Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  He limped across the street with the boardinghouse order and went around to the kitchen door. Amiable chatter reached his ears when he knocked on the back door. Hannah Sparrow, the widow who ran the boardinghouse, greeted him.

  “Come in, Dale.” She held the door open for him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sparrow.”

  She plunked her hands on her hips. “When are you going to call me Hannah like everyone else?” Without waiting for a reply, she fluttered her fingers. “Excuse me. I must see to my new boarder.” She left Dale to take the grocery items out of the wooden box and lay them on the worktable, and while he did so, he could hear her making introductions in the dining room.

  “Everyone, this is Miss Charity Galbraith. She’s a reporter with Keystone Magazine.”

  Dale peered through the crack in the door to get a look at the newcomer. An attractive, dark-haired woman in a maroon skirt and white shirtwaist stood beside Mrs. Sparrow. A collection of greetings blended in disharmony as Mrs. Sparrow introduced Miss Galbraith to everyone seated at the table.

  “This is Frances Hyatt. She’s our dressmaker. Miles Flint there is the sheriff in our county. Polly Ferguson and her daughter, Margaret, run the bakery down the street. Elden Hardy is a wheelwright, and he’s from West Virginia. Arch Wheeler works at the land office, and across from him is Tate Ridley. Tate works at the sawmill.”

  Miss Galbraith greeted each person in turn, and her northern accent rasped across Dale’s ears like sandpaper. The reporter was a Yankee—if he didn’t miss his guess, she was from Pennsylvania.

  Tate Ridley spoke up. “What sort o’ articles you plannin’ on writin’ ‘bout our town, Miss Galbraith?” Dale detected the familiar belligerent tone in Tate’s voice.

  “Keystone has assigned a series of articles to me on the Reconstruction. I’m here to research and document the progress of putting our country back together after the war.”

  Dale gritted his teeth. Reconstruction, indeed. How many times did he have to be reminded of all he’d lost until the pain finally dulled? For the thousandth time he wondered if his decision to stay in Juniper Springs after the war was prudent. There were any number of places he could have started over, but the ugly memories would have dogged his steps no matter where he’d gone.

  Why would a woman reporter travel to Georgia alone? He’d seen more northern carpetbaggers than he cared to count, but she certainly didn’t look like someone who was here to snatch up cheap land or make money on the misery of others. He didn’t wait to hear any more.

  Dale let himself out the back door and headed down the now-darkened street toward his small rented house. There was a crisp coolness to the air—an onset of autumn? Or perhaps the chill that permeated his bones was generated by the voice of the Yankee woman at the boardinghouse.

  Chapter 2

  Dale opened one eye. An irritatingly cheerful bird perched in the maple tree outside his window proclaiming the dawn of the Lord’s Day. After tossing and turning most of the night, his mind filled with images from the war and its aftermath, Dale scowled at the morning light streaming into the room. Sunday morning, the only day he didn’t have to work. He rolled over, turning his back to the window, and pulled the pillow over his head. But despite squeezing his eyes closed and pressing the pillow to his ear, he couldn’t block out the feathered herald’s insistence that he arise and dress for church.

  Stupid bird.

  He swung his feet over the side of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair. Yawning and stretching, he exited the small bed chamber and shuffled across the main room to see if any live coals remained in the stove. No welcoming red pinpoints glowed from within. Grumbling, he assembled a handful of kindling and wood chips, stuffing them into the firebox. He struck a match and dropped it in among the dry tinder, watching it catch and burn.

  “I need a cup of coffee.” He grabbed the coffeepot and shook it hopefully, but there was no happy gurgling. Lack of sleep fueled his surly disposition as he shoveled several spoonfuls of grounds into the pot and ladled water over it. While he waited for the pot to boil, he sat at the small, shabby table with the Bible Pastor Shuford gave him. No doubt the preacher would ask him if he’d been reading it. He opened the Book where the scrap of paper marked his place and began reading.

