“What about your niece, Mrs. Cobb? And your aunt, Miss Locke? You both have family members awaiting your arrivals.”
Mrs. Cobb waved her hand. “Mercy tells me that mail goes out about once every two weeks or so. Some of the miners who pass through here bring the mail they pick up in Gainesville, and they take the outgoing mail and drop it off at one of the forts. We can get word to our loved ones.”
Nathaniel looked from Mrs. Cobb to Miss Locke. He had a suspicion that Mrs. Cobb was every bit as stubborn as Miss Locke. She just had a different way of winning an argument.
“If you could get my satchel off the travois, please, Mr. Danfield.” Miss Locke caught the little boy’s hand. “Mrs. Rutledge needs to get home to rest.” She peered at the sky. “I don’t think this rain is going to hold off much longer.”
“Of course.” Nathaniel blew out a sigh of resignation. “Which house is yours, Mrs. Rutledge? I’ll bring Miss Locke’s things.” He assured Mrs. Cobb he’d do the same for her.
Mrs. Rutledge gave Nathaniel a warm smile and pointed toward a small place nearly hidden by the trees behind the livery. Miss Locke gathered the children and hesitated before following the livery owner’s wife.
“Thank you, Mr. Danfield.” The defiant edge of her tone had been replaced with a softer inflection. “I suppose I’ll see you later, then.”
Those eyes. Fathomless depths of dark-brown enchantment. How could he be angry at the owner of those eyes?
He watched Miss Locke and the children follow Mrs. Rutledge toward the little house. A dark-haired man wearing a faded plaid shirt raised his hand and called out something Nathaniel couldn’t quite hear. Mrs. Rutledge stopped as the man approached. They spoke, and the fellow tipped his hat in an exaggerated fashion to Miss Locke. Nathaniel strained to hear, but a rumble of thunder drowned out their words. When the women and children moved on toward the house, the dark-haired man stood and watched them.
Every nerve in Nathaniel’s body snapped to attention and bristled with distrust. Rain began to fall, but the man in the plaid shirt remained in place.
Needles pricked Nathaniel’s gut. He had no real reason to be alarmed—he didn’t know anything about the man. He simply didn’t like the way the man watched Miss Locke.
Chapter 7
Raindrops splatted on the hard ground, and the thunder growled its warning to take shelter before the deluge let loose. Abby and the children followed Beth to the house. The man she’d just met—she didn’t quite catch his name—had a peculiar look in his eye when he’d swept his hat off. The way he’d studied her sent an uncomfortable shudder through her.
“Beth, who was that man?”
Beth cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “His name is Teague Jackson. He’s a harness maker, but he also works at the sawmill. His shop is right over there.” She indicated the small building of unpainted boards adjacent to the path that led to the Rutledge home. “He’s lives in the back of the place.”
Abby glanced behind her and found Teague Jackson still standing there in the rain watching them hasten down the path. Her line of vision carried her gaze past Jackson to the grassy area of trees in front of the general store. Mr. Danfield stood beside the travois, a scowl darkening his features. She jerked her focus forward, but the images of both men remained in her mind. Anxious to put a closed door behind her, she ushered the children inside. Mr. Danfield’s frown gave her pause. If he was angry about the bargain she’d struck with Beth, no doubt she’d hear about it when he brought her valise.
She sent a sweeping glance around the cabin. Despite its small size and rough construction, it bore a few distinctly feminine touches. The table in the center of the main room bore a blue and white tablecloth that appeared as though it had seen almost as many washes as meals. The corners were frayed and a few stains interrupted the pattern of faded-blue checks. A small crock occupied the middle of the table with a variety of partially wilted wildflowers. Four stools sat at cockeyed angles on either side of the table.
Across the room, the coals glowed in the stone fireplace, and the kitchen area needed straightening. Tucked between the fireplace and a corner cupboard, a well-used rocking chair with a sagging woven-rush seat offered a silent welcome. A bed with a rumpled quilt crowded into the far left corner, and a crude ladder provided access to the overhead loft.
Beth sent her an apologetic look. “I haven’t had the energy to keep up with the housework.”
