Belle prodded her to remember the adventurous childhood they’d spent, when Auralie was usually the one to dare Belle into taking chances. Now it seemed things were turned around.
Belle’s question rang in her ears. What was the worst that could happen? In the fairy tales she’d read as a child, the beautiful princess was locked up in a tower, but locking her up wasn’t what her father wanted. His intention was for her to be on display, like Belle’s china dolls—an elegant, graceful woman who exuded the lifestyle, kept her mouth shut, and hung on her husband’s arm like an ornament.
When one was raised in a culture in which crossing class lines was unconventional, breaking such a tradition shook her foundation. She let her eyes drift closed and the image that came to mind was Colton Danfield sitting in church, intently listening to God’s Word preached, wiping away a tear, saturating himself with the presence of God.
Had she ever done that? She believed in God and had trusted Christ as a child. But there was something missing in her faith. Mammy had tried to make her see it, and Belle had hinted Auralie’s relationship with God was lacking. But she didn’t understand until she watched Colton Danfield sit in awe and pure adoration of the God he loved.
Conviction.
That’s the word that described what she saw in Colton, not only in the way he viewed God, but in the way he lived his life.
What convictions could she claim? Did she have that level of belief that God loved her and kept His promises? Despite having just finished eating Sunday dinner, she felt ravaged by hunger, but not a hunger for anything tangible. What she longed for was a filling of unshakable hope that she could cling to God in utter and unspoiled trust. That’s what she saw in Colton Danfield. Everything about him bespoke of a deeply rooted conviction that God remain enthroned in the very center of his life.
She’d never witnessed such a faith from her father. The motive for everything her father did was greed and lust for power. When she’d questioned almost two years ago why Perry wrote to her father rather than to her, she was harshly silenced and told to stay in her place. A month ago she’d finally received a letter from Perry, and he hadn’t mentioned God one time, but rather communicated the same dictatorial air she’d grown accustomed to seeing in her father.
She opened her eyes and raised them to the puffy, white clouds that drifted lazily across the blue sky. Last night’s storm had rattled the walls and roof like a demonic thing seeking to devour her. Today, the cornflower blue skies, wispy clouds, and balmy breeze defined how God could keep her through the storm. Not all storms were comprised of slashing lightning, booming thunder, and wild winds. Some storms raged in the heart. Could God calm a storm within the same way He’d sheltered her during the treacherous lightning and crashing thunder?
Chapter 10
Colton stared at the colorful banner flapping in the breeze, declaring Shelby Covington the best candidate for governor. It stretched the entire width of the main street, from the lamppost next to the courthouse across the street to the saloon. Colton shook his head in disgust. The accolades borne on the banner were a stretch at best and fabrications in reality.
Clyde Sawyer stepped out the mercantile doors and stood next to Colton, hands on hips and a scowl twisting his gray whiskers. He pointed to the pretentious sign. “Is that a joke?”
“No. Covington is running for governor.” Colton did his best to disguise his personal dislike of the man. Being asked to speak on behalf of local small farmers at a private gathering was one thing, but he’d not make a spectacle of himself on the street, publicly denouncing a candidate.
Clyde flapped his hand like he was shooing away an annoying gnat. “I mean that other stuff.” He splayed his fingers and waved his hand in a grand arc imitating the size of the banner. “Best man for the job? A man you can trust?” Clyde’s voice rang with contempt. He angled his head and looked sideways at Colton. “That’s the biggest crock of—”
“Clyde?” Betsy’s shrill voice carried from inside the mercantile.
The merchant cast a look of mock exasperation heavenward. “I’ll be there in a minute, Sweet Pea,” he called out before turning back to Colton. “So what brings you to town in the middle of the week?”
Colton pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Clyde. “Just need a few things. I have to pick up some feed and a couple of rolls of fencing from Sloan Talbot. I’m enlarging the chicken coop. Can I pick up those supplies on my way back?”