  “Psalm thirteen. ‘How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? For ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?’” He leaned back and stared at the words. How did the writer of the psalm know exactly how Dale felt? The verse echoed through his hollow being, rattling the bitter crust around his heart. He looked heavenward and pointed to the pages, as though God were unaware of what it said.

  “Why God? The psalmist, David, was a godly man and this says You turned Your back on him. He only asked how long, but I’m asking why. Why was my world devastated? Why did You take everything from me?” The well-kept chronicle Dale hid in his heart emerged, and he mentally went down the list of everything he’d lost.

  His old war wounds—the one in his side as well as his leg—began to ache in unison along with the canker in his spirit. He rubbed his hand over the scar on his left side under his ribs.

  “God, I really do want to live for You, but every time I take a step toward You, my feet slip out from under me and I’m back where I started. I don’t want to live in the pit of despair, but I don’t know how to climb out.”

  The quiet whisper of heaven’s voice nudged him to keep reading. He returned to the psalm and found an affinity with the writer in the next verses. “Sorrow in my heart…mine enemy be exalted over me…”

  But the last two verses of the short psalm weren’t what he expected. “But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing unto the Lord, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.”

  He shook his head. “Bountifully? How is losing everything meaningful to a man considered bountiful?”

  Recurring nightmares from the war weren’t the only thing that kept slumber at bay last night. That Yankee woman he’d seen at the boardinghouse yesterday lingered in his thoughts. Her winsome smile charmed him until she spoke. The sound of her Northern accent mocked him with the reminder of all that the war had stolen from him.

  How ridiculous. It was unfair to blame Miss Galbraith for his losses by virtue of her birthplace. She was not the one who burned his home, nor did she fire the rifle that inflicted his wounds. Still, did she not represent the ones who did?

  Hisshhhhh. The coffeepot boiled over. Dale jumped up and limped over to the stove, grabbing a rag to mop up the mess. He muttered his annoyance and gazed through the open door that separated the tiny bedroom from the main living space. The rumpled bedcovers and lumpy mattress tick called to him. Falling under the alluring spell of his pillow seemed more prudent than shaving and dressing for church, but Pastor Shuford would no doubt come knocking on his door later this afternoon if he didn’t go. He sighed and went to fetch his razor.

  The Sunday service was already underway when Dale hop-stepped up the front stairs of the church. The congregation’s fine voice filled the early-autumn morning, much like the mockingbird that had awakened him. Their song gilded the air with praise, but Dale’s grumpiness had accompanied him to church. He slipped in the door and found a place near the back, scowling at the toes of his boots. Maybe he wouldn’t have to fellowship with anyone if he sat in the back.

  From his vantage point, he could study the backs of everyone’s heads and noted his boss, Simon Pembroke, sat directly in front of him. His gaze moved down the row, and he picked out Doctor Greenway and the Sawyers. Across the aisle, his sister, Auralie, her husband, Colton, and their two children sat sharing a Bible. Dale gritted his teeth and pulled his gaze away. When Colton fought with the Yankees, Dale had told Auralie she was no longer his sister.

  He directed his vision straight ahead. Five rows ahead of him, a woman with dark walnut hair pinned up under a ridiculous purple hat sat beside Hannah Sparrow.

  Pastor Shuford’s voice filled the
room as he announced his text for the morning. Dale paid little attention to the reference, but when the preacher began relating the biblical account of Peter inquiring of Jesus how many times he must forgive, Dale jerked his focus to the pulpit. He narrowed his eyes at the pastor, certain the clergyman spoke directly to him. After all, how many others in the congregation struggled with unwillingness to forgive those who had wronged them? If he rose to leave, everyone would notice his halting gait heading for the door, so he sat still and tried not to listen.

  His gaze kept returning to the woman in the purple hat, and when she turned her head momentarily, Dale realized it was Miss Galbraith. How ironic, or appropriate, that the woman whose presence had stirred his rancor and interrupted his sleep, who represented those he refused to forgive, sat not fifteen feet in front of him.

