Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  The pile of belongings at the top of the ledge grew with each load he raised, beginning with the torn wagon canvas, pieces of clothing and other personal items he’d found strewn about yesterday afternoon. He located the remains of the one trunk that had burst open in the fall and brought as many pieces as he could find to the top. Perhaps he could rebuild it.

  A troubling thought badgered him. He’d picked up many articles that had obviously spilled out of the broken trunk, but how many more things still lay scattered in the underbrush that he didn’t find? What if Abby’s keepsakes were among them? On the other hand, they could be in the smaller trunk that didn’t break apart, but he didn’t feel right opening the trunk to check.

  He dug the toes of his boots into the dirt and braced himself as he pulled the trunk higher. Just a few more yards and he’d push the load over the edge. His chest heaved with the effort and the muscles in his shoulders begged for rest. Sweat dribbled down his face and neck. The image he held in his mind’s eye of Abby’s face when she saw her trunk kept him going.

  Late afternoon shadows were lengthening when he gave the trunk a final shove that put it on almost-level ground. He gripped the rope and pulled himself up the last few feet and flopped down beside the trunk. The shade of the tall oaks and sweet gums caressed his sunburned skin. He lay there a few minutes and then reached for his canteen to quench his thirst.

  He glanced at the sun to gauge how much daylight he had left. He didn’t want to be caught down the side of the ravine once the sun set. Best he used what light he had to construct a travois big enough to hold everything he’d salvaged and make another trip down in the morning to collect the wood cuttings he wanted to take home.

  Home. The ease with which the thought slid through his mind gave him pause. “Lord, are You trying to tell me Tucker’s Gap is home?”

  And where would Abby’s home be? Despite what Quinn had told him, he’d promised her father he’d see to it she reached Raleigh. Once he returned to town, he must speak with Florrie. Surely she would see the wisdom in taking Abby along when her niece’s husband came to fetch her. He would not risk Abby’s reputation by escorting her alone.

  He rummaged through his sack of provisions and pulled out a piece of jerky. While he bit off a hunk and chewed, he took his knife and cut long bands of the wagon canvas, some wide, others narrower. The canvas strips, along with the poles he’d already cut and stripped of leaves, would form a sturdy travois.

  He led the horse up the trail a short distance to a tiny trickling waterfall. He refilled his canteen and watered the horse. On his way back, he picked up more firewood. He’d need plenty of light by which to work tonight.

  Shadows had deepened by the time he returned to the campsite. He started his fire and ate another piece of jerky and some hardtack. Leaning back against a tree, he enjoyed a few pieces of dried apple. The meager meal filled his belly, but he looked forward to Abby’s cooking when he returned to Tucker’s Gap. With his appetite somewhat satisfied, he set to work bundling the loose items, readying them for the travois.

  By the light of the campfire, he lashed strips of canvas around the poles to form the frame. The wider lengths of canvas were snugly woven in and out of crisscrossed limbs, forming a sturdy platform to support the trunks.

  Firelight danced off the pile of salvaged items he hoped would bring a smile to Abby’s face. “Just wait until she sees these things.” The corners of his mouth tweaked upward. He relished the anticipation of seeing her delight. “Lord, I sure hope the keepsakes of her mother’s are in that trunk. I want her eyes to light up when she holds them in her hands again.” When he made his last trek down the ravine tomorrow morning, he intended to be extra diligent to look through the thicker underbrush for signs of anything left behind.

  He tied off one corner of the travois where the poles intersected and inspected the construction for a moment, nodding in satisfaction. As he began weaving another strip of canvas, a thought occurred to him. His hands halted. “Did Quinn say when Mrs. Cobb’s nephew was coming to get her?” He tried to think back on the conversation but couldn’t recall Quinn mentioning when the man was expected.

  What if he came before Beth’s baby was born? Abby had adamantly stated she intended to stay with Beth for as long as necessary. He knew he’d have an argument on his hands just convincing her to accompany Florrie, but how would he persuade her to go if Beth still needed her?