“Sure thing.” Clyde leaned closer. “Say, did you hear the news. Stephen Douglas got the most votes at the Democratic Convention, but he didn’t win a clear majority. They say there was quite a rhubarb going on down there in Charleston. Fussin’ and fightin’ to beat the band.”
Colton slapped his hat back on his head. “I was planning on picking up this week’s edition of the Sentinel today. There ought to be something in there about the goings-on in Charleston.”
Clyde dug a nickel out of his pocket and held it out. “Pick up a copy for me, will you?”
“Clyyyyde!” Betsy screeched for her husband again. “Where did you get off to? I need your help.”
A wide grin stretched Colton’s face. “You’re going to be in trouble if you don’t go see what she wants.”
“You’re right.” Clyde chuckled. “Just between you and me, sometimes I think she enjoys getting all in a flutter.” He raised his voice a few notches. “Coming, Sweet Pea.” He turned and waved. “Talk to you later, Colton. Oh, Betsy made some strawberry preserves and she wants to give you a jar, so remind me when you—”
“Clyde Sawyer! Do I have to come lookin’ for you?”
Clyde beat a hasty retreat back inside, and Colton climbed aboard the wagon seat. He whistled to the team and headed off toward Talbot’s Feed and Seed. The enterprise’s owner—the man with whom Colton had exchanged words the week before—stood on the loading platform, counting stacked burlap sacks.
Sloan gave him a cool nod. “What can I do for you, Colton?” His tone bore a thread of malice, left over from their previous encounter, no doubt.
Colton climbed down from the high seat. “Morning, Sloan. Nice day, isn’t it?”
A scowl wormed its way across Sloan’s brow. “Haven’t had time to notice. You need somethin’?”
If the man didn’t want to be civil, there was nothing Colton could do about it. “I need a hundred pounds of oats, a hundred of barley, and two hundred of cracked corn. Do you have any of that crushed sorghum cane?”
Sloan gave a short nod. “How much you want?”
“A hundred pounds of the crushed cane, and a roll of poultry netting.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket.
Sloan’s frown deepened. “Don’t you want to put this on your account?”
Colton shook his head. “Cash on the barrel. I trust the prices are still the same?”
A rush of red filled Sloan’s face and he jerked his head toward a crudely lettered sign hanging against the board and batten siding. “Price chart is right there.”
Without giving the list more than a cursory glance, Colton pulled a few bills from his wallet and extended them to Sloan. The man who Colton once called a friend snatched the money, stuffed it in his pocket, and stomped into the warehouse to fetch the purchased sacks of grain.
Colton sighed. He remembered Pastor Winslow telling him once that sometimes all a man has that he can call his own are his principles. If taking a stand against secession, and more specifically against slavery, caused Sloan to cut friendship ties with him, then so be it.
Sloan dumped the heavy sacks on the platform and let Colton load them himself.
Colton set the brake and tethered the team outside the mercantile, but before going inside to pick up his supplies, he jogged across the street to the Juniper Springs Sentinel office and bought two copies of the latest edition. He exchanged greetings with the editor, Jack McCaffey, and wandered out the door reading the headline.
COVINGTON PROMISES RAIL SERVICE IF ELECT
ED
Reading as he ambled back toward the mercantile, he collided with a man and dropped Clyde’s copy of the paper he’d tucked under his arm.
He jerked his head up. “Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry.”
The gentleman in the fine gray frock coat and silver brocade vest scowled and brushed imaginary dirt from his sleeve. “Watch where you’re going.” He straightened his silk maroon paisley cravat and proceeded to his waiting carriage, stepping on Clyde’s dropped newspaper in the process.
Familiarity rang in the man’s face and voice. Colton had seen him before but couldn’t recall when or where. The landau carriage, with its crest-adorned door and polished brass lamps, pulled away. Colton glanced up at the sign over the door the man had just exited. The land office.
“Not very polite, is he?”
Colton turned his attention to the one making the comment. Cyrus Fletcher, Juniper Springs’ only lawyer, sent a derisive frown after the carriage and bent to pick up the newspaper, brushing off some of the dirt before handing it back to Colton.
