Polly’s daughter, Margaret, greeted him. “Good morning, Dale. What can I get for you today?”
Dale peered over the counter to the baked goods lined up on racks behind her. “By any chance did you and your mother make those apple things this morning?”
Margaret’s pleasant personality and culinary skills might have been enough to lure some men, but Dale wasn’t hunting. Besides, the woman was a few years older than he, and plain-looking with her mousy hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her crooked teeth showed when she smiled.
“You mean the cinnamon apple scones? Yes, we made them. How many would you like?”
One fat scone would keep him going this morning. He’d tried buying an extra one once, thinking he could eat it the following morning, thus saving himself a trip to the bakery. But by the second day the scone was so dry, it was like trying to swallow thatch.
“Just one.”
Margaret wrapped a scone in paper and handed it to him with a demure smile. “I gave you the biggest one. Anything else?”
Dale had the distinct impression she was flirting. “No, thank you.” He handed over a dime and took his wrapped breakfast.
“See you tomorrow, Dale?”
He hesitated on his way out the door. “Uh, maybe.” As he exited, he nearly collided with Pastor Shuford.
“Morning, Pastor.” He held up the scone. “Join me for breakfast?”
The preacher chuckled. “No, my wife keeps me supplied with all the baked goods I can eat. Actually, I saw you walking this way and thought I might accompany you to the sawmill if you don’t mind.”
Dale slid the scone into his pocket and glanced sideways at the preacher. “You thinking on buying some lumber, or is there another purpose to your early morning stroll?
The older man smiled. “I confess I just wanted to talk to you. Let’s walk so you aren’t late for work.”
The two set out in the direction of the sawmill. Dale noticed the pastor shortened his stride to accommodate Dale’s hitched gait.
Pastor Shuford sucked in a noisy breath. “I love the smell of autumn.”
Certainly the man didn’t wish to discuss the changing seasons.
“I was talking with your sister and brother-in-law yesterday after church. Auralie and Colton said they haven’t seen much of you.”
“I’ve been busy.” The ten-minute walk didn’t afford much time for chatting. “What’s really on your mind, Pastor?”
The pastor smiled. “I wondered if you’d given much thought to yesterday’s sermon.”
Dale drew in a stiff breath. He could have predicted this conversation. “Not too much. You know it’s still hard for me to think about that. Everything you said is probably true, but I don’t see why I should forgive people who burned my home, stole my land, and”—he gritted his teeth—“took Gwendolyn and—” Tightness took up residence in his throat.
Pastor Shuford’s voice gentled. “Dale, you aren’t the only one who lost someone in the war.”
Dale halted and jerked around to face the preacher. “Maybe not, but when soldiers go off to fight, the ones left at home know there is a possibility they won’t come back. After months of fighting and trying to heal from wounds, I came home expecting to find my loved ones waiting for me.” He shook his head and continued toward the mill, his annoying shuffle-step impeding his determination to end this conversation and get to work.
The pastor fell in beside him. “Dale, have you ever noticed how your limp gets worse when you get angry about the war?”
Dale stopped so fast he almost pitched forward. He spun with an indignant retort on his tongue, ready to demand to know why the pastor would say something so cruel. But the preacher’s expression was anything but cruel. Kindness and compassion deepened the lines around his eyes, defusing Dale’s irritation.
“Dale.” Pastor Shuford laid his hand on Dale’s shoulder. The preacher’s eyes glistened. “I fear the bullet that injured your leg did less damage than the resentment and animosity you nurture. Don’t you see, son? Your old wound has been trying to heal for six years, but your bitterness is making you a cripple.”
Pastor Shuford’s words, spoken with such tenderness, punched Dale in the gut and robbed his breath. He braced himself with his good leg so he wouldn’t stagger. No other person on the face of the earth could get away with saying such a thing to him. But even under the onslaught of pain the preacher’s words brought, Dale knew the man well enough to realize he’d spoken in love.