  Charity tucked her lower lip between her teeth to keep from standing up and demanding the preacher stop trampling on her toes. If there was a topic to which she did not wish to listen, it was God’s instruction to forgive. How dare this minister suggest it was her obligation to forgive the people who had taken her father from her?

  She turned to the scripture the preacher indicated with the intention of checking to see if he had taken it out of context and twisted its meaning. Matthew chapter eighteen, beginning in verse twenty-one. She read all the way through to verse thirty-five searching for the smallest detail to which she could point and disagree. But the plain truth of Christ’s example lay across the pages in black and white. The thought of graciously granting forgiveness to those who didn’t deserve it set her teeth on edge.

  It stood to reason many Southerners harbored resentment since they lost the war, but hearing such a message preached in a Southern church indeed surprised her. Charity sent a surreptitious glance around the room, looking for people who appeared as offended as she at the minister’s audacity. There were some who scowled or looked away from the man in the pulpit, but many nodded their heads or murmured “amen.”

  The pastor drew the congregation’s attention to Luke chapter six. “In verse thirty-seven, Jesus tells us not to judge so we will not be judged, nor condemn others so we will not be condemned. Our Lord adds that if we expect to be forgiven, we must learn to forgive.” The man stepped to the side of the pulpit, reaching out an upturned palm, beseeching the listeners. “Don’t allow the spirit of unforgiveness to devour you. Your refusal to forgive another doesn’t hurt that person nearly as much as it hurts you.”

  In the two days she’d been in Juniper Springs, the sound of Southern twang had grated on her ears, and this preacher was no different. But it wasn’t the sound of his voice as much as the meaning of his words that offended her. How could she do what he advocated? Some days her anger was the only thing that fueled her motivation to go on. Clinging to malice made her strong. Charity drew the shutters of her heart closed and refused entry to the remainder of the sermon.

  She’d begged her editor to let her write the series of articles on Reconstruction. The South started the fight, demanding their right to use slaves or their very way of life would be destroyed. Of course there were casualties inflicted in the South, but after all, they were the ones who rebelled and seceded. Soldiers like her father were defending their sovereign nation. Besides, the very idea of slavery nauseated her. The South’s insistence that their agriculture industry would suffer without slave labor was preposterous, and she intended to use her pen as a sword to carve indelible words to that effect.

  The latest news from the South had made the headlines only a few weeks before she boarded the train to travel to Georgia. According to the Harrisburg Gazette, Georgia was finally readmitted to the Union after five years of refusing to comply with Federal orders. It wasn’t until last February that the Georgia legislature finally ratified the fourteenth and fifteenth amendments, and the newspaper said it happened only at the point of military bayonets. Even now Federal troops still occupied McPherson Barracks in Atlanta to ensure no more lapses in compliance. Charity sniffed. Didn’t that justify her feelings and prove her point?

  Charity folded her arms. Nobody—not this preacher or anyone else—would convince her to extend unmerited forgiveness to people who had wronged so many.

  She barely realized the rest of the congregation stood until they began to sing, “O, for a closer walk with God, a calm and heavenly frame; a light to shine upon the road, that leads me to the Lamb.”

  She rose quickly and added her voice to the hymn, hoping no one noticed her lack of attention. When the singing faded away, the minister closed in prayer and bid everyone a blessed Sabbath. Charity picked up her Bible and reticule, and Hannah Sparrow beckoned a few parishioners over to introduce them.

  More Southern accents.

  She managed to smile and shake hands with each one; then her gaze collided with that of a young man standing near the back talking to the pastor. He stared at her for only a moment, his expression an odd mix of fascination and distrust. After a few seconds he turned back to his discussion with the pastor, but Charity studied his profile from across the room. She’d seen him before. That haunted look in his eyes jogged her memory. Of course—the man she saw through the kitchen door at the boardinghouse yesterday evening. She thought at first he worked there, but she didn’t see him again until now. A darkness clung to him, nothing sinister, but somber and brooding, like he’d known great pain.