“Thanks.” Colton glanced at the soiled paper. It wasn’t ruined, but he switched it with the paper he’d been reading, intending to give the clean copy to Clyde Sawyer. “No, I’d say the gentleman definitely lacked manners. Do you know that fellow?”
Cyrus snorted. “I wish I didn’t. That’s Maxwell Rayburn, Esq.”
Colton pondered the name. “Wasn’t he that fancy attorney from Athens you went up against a time or two?”
“That’s right. That land right-of-way case a few years ago. Shelby Covington sued to prevent local farmers from using a trail they’d used for years because it went through the tract where he was building his brickworks. The farmers weren’t damaging anything—they were just passing through on their way to transport their harvested crops downriver. The trail was the easiest and straightest way, but Covington denied them access. Rayburn pulled a dirty trick or two out of his sleeve, the court ruled in Covington’s favor, and the farmers suffered.” Cyrus looked in the direction the fancy carriage had taken, then at the building Rayburn had exited. “Wonder what he’s doing up here.”
Auralie trembled and paused halfway down the stairs. A man she didn’t know stood beside the bottom step with one hand on the ornately swirled rail. The harsh glare of light behind him made his features impossible to distinguish. She hesitated, her feet frozen in place on the stairs. Every instinct told her to dash back up the stairs, run to her room, and bolt the door behind her.
“Come.” His voice sounded far away and he held out his hand.
Panic spiraled within her, but her full, sweeping skirts of pink silk hampered her movements. She sent a frantic look over her shoulder. Mammy stood at the top of the stairs, shaking her head and wiping a tear away with the corner of her apron.
“Come.” The voice sounded closer and more commanding.
Auralie jerked her head around. No longer at the halfway point on the stairs, she now stood three-fourths of the way down without having moved her feet an inch. Who was this man ordering her about? His chin lifted and he held his head at an arrogant angle. With outstretched fingers, he beckoned. Beyond the mysterious figure, Colton Danfield stood near the door, his hat in one hand. His other hand extended to her as well, but in a gentle, inviting manner, as if offering her a choice.
Her chest constricted, and it was hard to breathe. She realized her corset was laced much too tightly. Heat rushed into her face. When she looked down at herself, the pink silk was gone. In its place was a pearl-studded gown of white satin and Chantilly lace. A veil of matching lace cascaded from her head across her arms. A droplet trickled down her face. Was it perspiration? Or a tear?
The glaring light outside disappeared and inky blackness blanketed them. A ferocious flare of lightning blazed from the windows, illuminating the face of the man waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. His downturned mouth and sinister, narrowed eyes sent a jolt of fear through her. He pointed to her and then slowly drew a path with his finger, directing her to come and stand beside him. She sent a desperate glance beyond him toward the door, where Colton stood, but he’d vanished. Why didn’t she grasp his outstretched hand while she had the chance?
“Come!” The imposing tone pronounced the single word as if it were an edict handed down from a king to his subjects.
A deafening crash of thunder made her grab her skirts and turn to scurry up the stairs, but at that moment a viselike grip encircled her arm with such force, she cried out. Clawing at the hand in a vain attempt to escape, she sought the face of the one who held her. Shelby Covington glowered down at her and pulled her by her arm down the stairs toward the man who waited for her.
“Father, please don’t make me do this.” The plea tore from her throat.
Beside him, her mother stood dressed entirely in black, fluttering a fan, a passive nonexpression on her face.
“Father…”
“Wake up, chile.”
Auralie’s eyes flew open, and she bolted upright with a gasp. She sat amid tangled bedcovers. A single candle flickered on the bedside table. Sweat dripped from her hair, and she sucked in great gulps of air. Mammy leaned over her, drawing Auralie into her arms.
“Yo’s havin’ a bad dream, honey girl. Jes’ a dream, that all it is, jes’ a dream. Mmm-hmm.” Mammy hummed in that familiar, soothing voice she’d used to comfort Auralie for as long as she could remember. “Shh, now. Yo’s gonna rouse the whole house wit’ yo’ hollerin’.”