He stared at his friend, watching the moisture gather in his eyes. The pastor squeezed Dale’s shoulder before stepping back and dropping his hand.
“I better let you get on to work.”
Dale nodded mutely, but didn’t move.
“Son, you know I’m praying for you.”
Dale somehow found the will to make his muscles work again. He nodded. “Yes, sir. I know.”
He walked the remainder of the distance to the mill alone, but the preacher’s words accompanied his every step. The morning mist still hung in the air as Dale studied his own impaired stride. Did his limp really worsen when he thought about the war?
Smoke curled from the tin chimney in the sawmill office. Simon Pembroke already had the fire in the potbellied stove going. Dale hitched his way up the dozen steps to the door that bore a sign, PEMBROKE SAWMILL—OFFICE. When he stepped inside, his boss looked up from the desk.
“You all right, Dale? You look a little peaked.”
Dale gritted his teeth and worked his jaw. Pembroke’s Northern accent always set him on edge, but even more so this morning. The man had arrived in Juniper Springs from Massachusetts the year after the war ended, bought up land cheap, and built the sawmill. It had galled Dale at first to work for a Yankee, but Pembroke paid a fair wage.
He sucked in a breath through his clamped teeth. “Yes, sir, just fine.” He pulled the clipboard from its peg, but before he left the office to start on the day’s first work order, he dug in his pocket and pulled out a few folded bills. He held them out to Pembroke. “October’s rent for the house.”
Pembroke frowned. “This isn’t due till next week.”
“I know.” Dale laid the money on the desk and stepped out the door.
Charity walked resolutely down the street, past the post office, to the bend in the road. The bridge appeared on the left, just as the pastor said. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, marching over the bridge. The sawmill was tucked into the rocks beside the creek so the swiftest running water turned the huge wheel. The noise from the mill drowned out the thumping of her heart in her ears. She paused at the end of the bridge.
Anticipation of speaking with Mr. Covington had her nerves tumbling, though she couldn’t guess why. Arrogant, self-important people had never bothered her in the past. But something about this man intrigued her. He’d once been an influential man of means, but the outcome of the war had stripped him of his wealth. No doubt his circumstances would steer his reactions to her questions.
A set of stairs on one side of the large frame building led to a door with a sign declaring it to be the office. She pulled in a deep breath to strengthen her fortitude and proceeded toward the stairs. As she placed her foot on the first step, she saw him.
Mr. Covington, his back bent to his task and his sleeves rolled to his elbows, stacked lumber in the back of a wagon. She watched him for a moment. Unsure of what she expected to see, an element of surprise raised her eyebrows as she observed the intensity and zeal with which he performed his job. He appeared different today, other than the fact he wore work clothes instead of his Sunday best. He gripped each board and maneuvered it smoothly into a neat stack with ease. That was it. His limp wasn’t as noticeable today.
He straightened and reached for a canteen that hung from the side of the wagon. Just as he started to take a drink he caught sight of her and halted midmotion. He lowered the vessel slowly, his steely gaze fixed on her.
“Can I help you find something?”
He set the canteen aside. “That’s right.”
She pasted the most professional expression she could muster on her face and approached him. He stiffened visibly. Charity decided if he’d been a cat, he might have arched his back and hissed. She extended her hand.
“I’m Charity Galbraith.”
His hooded eyes and the sullen twist to his mouth sent a chill through her, not from fear, but anticipation. What hovered behind those eyes?
He took her hand for a brief moment, but dropped it like it had burned him. “Miss Galbraith.” There may as well have been a NO TRESPASSING sign staked in front of him. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“I wonder if you might have time to talk.”
His dark eyes didn’t blink. “I’m working.”
“Yes, I can see that, but I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
Several long seconds ticked by, and she thought he was going to tell her to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he gestured to a low stone wall on the side of the building beside the creek. He snagged the canteen and carried it with him.