  Chapter 17

  Nathaniel wiped sweat from his brow. The sun hadn’t been up more than two hours, and the day promised to be a hot one. As soon as there was enough light to see, he’d climbed back down the ravine, cutting sapling trunks and limbs he selected for their most unusual spiral patterns. Wild grapevine came in handy for lashing the pieces together in a bundle.

  Impatience nibbled at him to finish loading the travois and head back to Tucker’s Gap. He’d already been gone a day longer than planned. Despite Quinn’s generosity, telling him to take as long as he needed, Nathaniel didn’t want to presume on the blacksmith’s benevolence. Besides, he couldn’t wait to see Abby’s reaction when she saw her trunk. Nathaniel whispered another prayer that those precious things Abby most wanted back were in the trunk that bore her initials.

  As he wound the vines around his wood bundle, he recalled Quinn’s amusement the night before he left. What if the man was right and Abby missed him? He couldn’t allow his feelings for Abby to become evident, regardless of anything Quinn imagined seeing from her. He reined in his emotions. It wouldn’t do to let Quinn, or anybody else, perceive his delight in pleasing Abby. He wasn’t in the position to court her. Not as long as he had a blemish on his name.

  He knotted the rope around the bundle of cut wood and pulled hand over hand on the rope that circled the beech tree at the top of the ledge. Coiling the slack as he went, he climbed up the steep incline. Much of the underbrush was flattened by his treks up and down, making the raising of the wood bundle a bit easier than hauling the trunks up.

  About twenty yards from the top, he halted. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He sensed he wasn’t alone. He strained his ears but heard nothing but birdsong and the breeze stirring the tree branches. Taking a slow turn, he scanned the area on both sides of him as well as the opposite side of the ravine. Panthers sometimes roamed these mountains. Or bears. He remained stock-still, listening and watching, but nothing revealed itself.

  Not wanting to carry a cumbersome weapon with him while he cut and bundled the wood, Quinn’s flintlock, as well as his own rifle he found under the remains of the wagon, sat up on the ledge by the travois. Foolish! Why didn’t he bring one of the guns with him?

  A thought occurred. If Wren hid in these wooded highlands, other Cherokee likely did as well. Perhaps they watched him work. He doubted they meant him any harm and were simply wary of his presence. He was as anxious to be on his way as they were to see him go, so he resumed hauling the wood bundle to the top. Just as he reached the ledge and grasped the base of the beech tree, he heard it.

  The unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked.

  Nathaniel froze.

  “C’mon up here.” The voice was vaguely familiar.

  Hands reached down and grasped his arms, dragging him the last couple of feet. When he looked up he found the barrel of a flintlock musket pointed directly at his head. Men in Georgia Guard uniforms surrounded him.

  “You again!” The voice belonged to the same lieutenant with whom he’d exchanged words nearly three weeks earlier. “What are you doing out here?”

  Nathaniel stood and worked to keep the contempt from showing on his face. “I’m trying to salvage what I can from my wrecked wagon.”

  One of the soldiers hooted. “He brought a wagon up here? How’d he think he was gonna drive a wagon and team through these woods?” The rest of the men joined in the chorus of guffaws.

  The lieutenant raised his hand and put an end to the laughter. He motioned toward the loaded travois. “So you’re claiming all thos
e things are yours?”

  “No.” Nathaniel didn’t blink. “Only one satchel and a rifle are mine. The other gun belongs to my friend, and all the rest of those things belong to the two ladies I was escorting.”

  “Are you referring to the women I was attempting to interrogate back at Tucker’s Gap the day you interfered?”

  The flame of Nathaniel’s ire grew in his belly. “I stepped in to stop the harassment of a lady who happens to be the daughter of an army colonel.” He kept his steady gaze on the lieutenant but noticed from the corner of his eye the same foul-mouthed sergeant he remembered from that Sunday afternoon in Tucker’s Gap. Another inkling of familiarity pervaded Nathaniel’s senses. Something about that man set Nathaniel’s teeth on edge.