Abby set the basket on the worktable. “I’ll fix lunch while you get off your feet. Dulcie, can you show me where you and your brother wash up?”
The little girl led Abby to the washstand sitting just outside the back door. Abby cringed at the soiled towel that hung from a peg. The water in the bucket looked as though it had been used a number of times. A worn piece of lye soap stuck to the corner of the stand. A broom leaned against the log wall of the cabin.
Abby bent down and smiled at Dulcie. “Where do you get your fresh water?”
The little girl pointed several yards away to an odd-looking structure of stone with rough-hewn boards forming a cover. “There’s a spring under there.”
Abby tossed out the used water and scurried through the rain with the empty bucket. A second bucket with a rope tied to the handle sat ready to be lowered into the depths of the spring. She directed the children to wash up, hoping she might discover a supply of clean towels.
Abby tossed some chips she found in a basket onto the glowing coals to coax them to life, and soon a cheery blaze chased away the gloom of the rainy day. Beth pointed out where to find various items, and Abby set salt pork to fry over the fire while she gathered the makings for corn cakes. While she dropped spoonfuls of batter into the hot skillet, she glanced at Beth who sat with her head leaning against the back of the rocker and one hand on her abdomen.
“Are you feeling well?”
A tiny smile lifted the corners of Beth’s lips. “Just tired. It seems strange to sit and let someone else do the work.”
Abby slid a thin wooden spatula under the corn cakes and flipped them over. “Perhaps you can take a nap after you eat something.” She ladled water into the kettle and hung the vessel on the crane over the fire.
The door opened just as Abby was scooping the crispy salt pork and corn cakes onto tin plates. The man who filled the doorframe must be Mr. Rutledge. His broad shoulders barely fit through the opening, and he had to duck his head to enter.
“Papa!” Dulcie and Beau both ran to him.
Beth rose from the rocker with one hand pressed to her lower back and introduced her husband to Abby. Quinn Rutledge looked from Beth to Abby and back again as his wife explained the plan for Abby to help with the housework and care for the children in exchange for a roof over her head.
“Please, Quinn.” Beth’s pleading eyes sought her husband’s approval. “Dulcie and Beau already love her, and having her here would be such a help. She can sleep in the loft with the children.”
The blacksmith’s thick eyebrows knitted together and were almost lost under the thatch of brown hair that overhung his forehead. “It means two more mouths to feed, Beth. Her, and the man stayin’ in the barn.” He cut his eyes to Abby. “Ain’t meanin’ no offense, Miss.”
Beau tugged on his father’s pant leg. “Papa, Mama falled down today.”
Quinn stooped to eye level with his son. “She what?”
The child’s lower lip trembled. “She falled down. Miss Abby said she…she…”
“She fainted.” Abby stepped over and laid her hand on Beau’s head, smoothing the hair from the lad’s face. “I’m glad I was there when it happened. The children were frightened.”
Quinn rose and in one long stride was at Beth’s side. He took her arm, concern in his eyes. “You all right now?”
Beth nodded and massaged her belly. “This one is giving me a hard time, like the last two.”
Abby cocked her head. “You had difficulties with Dulcie and Beau, too?”
Beth’s eyes gli
stened with unshed tears, and she shook her head.
“No.” Quinn ran his huge hand up and down Beth’s arm. “She means the two that’s buried over by the church.”
Abby swallowed back the gasp that rose in her throat. “Oh, Beth, I’m sorry.” How grievous was it to lose a child? Abby had no way of knowing except by the anguished look on Beth’s face. The pain Abby read there sliced her heart.
Quinn cupped his wife’s elbow and led her to one of the stools at the table. He brushed his thick fingers across Beth’s cheek. “She can stay as long as she’s a help to you. I reckon we’ll manage somehow.”
Beth responded with a weak smile.
If Abby needed to prove her worth to Quinn Rutledge, she’d determine to give him no reason for complaint. She put lunch on the table and set some aside for Mr. Danfield, unsure if he would come to the house or if she should carry it to the livery. The water in the kettle boiled. Abby measured out tea leaves into the chipped china pot and added the steaming water for a relaxing cup of tea for the expectant mother.
“Abby?” Beth turned in her seat. “You come and eat, too.”