Auralie sagged into Mammy’s embrace, relief quivering through her. She lifted her trembling hands and clung to the sweet Negro woman like she used to do as a child. Mammy continued to hum, a spiritual Auralie had heard her sing a thousand times, as she gently rocked back and forth and stroked Auralie’s damp hair.
After several minutes, Mammy took Auralie’s shoulders. “Honey girl, you all right now?”
“Yes.” Discomfort scraped her raspy throat. “Better now. I’m sorry I awakened you.”
“Nonsense, chile.” The thin glow of the candle danced across Mammy’s face as she retrieved a towel from the washstand. She began patting Auralie’s face and neck, brushing back the damp tendrils of hair. “There now. I’s jus’ goin’ to sit right here beside you while you fall back to sleep.”
“No, Mammy. You need your sleep, and I think I want to stay awake for a while longer.” She swung her feet to the floor and reached for her dressing gown.
Candlelight outlined the concern in Mammy’s eyes. “Honey girl? When you was dreamin’, you cried out to the Father.” She stroked Auralie’s hair. “Was you prayin’?”
Mammy’s question jolted her. Praying? “No, I wasn’t. But I think it’s time I started.”
Auralie and Belle relaxed on the east-facing side porch where the morning sun peeked through the trees and sent rays of dappled light skittering across the tabletop. Belle’s morning nausea had eased up some, and she nibbled on a piece of cinnamon toast.
“Do you think you could eat some strawberries?” Auralie offered the bowl to her cousin. “Try one.”
Belle made a face. “I think I’d better stay with the toast and tea.”
“That’s not much of a breakfast,” Auralie admonished. “Maizie and Mammy said you’re supposed to be eating for two.”
Belle grinned. “I’ll make up for it later.”
Fragrant honeysuckle scented the air, and a nearby pair of squirrels bickered over the rights to a pinecone. The late spring breeze waved the tree limbs in an impromptu waltz. The idyllic setting soothed the tension from last night’s dream from Auralie’s shoulders. She took another sip of coffee. This place had become her refuge, far removed from the impending reality that had prompted last night’s terror. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly, easing her head back against the wicker chair’s cushion and letting her eyes drift closed.
“I have an idea.”
Auralie opened her eyes.
Belle’s expression sparkled with anticipation. “Let’s go into Ju
niper Springs to the dry goods store and look at material for sewing a layette for the baby. I’m going to need yards and yards of flannel for diapers, and maybe you could help me make some simple little gowns.” She clasped her hands together under her chin, fingers interlaced. “Why don’t we stop and see if Frances Hyatt could make something special for the baby. A christening gown, perhaps?”
Enthusiasm sparked within Auralie. “Oh, that sounds like such fun. Why don’t we look for some cloth to make a little quilt? Since the baby isn’t coming until fall, he—or she—will need a warm quilt.”
Belle rose and pulled Auralie to her feet. “Let’s go get ready. I’ll tell Sam to hitch up the carriage, and we’ll go right away.”
Delight tickled Auralie’s stomach, and she scurried inside and up the stairs to freshen up. Mammy came to repin her hair into a snood so it wouldn’t tumble in disarray during the carriage ride.
“I hope the dry goods store has a good supply of flannel.” Auralie grinned while Mammy dressed her hair. “Making sweet little things for the baby will be so much fun.”
A tap at Auralie’s bedroom door drew their attention. “Miss Auralie?” Maizie nudged the door open. “This just now come fo’ you.” She held out a folded missive.
The very sight of the paper in Maizie’s hand sucked the breath from Auralie’s lungs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she twisted her ring while whispering a prayer. “Please, Lord, don’t let it be what I think it is.” Fighting to draw a deep, steadying breath, she took the note. “Thank you, Maizie.” Her name was written on the outside in her mother’s unmistakable flowing script. With trembling hands, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
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