  “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that. If she’s aiding Cherokees, her papa is no army colonel.” The lieutenant’s sarcasm brought another round of howling laughter from the soldiers. “I want to know who that woman is and where she got that basket.”

  Nathaniel lifted his chin a fraction of an inch and pressed his lips together. Did this imbecile really think he was going to divulge Abby’s name?

  “Are you refusing to cooperate?”

  The scruffy sergeant stepped forward. “She’s Colonel Ephraim Locke’s daughter from Fort New Echota.”

  The blood froze in Nathaniel’s veins, and he shot an icy stare at the sergeant. How did this man know Abby?

  “And I can tell you who this sorry coward is, too, Lieutenant.” The sneer on the sergeant’s lips pulled his beard askew. He turned to address all six soldiers as well as their leader. “This here’s none other than Lieutenant Nathaniel Danfield—or should I say ex-lieutenant. He was caught givin’ aid to the Cherokees and helpin’ ‘em escape when they was bein’ rounded up. Y’all are lookin’ at a bona fide, dishonorably discharged traitor.”

  It wasn’t the humiliation of the announcement that widened Nathaniel’s eyes. It was the dawning of realization. Finally, he remembered…

  “And I know who you are, Sergeant Browning. And what you are. You’re a liar who will testify to anything under oath if you’re paid well enough.” Nathaniel took a couple of steps in Browning’s direction, but he directed his words to the lieutenant. “This man used to be aide-de-camp to Captain Bane at Fort Reed. I wonder why Sergeant Browning is no longer in the federal army. I believe an investigation will uncover evidence of a bribe Captain Bane paid him to lie at my court-martial.”

  A solid fist coldcocked Nathaniel from the side. He staggered and fell but immediately sprang to his feet again. Browning came at him with fire in his eyes. Nathaniel sidestepped his charge, and the maneuver struck a chord in his memory. The foggy veil lifted from the bits and pieces he remembered from the day he fought with the outlaws on this very piece of ground.

  “You’re also one of the thieves who accosted me and the two ladies three months ago and stole our horses.”

  Browning took another swing at him. Nathaniel dodged the man’s fist.

  “I didn’t recognize you with the long hair and beard. That’s why you kept your hat pulled low that day in Tucker’s Gap.”

  The sergeant emitted a throaty growl and lunged, seizing Nathaniel around the waist and throwing him to the ground. Nathaniel grappled with Browning, trying to block the man’s punches. Browning landed a fist on Nathaniel’s mouth and then got his hands around Nathaniel’s throat. Pulling to one side and then the other, Nathaniel managed to wedge his arms in and heave the sergeant off him.

  “Sergeant! Stand down!”

  Browning ignored the lieutenant’s command and came at Nathaniel again, this time connecting his fist into Nathaniel’s gut.

  Air left Nathaniel’s lungs in an oomph. He sucked in a gulp of air and returned the favor to Browning with a belly punch followed by a mighty uppercut to the man’s chin. Browning fell backward, sprawled in the dirt.

  Nathaniel bent at the waist and swayed a moment, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. He pulled in a couple of breaths, as deeply as he could manage, and wiped the back of his fist across his bloody mouth. He straightened and turned, blinking to focus on the lieutenant.

  “You have any more questions?”

  The lieutenant narrowed his eyes at Nathaniel. “Could be your word against his.”

  “I can prove what I say is true. Why else would the sergeant attack like he did if not to silence me? All I ask is—”

  “Sergeant!”

  Something solid connected with the back of Nathaniel’s head. A blinding white light and stabbing pain accompanied the blow, followed by a narrowing of the field of his vision, and then blackness.

  Four days.

  Lord, what if he doesn’t come back? Why didn’t I tell him I knew the truth about him? Please tell me what I’m to do.

  Nearly the entire population of Tucker’s Gap and the surrounding farms turned out for Pastor Winslow’s preaching service. Even Teague Jackson.

  Abby forced a polite smile and a “thank you” at Teague when he stepped aside to allow her and the children to enter the church ahead of him. Taking Dulcie and Beau each by the hand, she found a place for the three of them beside Florrie. Teague took a seat directly behind her.