When they were seated, he took the cap off the canteen and gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, this is all I have to offer in the way of refreshment.”
She waved her hand. “No, thank you, but you go ahead.”
He took several gulps. “What is this about?”
Charity took a deep breath. “I have a friend in Pennsylvania. Her name is Essie Carver. She hasn’t seen or heard from her son in eleven years. She’s not even sure if he’s alive.”
Puzzlement etched its mark across his brow. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Essie’s son’s name is Wylie.” She paused, searching his face for some flicker of recognition, but none appeared. “Wylie was a slave. He was sold to Covington Plantation in 1859 at age thirteen. That’s the last she ever saw of him. I hope you can tell me where Wylie is now.”
Distress lines between his eyes gave Mr. Covington a prematurely aged appearance. He rose and paced for a moment, as if unconscious of his limp. When he spoke, the painfulness of the topic was evidenced in his tone.
“I’m sorry, Miss Galbraith. Covington Plantation utilized over four hundred slaves. The only ones I knew by name were the house slaves and the ones who worked in the stables taking care of the horses and carriages.” He glanced awkwardly at his crippled leg, hobbled slowly back to the stone wall, and sat, the limp more noticeable now than when he had been working.
“Records were kept, of course, but—” The muscles in his neck twitched as he swallowed. Was he trying to compose himself? “There was a fire. The records were destroyed along with…everything else.” He rubbed his side with a slow, methodical motion. “It may seem inhumane to keep such a large number of slaves without knowing their names. When my father was alive, he and I frequently disagreed on the care of the slaves. I tried to tell him that treating them with brutality was unnecessary, but he insisted on leaving that up to the overseers.” He looked across the lumberyard as if he was searching for the manor house in which he’d lived. “One of the things we disagreed on was splitting up family members. My father did not regard the slaves as having families. To him they were chattel.”
Charity shook her head. “Are you telling me that a thirteen-year-old child came to work on your plantation and you were not aware of him?”
He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Not if he was bought as a field slave.” He turned to look at her. The moodiness in his eyes wavered. “I don’t expect you to understand how it was.”
Charity swallowed hard, trying to control her temper. How it was? How did he think it was for a child to be separated from his mother and for his mother to never know what happened to him?
“You’re right, I don’t understand.”
He stood again and turned away from her with his hands clasped behind his back. “I was away much of the time. In the year or so before the war, I worked on some special projects for my father and out of necessity was away from the plantation for short periods. After—”
Though his back was to her, a visible shudder rippled through him, as though he bit off the words and spit them out.
“When the war started, I was commissioned and, of course, was away from home for much longer periods of time. When I returned home after the war, every—” He paused and sighed. “Everything…and everyone…was gone.” He turned back to face her. “I sincerely wish I could help you find this Wylie. And I wish—I wish I’d known his name when he belonged to Covington Plantation.”
Charity sat in silence, uncertain if she should feel pity or outrage toward this man. This conversation did not go as she expected. She’d come to the sawmill fully prepared to dislike Dale Covington. Her wavering emotions unsettled her, like a child walking atop a fence with arms held out to her sides for balance. She’d always held indecisive people in disdain. Now she was the object of her own scorn, the very attitude she’d reserved for Dale Covington.
“I really must get back to work.” Mr. Covington fastened the top back onto the canteen.
Charity rose from her seat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Covington. I suppose I’ll have to look elsewhere for Wylie.”
“You still intend to keep looking?” His question sounded more like a challenge.
“Of course.” Did the man not understand what it meant to persevere? “I promised his mother.”
Long after Miss Galbraith had taken her leave, Dale listened to their conversation echo in his mind. A cold sweat popped out on his forehead as the memories tore through him. His stomach tightened, and his leg ached. The picture he’d tried a thousand times to erase from his mind emerged again.