She shook her head. “I’ll eat something later. I want to get the bed straightened so you can rest after lunch.”
Abby bustled over to the bed in the corner, tugged the muslin sheet taut, and folded the quilt neatly at the foot of the bed. When she looked up, she found Quinn’s stony gaze on her, as though measuring the value of her work against what it would cost to feed her.
Surely Nathaniel misunderstood the order. Open fire? Gunshots scattered the Cherokee who’d tried to plead for more time to gather their belongings. The screams of women and children raked his ears. When he twisted in his saddle to confront the captain and protest the order, the officer’s sickening sneer assaulted his senses with the comprehension that the order was no mistake.
This isn’t right! It’s murder!
He vaulted off his horse and ran toward three Cherokee women who were trying to hide their children. Snatching up two crying toddlers, he instructed the women to follow him into the woods. Gunfire exploded around them. He pushed the children behind some scrub pines and motioned for the women to stay low. Only then did he discover one of the women had fallen.
Scrambling back toward the village, he looked up to find a gun barrel shoved in his face.
Lieutenant Danfield, you’re under arrest.
Sweat dripped off Nathaniel’s face as he jolted awake. The nausea that always accompanied the dream twisted his gut, and he willed himself to breathe evenly. The smell and crackle of fresh hay reminded him he was in the loft in Quinn Rutledge’s livery.
A nearby rooster crowed. Pink and gold stained the sky through the eastern-facing window. Nathaniel sat up and pulled his boots on, scrambled to his feet, and climbed down the ladder. Horses whickered a greeting, impatiently stamping for their breakfast. He grabbed two buckets and headed out through the misty dawn and tramped toward the spring behind the Rutledge’s house.
Soft lantern light spilled from the open window of the house. Someone was up and stirring. He rounded the corner of the house and saw a figure pulling the cover away from the spring. As he approached, he heard her quiet humming.
“Miss Locke, let me do that for you.”
“Oh!” She jumped and dropped the heavy wooden lid. “I didn’t hear you come up, Mr. Danfield.”
He set his buckets down and dragged the cover to one side. “Sorry if I frightened you.” The bucket on the rope splashed into the spring. Nathaniel hauled it up and poured the clear, cold water into her bucket. “Can I carry this for you?”
“No, thank you, I can manage.” She started to lift the bucket but hesitated. “I’ve been expecting you to tell me how wrong it was of me to agree to this arrangement without your knowledge.”
Nathaniel dropped the roped bucket back down into the spring. “It’s a bit late to argue the point of right or wrong. It’s done.” He drew the full bucket to the surface and poured it into one of his empty containers. He paused before lowering the vessel down again. “Are they treating you all right?”
She glanced toward the cabin. “I don’t think I’ve won Mr. Rutledge’s approval yet, but it’s only been a few days.” She shrugged.
Nathaniel gave a soft snort and let the spring bucket fall back down into the water. He understood what she meant about Quinn Rutledge. He’d felt the man’s eyes boring into him as he worked.
He filled his second bucket and hoisted one in each hand. “I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but I believe under the circumstances it wouldn’t be improper for you to call me Nathaniel.”
The wispy glow of daybreak fell across her face revealing a hint of a smile. “I suppose then you should call me Abby.”
“Abby.” The name felt so right on his lips.
“Breakfast will be ready in about a half hour…Nathaniel.”
She turned and headed back to the cabin. Nathaniel sucked in a breath. His accelerated pulse had nothing to do with the effort required to transport the water buckets. However tiny her smile, he’d carry it with him throughout the day.
Nathaniel maneuvered the load of soiled hay to the pile that sat down a slope downwind of the house. On his way back to the livery he caught a glimpse of Abby and the children at the edge of the woods. The little girl with honey-colored pigtails, Dulcie he thought was her name, held a small bouquet of white flowers. Abby pointed to a spot next to a stump and the child trotted over and added more flowers to the ones in her hand. Little Beau held up what appeared to be a variety of rocks for Abby’s approval. It wasn’t hard to see the Rutledge children adored Abby, and apparently the feeling was mutual. The arrogance that defined the colonel’s daughter at the beginning of their journey had evaporated.