  The preacher clapped him on the shoulder and turned to greet other worshippers. The young man with the moody eyes sent another quick look her way and caught her watching him. She stifled a gasp and turned to speak to Hannah Sparrow.

  “Please excuse me, Mrs. Sparrow. I’d like to speak to the preacher.”

  “Wasn’t this morning’s message wonderful? I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting him,” her landlady bubbled.

  Charity didn’t bother to explain that her interest in speaking with the man wasn’t to discuss today’s sermon. As the pastor of the church, he likely knew everyone in town, and Charity hoped he could supply her with some information. When she made her way toward the pastor, the man she’d seen at the boardinghouse had already taken his leave, and Charity’s curiosity remained unsatisfied.

  Mrs. Sparrow took Charity’s hand. “Pastor Shuford, I’d like you to meet my newest boarder, Miss Charity Galbraith. She is a reporter with Keystone Magazine.”

  The pastor shook her hand and gave her a warm smile. “I hope you’ll be with us for a good long visit, Miss Galbraith.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. I hope to stay for as long as it takes to research the information I need.”

  Pastor Shuford smiled and nodded. “If I can be of any help, please let me know.”

  Exactly what Charity hoped he’d say. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to visit Covington Plantation. Perhaps you could direct me.”

  A saddened expression drooped the man’s smile. “I’m afraid there is no more Covington Plantation. It was burned during the war. Scavengers.”

  “Oh dear.” Charity bit her lip. “I hoped to speak with someone from the Covington family. You see, I’m trying to locate a former slave who worked there.”

  “A former slave?”

  “Yes. His name is Wylie, and his mother is my friend. She’s not seen or heard from him for eleven years. I’d like to find him for her.”

  The pastor sent a stealthy glance around them, and then leaned in and lowered his voice. “That sounds like a fine Christian act, and I pray God’s safety for you as you search. Not everyone in these parts will appreciate such a mission. Unfortunately, Covington Plantation no longer exists, but you can speak to Dale Covington.”

  “I’d very much like to do that. Where might I find him?”

  The pastor stepped to the open door of the church and pointed. “That’s him, the man in the dark brown coat.”

  Charity looked at the man to whom the pastor pointed. The brooding man with the hollow look in his eyes limped across the street away from the church.

  “He was wounded in the war
.” Pastor Shuford’s voice, hushed and pensive, left Charity to wonder about the extent of Mr. Covington’s wounds.

  A dozen other questions crowded her mind as well. The Covingtons were obviously a wealthy family at one time if they owned a plantation and slaves. Curiosity needled her. Whatever was a man like that doing in the boardinghouse kitchen?

  “Miss Galbraith, I feel I must tell you, Dale Covington probably won’t be very receptive to your inquiries.”

  She turned to look at the pastor. “Why? Is he ashamed of having kept slaves?”

  Pastor Shuford gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Sometimes a man’s wounds go deeper than his flesh.”

  She pondered the minister’s peculiar reply for a moment. “Could you direct me to his place of residence?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper for you to visit him at his home. He lives alone. I hope you understand.” Pastor Shuford gave her a fatherly smile. “But he works at the sawmill across the creek.” He pointed toward the left. “Go past the boardinghouse and the post office. The road curves and you’ll see a bridge. You can find him there most days. After he finishes at the mill, he works for Clyde Sawyer at the general store. He helps out in the back, makes deliveries, things like that.”

  So he’d been delivering Mrs. Sparrow’s groceries last evening. Imagine that, a rich man like Covington working in a sawmill and delivering groceries. She supposed she should feel sympathy for him, but instead, an element of smug gratification settled in her stomach.

  “Across the creek, you say?” She leaned to peer in the direction the pastor had pointed. “Thank you, Pastor. I’ll pay Mr. Covington a visit at the sawmill.”

  Chapter 3

  Dale hurried into the bakery on his way to the sawmill. Despite living alone for six years, he’d still not gotten used to making his own breakfast. Polly Ferguson always had some tempting offerings to satisfy him.