying father or his gentleness with her mother, but something about Jonathan made it easy to love him. Despite the fact that he was a Yankee. She swallowed and began again. “There’s no hurry. You don’t have to leave after you repair the gate. And you don’t have to fix the gate, you know.”