First Dawn

by Judith Miller

  Jarena appeared in the Francises’ doorway, looking harried and stunned. “He’s dead, Pappy. Charles is dead!”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Jarena glanced at the soft gray clouds and hoped the showers would wait until the laundry dried. Selfish girl, she chided. After all, hadn’t her father and Thomas worked diligently with the breaking plow for this very purpose? Hadn’t they hoped and prayed to take advantage of the spring rains? Certainly rain for the fields was more important than a tub of laundry. With a flick of her wrists, Jarena snapped her father’s wet shirt and draped it over the rope. There was nothing to do but hang the clothes and trust God for the rest.

  The lack of sunshine did little to improve Jarena’s spirits. Though she had begun adapting to life in their small community, she longed for the joyful chatter of her sisters, a good book to read, enough food to prepare for their meals, or a letter from Thomas—oh yes, a letter from Thomas would be most welcome. A twinge of guilt invaded her thoughts as one of the Beyer boys raced by her with his younger brother following on his heels. Instead of plump youthful faces, their prominent cheekbones reinforced their thin features. Shirts and pants hung on their emaciated frames. The boys reminded Jarena of a scarecrow her mother had dressed years ago and placed in their vegetable garden to fend off the birds. Yet these two were fortunate. Their youngest brother had died a few weeks back, and though some said it was the fever, most knew it was from lack of nutritious food. Effie and John had buried the boy near Charles and declared the area to be a cemetery—the Nicodemus cemetery.

  The thought stirred a chill, and Jarena rubbed her hands together. She remained numb over Charles’s death, for though her romantic feelings for him had cooled, she missed his friendship and banter, and grieved deeply for his parents, who had now suffered the loss of two sons.

  She pushed away thoughts of Charles and told herself she had little to complain about. Hadn’t Truth’s employment with the Boyles benefited their entire family? And though there was never enough to go around, her father had always shared with others. Of course, she couldn’t forget Dr. Boyle. He had certainly been a stalwart friend to their small group. She remembered fondly the many acts of kindness he’d performed during the past months. Amid the hardships there had been many blessings.

  Even Grace’s love for the outdoors had become an invaluable asset. Nowadays she worked alongside their father in the fields like a seasoned hand, reveling in the pleasure of turning the soil.

  Indeed there were small things for which to give thanks—and Jarena would dwell upon those.

  Swiping damp hands down her apron, Jarena hurried off to the Francis dugout, keeping a watchful eye on the bowl of thin soup she carried. Although she doubted Mrs. Francis would partake of more than a few spoonfuls, Jarena continued to encourage the woman to eat—sometimes with success, sometimes not. The distant sound of whooping men and screaming women caused her to look away from the dish.

  Wagons! A multitude of wagons—filled with people—were moving toward Nicodemus! Her heart quickened at the sight.

  She rushed into the Francis dugout and shouted the news. “Another wagon train of folks is arriving. Come see!” In her excitement, she nearly dropped the bowl.

  In the month since Charles’s death, Mrs. Francis had languished in pain. Now a flicker of light shone in her eyes.

  “You sure, girl?” Mr. Francis asked as he reached for his hat.

  Jarena leaned down and crooked an arm around his wife’s shoulders to help her up. “Oh, I’m sure, Mr. Francis. Come see for yourself.”

  The column of wagons was drawing ever closer when the trio finally exited the dugout. Mrs. Francis leaned heavily on Jarena and her husband as they joined the other townsfolk gathering to welcome the new arrivals.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? Appears they’ve come with supplies,” Jarena exclaimed. “I can even make out some cows following alongside them.”

  Mrs. Francis pushed a strand of hair from her face. “I hope at least one of dem will wanna purchase some land.”

  “So you’re still determined to leave?”

  Richard Francis gave a resolute nod. “Only thing that’s been holdin’ us back is the lack of money to get home. Maybe this here’s the answer to our prayers, Lula.”

  Jarena looked down at the grieving woman. “I don’t think your wife is strong enough to make the journey, Mr. Francis. She’s barely eaten since . . . since . . .”