Their journey. The thought erased his smile, and a frown took its place. Had he still been in the army, his mission would be deemed a failure. He’d fallen short of the goal, and the women were stranded, working for their keep in a tiny community far from their destination. He glanced toward the forge where Quinn’s hammer rang against hot iron. Perhaps the blacksmith could be talked into helping Nathaniel retrieve the broken wagon to see if it could be repaired. Nathaniel shook his head. Even if repairs were possible, he had no horses. How long might he have to work for Quinn to barter for a team?
The sound of hoofbeats drew his attention across the way where a squad of soldiers rode up to Tucker’s General Store. Nathaniel stood and watched as the officer, a lieutenant, dismounted and handed the reins to a sergeant mounted beside him. He noted by their uniforms they were Georgia Guard, not federal troops. The lieutenant climbed the steps to the front porch where Leon Tucker sat with his broken leg propped up on a crate. The two men conversed for several minutes, and Tucker pointed in the direction from which Nathaniel and the women had first arrived in Tucker’s Gap almost a week ago.
The lieutenant gave the order to dismount. The remaining Guard soldiers led their horses to the shaded grassy area in front of the store. A bitter taste in Nathaniel’s mouth made him grimace. The Georgia Guard had a reputation for brutality. Their presence in Tucker’s Gap filled him with unease.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching the men. The sight of their uniforms and the sound of a squad leader barking orders stirred the broken pieces in his mind. Despite the fact that these weren’t federal troops, something jogged in his memory—something he’d struggled to remember for nearly two weeks. The bandit who seemed familiar to Nathaniel, whose voice he knew he’d heard before…Nathaniel ran his hand over the healing wound on his temple where the bullet had nearly taken his life. Think!
He closed his eyes and strained to pull the memory into focus. The harsh, raspy voice, the sneering eyes…The connection refused to materialize.
Some of the soldiers sprawled on the grass, others stood, talking and spitting tobacco. The distance didn’t allow him to see any of their faces clearly. The wind in the trees, Quinn’s hammering, and the repetitive clacking from the
sawmill prevented him from hearing their voices. The lieutenant finished his conversation with Leon Tucker and ordered his men to mount. As they did so, one of the soldiers, a sergeant, turned and seemed to notice Nathaniel in the doorway. The two stared at each other for a long moment before the order was given to move out.
Chapter 8
Abby and the children climbed the steps to Tucker’s General Store. The whitewashed door stood propped open, and a curious combination of smells greeted Abby. The tangy aroma of spices clashed with pungent lamp oil; the scent of leather and tobacco blended with coffee beans and pickles.
Ceiling-to-floor shelves contained an assortment of foodstuffs, ammunition, and household items. A flour barrel stood to one side of the counter while a coffee grinder anchored the other end. Makeshift tables contained everything from blankets and canvas to pottery. The opposite corner housed a nook, which bore a sign that read TUCKER’S GAP POST OFFICE.
“Mornin’, Abby.” Florrie came around to the front of the counter with her arms held wide. The women embraced.
“Hello, Abby.” Mercy Tucker looked up from the ledger. “It was so nice meeting you at the singing on Sunday.”
Abby gave the woman a warm smile. “The singing was such fun, and I enjoyed meeting some of my new neighbors.”
Mercy tugged on one of Dulcie’s pigtails. “I see you’ve brought your two helpers along with you today.”
Dulcie beamed up at Abby. “I like helping.”
“I help, too.” Beau shoved Abby’s basket onto the counter. “I carried the basket.”
His sister rolled her eyes. “That’s not helping if the basket is empty.”
“Is, too.”
“Is not.”
Abby stepped between the siblings. “That’s enough. If you start squabbling, you won’t have any cinnamon bread for lunch.”
The two fell silent.
Florrie’s eyes twinkled and Abby winked. “Mercy, how is Mr. Tucker getting along?”
“Oh, about the same.” She lowered her voice and glanced at the curtain-covered opening that led to their living quarters. “That busted leg is going to take a while to heal. Meanwhile, he’s ornery as a billy goat.” She shook her head. “He’s been able to hobble out and sit on the porch a couple of times, but getting him out there and then back in again is like trying to waltz with a mule.”
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