His uniform in tatters, a crutch under one arm, and sinking dread in his belly, he hobbled up the road toward home. Fear accosted him when he saw the great, ornate wrought-iron gates of Covington Plantation hanging askew from the posts. Grass grew down the lane that led to the manor house, and the once-beautiful grounds screamed out for someone to care for them once again.
He smelled it before he saw it. Although slight, the distinctive stench of stale smoke lingered in the air as though it didn’t know where else to go. His first sighting of the burned-out ruins of the house nearly brought him to his knees, but that’s not what ripped his heart from his chest.
Dale shook his head to rid himself of the memory—the scene he knew would invade his dreams again—and another took its place.
The black face bent over him, wrapping a rag around his leg and offering him a drink. The stranger removed his own shirt and used it to bind the wound in Dale’s side. While rifle fire and artillery still roared, the black man whose name Dale did not know lifted him in his work-hardened arms and carried him to safety. For two days, the black man—obviously a slave sent to fight in his master’s stead—cared for him until they reached a regiment that had a doctor.
“I wish I’d known his name.”
Chapter 4
Charity propped her elbow on the small desk in the corner of her room at the boardinghouse and leaned her chin in her cupped palm. She’d composed a short letter to Uncle Luther, letting him know she was fine, staying in a respectable boardinghouse, and he needn’t worry about her.
“Pfft. More likely he’s glad to be rid of me.” She addressed the envelope to her uncle, in care of the Kimball Hotel in Atlanta. Uncle Luther had made certain she’d known the Kimball was the finest hotel in the city, boasting of steam heat and elevators. She smirked at her uncle’s pomposity.
Her second letter lay half-finished in front of her. She knew her editor at the magazine waited for a tentative list of interviews and useful research she’d gleaned. Convincing Mr. Peabody to give her this assignment wasn’t easy. She couldn’t disappoint him. She’d been in Juniper Springs for almost a week and most of her time had been spent simply observing and listening. She crumpled the paper into a ball.
“And trying to find Wylie.” Frustration taunted her. She’d hoped one visit to Covington Plantation would supply her with all the information she needed to find the young man. How was she to know the place didn’t even exist anymore?
Her conversation with Dale Covington raised more questions than it answered. She leaned back in her chair and gazed out the small curtained window. Orange and red leaves mingled with bronze and gold in a gorgeous crazy-quilt mosaic, a gentle reminder that no matter how ugly war’s destruction, God had the power to make things beautiful again.
“What if some things can never be put back together? What if I have to go back to Harrisburg and tell Essie I couldn’t find Wylie, or worse, what if he’s dead?”
The familiar twinge of grief pierced her chest. Her goal of finding her father remained unspoken. No one but God knew of her intention to learn what had befallen him, and she knew the chance of finding him alive was almost zero. But if she could simply know for sure, perhaps the troubled dreams that invaded her sleep would come to an end.
“Lord, I can’t bury him in my mind until I know.” Her throat tightened, and burning moisture filled her eyes. “If I know he’s with You, then I can be at peace.”
Her heart turned over as she thought of her friend wondering all these years if her child was alive. Poor Essie tried to cling to the belief that Wylie would one day find his way to her. But with each month and year that passed, Charity saw the hope in Essie’s eyes crumble a little.
“God, please help me find Wylie. I pray he’s alive, but if he isn’t, then help me know how to tell Essie.”
If only Dale Covington had been able to give her a solid lead to follow. Again, she recalled their meeting at the sawmill the other day. The man was not at all pleased to meet her. A twinge of shame nibbled at her heart. She’d marched in there all prepared to revile Mr. Covington with her scathing opinion of people who bought and sold other human beings. But a mysterious aura hung around the man like a cloak of grief that drew a haunted shroud over his eyes. She suspected he had his own version of war miseries. But what could be worse than expecting a loved one—a father, a brother, a husband, a sweetheart—to come home and having that wait stretch into months and years without any word? How did one finalize a bond with a person they loved and put their memories to rest?
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