  “Since Charles was gunned down? You’s right on dat account. But I believe this is all she’ll need to regain her strength—ain’t it, Lula?”

  A faint smile curved the older woman’s lips. “I’ll be strong enough to leave here. Don’ you doubt me for even a minute. The only regret I’ll have when I leave dis place is that I’ll be leavin’ Charles behind.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout that, Lula, but it looks like we’s gonna be able to go back home, and that there’s a blessing in itself.”

  Jarena stayed beside Mrs. Francis while her husband and the others rushed to greet the newcomers. Children had hurried off to spread the word to those working their fields, and some of them were now gathering in town to see the new arrivals.

  “I ain’t taking nothing back to Kentucky ceptin’ the clothes I need for traveling,” Mrs. Francis said. “Don’t want no memories of this place going back to Kentucky with us, so iffen you want any of our goods, you can have ’em.”

  Jarena’s eyes were filled with warmth, and she patted the older woman’s hand. “We don’t have any money to purchase them, Mrs. Francis. But thank you kindly for the offer. Besides, we don’t know for certain that anyone’s going to have money to buy your land.”

  Before Mrs. Francis could rebut Jarena’s words, Mr. Francis came hurrying back, flailing his arms above his head. “The Lemmonses from back home is in this group! George Lemmons says he’ll buy our place! We got money enough to leave, Lula.”

  Her husband’s announcement brought a deeper smile to Mrs. Francis’s lips. “Looks like you’re wrong, Jarena. Richard has done gone and found us a buyer already. Why don’t you come inside and see what ya’d like to have. Ain’t askin’ for no money. Charles would want me to treat you kindly. I know you doubted his love for you, and truth be told, so did I—thought he and Belle Harris was better suited.”

  Mrs. Francis’s words nearly mimicked what Charles had said before Jarena had gone off to Ellis. What was it? “I’m beginning to think I should have been keeping company with Belle Harris.” If only he had begun courting Belle Harris! He’d likely still be alive!

  Mrs. Francis settled into a rickety chair with a faraway look in her eyes. “I know it wasn’t you that lured him out to this desolate place, Jarena. He told me he would have come even if you wasn’t here. I’m telling you all this so you won’t go on blamin’ yo’self. I know it ain’t your fault, gal. My boy is dead and ain’t nothing gonna bring him back, but ain’t right for you to spend the rest of your life thinkin’ you was the cause. It’s God’s timing, not ours.”

  “That’s what Miss Hattie said, too.”

  The woman wiped a tear from her cheek and grasped Jarena’s hand. “You wanna come back to Georgetown with us? We’ll have enough money to buy you a train ticket, and you could pay us back once you found work.”

  Last fall Jarena would have seized the opportunity, but now she amazed even herself as she declined the invitation. “Thank you, Mrs. Francis, but I couldn’t leave. Not now—probably not ever. Our home isn’t in Georgetown anymore—it’s out here on these plains.”

  “If you ever change your mind . . .”

  Jarena leaned down and placed a kiss on the woman’s tear-stained cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. Francis.”

  Charles’s mother nodded and brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. “Now get busy and pack up dese things. The faster you tote ’em out of here, the sooner we kin be on our way.”

  Jarena eagerly began to fill a crate. The Francises didn’t have much, but it would help.
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br />   Moses folded his hands and met Dr. Boyle’s warm gaze. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on short notice.”

  Dr. Boyle laughed as he glanced about the room. “As you can see, there are no patients awaiting my care so I’m not causing anyone undue hardship. However, I must admit I’m intrigued by your request.”

  Beads of perspiration had formed along Moses’s upper lip, and he pulled out his handerchief. “What I have to tell you is difficult—especially since I’ve waited until now.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Moses wiped his face and slowly tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. He had hoped the perfect words would come to mind. There was no denying he needed a compelling explanation for his regretful behavior. He was, after all, a wordsmith—a man who made his living crafting words into stories that would sell newspapers. Yet at this moment, language failed him. There was no explanation—persuasive or otherwise.

  “I’m colored.” The words whizzed through the air like two arrows aimed at a bull’s-eye.