  Florrie turned to greet her and tsked. “Abby, you don’t look well at all. You aren’t ill, are you?” The lines around Florrie’s eyes defined her concern.

  Abby lifted her shoulders. “I haven’t slept in a couple of nights. Nathaniel still isn’t back.” Her throat tightened. “I’m so worried. It’s been four days.”

  Florrie slipped an arm around Abby’s shoulders. “We have to have faith, Abby. It’s out of your hands. All we can do is pray, and prayer is the most important thing we can do.”

  Tears burned Abby’s eyes and her voice broke. “I just wish I knew where he was and why he left.”

  Pastor Winslow stepped into the pulpit and made a few announcements before the opening hymn. While the congregation lifted their voices, singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” Abby closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. “Where is he, God? Is he safe? Not knowing is so hard. I feel so helpless. If only I’d let him know my heart—maybe he wouldn’t have left.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and she whisked it away. By the time Pastor Winslow began his sermon, Abby’s heart was ragged and frayed.

  The preacher cleared his throat. “Friends, I know every one of us in this room have faced times of hardship. We find ourselves at a point in our lives when we know not what to do, and we have more questions than answers.”

  A startled tremble quaked through Abby’s middle and rose into her throat. The preacher had read her very thoughts. She sent a wide-eyed glance to the pulpit, but Pastor Winslow wasn’t looking at her.

  “Let me direct your attention to the book of Proverbs—the book of wisdom.” The sound of pages turning rustled across the room. “This is where I always begin when I’m facing a dilemma. Look at chapter four, beginning in verse twenty-three.”

  Abby ran her finger under the lines as the preacher read them: Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life. The issues of life—an all-encompassing phrase. Did God include the maelstrom occurring in her heart at this moment as one of those issues?

  The preacher continued. “God’s Word tells us to keep our hearts, to protect our steps, and carefully nurture our relationship with Him, so when we face these issues, our faith can carry us over the rough spots.”

  Pastor Winslow’s words reminded Abby of the analogy Beth had used about Quinn shoeing horses blindfolded. Those things of which the pastor spoke were accomplished over time and repetitive practice. Keep thy heart—it sounded so simple, but Abby realized she’d only caught a glimpse of the impact the words carried.

  Flipping back a page in his Bible, the pastor went on: “God’s instructions are clear. Chapter three, verse five says to ‘trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’”r />
  The words smote Abby’s heart. It was just as Beth and Florrie had said. Trusting was more than simply praying. She’d prayed. But had she ever waited to hear God’s answer? Over and over she’d wrestled for control—with her father, with her circumstances, and with God. Ignoring God’s sovereignty time and again, she’d barged ahead. Had she ever truly trusted God to direct her as Lord of her life?

  She closed her eyes and spent time communicating with her heavenly Father. When she opened them again, Pastor Winslow was saying something about being a servant and placing oneself under God’s direction. But her cup was already overflowing with the richness of God’s treasure. Fully trusting God was going to take practice, beginning with acknowledging His presence and power moment by moment.

  Fighting to control the details of her life left her exhausted. A breath of relief and freedom blew across her soul. Nathaniel was in God’s hands. Whether or not she ever saw him again or had the chance to share her heart with him wasn’t up to her.

  As they stood to sing the final hymn, peace greater than anything she’d ever known flooded her spirit. Her heart smiled.

  Pastor Winslow offered the final prayer and benediction, after which neighbors greeted neighbors and spent a few minutes fellowshipping. Abby gathered the children before they could escape to play with their friends.

  “Florrie, could you watch the children for a moment? Beth asked me to speak with Mrs. Sizemore this morning and see if she could drop by in the next few days.”

  “Her time is getting close, isn’t it?”

  Abby nodded. “She thinks it will be in the next couple of weeks.”

  And after that? The unspoken question hung in the air. Putting Nathaniel in God’s hands wasn’t the only issue of her heart she needed to entrust to God. Her desire to stay in Tucker’s Gap must also be offered up.