  Dr. Boyle rocked back in his chair. “Colored? Whatever are you talking about? Have you lost your senses?”

  “I’m not white—not like you.” Moses shifted in his chair. “Oh, I appear as white as most, and I’ve as many white ancestors as colored, perhaps more. However, we both know that if any Negro blood runs through my veins, I’m not considered a white man. And I don’t want to be considered white. I’m not ashamed of my people. In fact, you’ll recall I had planned to make my home in Nicodemus when I first arrived.”

  Dr. Boyle nodded. “I do remember.”

  “Everything else you know about me is true. My background, education, work at the various newspapers—all of that information is accurate. When I met Carlisle on the train, I should have told him.”

  The doctor looked wary. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Honestly? I wanted to see if he was genuine in his desire to go off and serve with colored soldiers. At first I thought he was just another sanctimonious white man seeking to fulfill himself in the name of God. By the time I learned that wasn’t true, I was already passing as white. With each day, it grew more difficult to speak the truth. But I can no longer live this lie.”

  “Something in particular bring you to this point or merely a guilty conscience?”

  “I know you’re angry, and you have a right to be. What I did was completely inappropriate and unacceptable. If you never speak to me again, I couldn’t fault you.”

  Dr. Boyle’s countenance softened. “And what good would such behavior accomplish? Besides, what you perceive as my anger is actually pain—pain that you didn’t believe you could trust me or my son enough to speak the truth. But now you have, and for that I am thankful. However, I’m curious why you’ve decided to tell me at this juncture.”

  “To clear my conscience, but also because I’ve deeply offended Truth. You see, on several occasions I’ve tried to talk to her. In fact, I attempted to convince her to write news articles for the paper. However, she mistook my interest in her. She thinks I’m a white man endeavoring to . . . to . . . get her in my bed.”

  “Ah, I see.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’re interested in courting Truth, and you want her to know you’re an acceptable suitor?”

  “Exactly. What has caused my honesty is a guilty conscience and my selfish—but honorable, I assure you—interest in a woman. You see, Dr. Boyle, I was hoping you might speak to her on my behalf.”

  “Were you, now?”

  “Rather presumptuous of me, I know—especially in light of the circumstances.”

  Dr. Boyle gave a hearty laugh. “I think you should be the one who reveals your true heritage to Truth. I’m willing to confirm that you’ve told me these facts, but beyond that—well, I’d say that you’re on your own.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw. “What if she doesn’t believe you? Have you planned for that event?”

  “I have papers that show my lineage, but I fear she’ll think me a man ashamed of his race. An unforgivable fraud. If so, I doubt she’ll ever consider me as a suitor, but I must at least try. I do care for her very much.”

  “Then why don’t you come over this evening? I’ll explain that you want to talk to her and that she has nothing to fear. The two of you can visit in the parlor. She’ll likely feel more relaxed if she knows I’m aware of your presence and that someone is nearby should you attempt to . . . uh, accost her,” he said with a lopsided grin.

  Moses stood suddenly and grasped Dr. Boyle’s hand. “Would eight o’clock be acceptable?”

  He nodded. “We’ll expect you.”

  The day was warm, and there was a lightness to his step as Samuel contemplated exactly what he would say to Truth that evening. He didn’t want to alarm the girl, yet if she was already fearful of Moses, his announcement of the visit might cause her undue concern. Waiting until shortly before Moses’s arrival would likely be best, he decided while sauntering past the general store. He tipped his hat at Mrs. Johnson before turning his attention to a horse galloping into town.

  “Slow down, young fellow!” Dr. Boyle hollered as the man reined his horse to an abrupt halt. “You’ve got that horse in quite a lather.”

  The young man yanked his wide-brimmed hat from his head. “Dr. Boyle! I was hoping to see a familiar face when I arrived.”

  “Jackson! What are you doing in Hill City?” Samuel could feel the blood drain from his face. Was Macia making secret plans? He’d heard no mention of Jackson in weeks. Jackson dismounted and stood before him with a wide smirk on his face.

  “I can see you’re surprised. I imagine Macia will be taken aback, also.”

  Samuel clenched his jaw. “So she wasn’t expecting you?”

  “No.” The smug grin remained on Jackson’s lips. “I didn’t answer her letters. It’s been quite some time since she’s corresponded.”

  “And that’s why you’ve come? Because Macia ceased writing to you?”

  Jackson looked down the street and curled his upper lip with disdain. “Not exactly. There are some other matters that have come to my attention. But let’s not discuss them here. I’m anxious to see your new home and the . . . well, this poor excuse for a town.”

  Samuel led the way into the livery. “Jeb! Come meet Jackson Kincaid.”

  Jeb rounded the corner of a stall and ambled toward the two men.

  “This young fellow is from back in Georgetown. Jackson, this is Jeb Malone.”

  Jeb nodded at Jackson and glanced at the sorrel. “You rent that horse from Chester Goddard down in Ellis?” Without waiting for an answer, Jeb began to assess the animal. “Chester don’t take kindly to having his animals mistreated, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I was anxious to arrive and rode the animal hard. He’ll survive without problem.”

  Jeb directed an icy stare at Jackson. “You Macia’s beau?”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far.” He tugged at his collar and looked uncomfortably from one man to the other. “We kept company when she lived in Georgetown, but I don’t think I could be considered her beau. I believe there are too many miles between us for such an arrangement.”

  “Then what brought you all the way to Hill City?” Jeb’s voice was full of suspicion.

  “I’d say what brings me to Hill City is none of your business. I find your behavior offensive, Mr. Malone.” He examined the bottom of his boot and wiped it on the straw. “Are all of the locals as brash and rude as this man?” he asked Dr. Boyle.

  “I find Jeb neither brash nor rude,” Samuel answered. “He is, in my opinion, a refreshingly forthright, hardworking young man.”

  Jeb’s chest swelled at the accolades. “Why, thank you, Dr. Boyle.”

  Turning on his heel, Jackson angrily strode toward the doorway. “Since Mr. Goddard is your friend, I assume you know how to care for his horse.”

  “That I do,” Jeb yelled back. “Nice to see you, Dr. Boyle,” he said as Samuel followed Jackson. “Give my rega
rds to Macia.”

  Jackson winced, but Samuel smiled and waved, delighted Jeb Malone had held his ground against the likes of Jackson Kincaid.

  “Is that you, Samuel?”

  Margaret’s voice came from the kitchen as the two entered the house. He wondered if she was assisting Truth with some new dish for supper. “Indeed it is, my dear. Do come join me. We have a visitor.”

  Margaret emerged from the kitchen and removed her soiled apron as she approached them.

  “Who is it, Mother?” Macia called from the kitchen.

  Samuel placed a finger to his lips and cautioned his wife to remain silent. “Don’t spoil the surprise for Macia.” Jackson grinned at Margaret and stepped behind Samuel to add to the surprise.

  “Oh, Samuel, I don’t think this is a good idea. Macia isn’t dressed to receive . . .”

  Before his wife could complete her sentence, Macia appeared in the hallway, wearing a print dress soiled with flour. Her damp and disheveled curls were drooping like a bouquet of wilted flowers. As she drew near, Jackson stepped from behind her father. His smile vanished when he saw her.

  “Macia! What has happened to you? You’ve changed into a common housewife.”

  Macia’s eyes shone with anger, and she clenched her flour-dusted fists. “That’s hardly possible, since I’m a single woman. Notice of your arrival would have prevented this catastrophic event.” She tucked a wisp of hair behind one ear, looking like she was about to break into sobs.

  “My dear,” Samuel said, “I didn’t expect to find you in such a state of disarray.” As soon as he’d spoken, he wished he could snatch back the words, for he’d only made matters worse. “We could leave and return in an hour or so.”

  “The damage is already done.” Macia pushed Jackson aside and raced up the stairs.

  “Do come into the parlor and have a seat,” Margaret invited. “I’m certain Macia will return once she’s had an opportunity to properly prepare herself.”

  She edged to her husband’s side and stood on tiptoe, her lips pressed close to Samuel’s ear. “Did you not even think before bringing him here unannounced?”