Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  She’d often thought it cruel and coldhearted to inform family members of their loved one’s demise by telegram or letter. Words on paper seemed so heartless. But even a heartless letter would have been better than a state of oblivion.

  Over the past several years, she’d seen and known many people who’d suffered a great loss through the war. Countless men came home blinded or missing a limb. Some could no longer work to support their families. Others were so devastated by what they’d witnessed, they turned to whiskey or opium to dull the pain. Others withdrew into themselves and no longer seemed to be the same person they once were.

  Her conversation with Dale Covington became more puzzling every time she thought about it. How could he exude such melancholy over the loss of a house? When he spoke of it, his limp even became more pronounced. With the staggering number of casualties and destroyed lives as a result of the war, if all Mr. Covington lost was his house, he should count himself fortunate.

  A twinge of regret poked her. Her parents taught her to be compassionate and kindhearted, not cynical and judgmental. Her father always said to hear an entire matter before making up her mind. Otherwise, she was merely jumping to conclusions.

  A lump filled her throat. “Papa was always right about such things.” Her own whisper echoed in the emptiness of the room.

  Mr. Covington did say he wished he could help find Wylie, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she believed him. As she’d left him that day at the sawmill, the expression in his eyes stayed with her. She was a journalist. She made her living with words. But she couldn’t put her finger on the words to define what she saw in his eyes.

  Her stomach growled, and she glanced at the dainty watch pinned to her bodice. Nearly six o’clock. She pushed away from the small desk and left her room. Perhaps she could give Mrs. Sparrow a hand.

  The enticing aroma of roasting chicken greeted her halfway down the stairs. Three of the other boarders sat in the parlor awaiting supper, and Charity tried to remember their names. The county sheriff—she remembered his last name was Flint—reclined with one leg crossed over the other, a book in his hands. Another man—his name escaped her—read the Juniper Springs Sentinel. Did he work in the courthouse or land office? He might turn out to be a source of information if he had access to official records.

  The third man she remembered. Tate Ridley slumped on the settee, impatience edging his features. Ridley was the most vocal of the boarders when Mrs. Sparrow introduced her as a magazine reporter. The man clearly didn’t take to the idea of someone from the North reporting on the Reconstruction process. She almost suggested he write an article based on his own research and submit it, but she suspected the man couldn’t read or write. When he looked over and saw her standing at the foot of the stairs, one corner of his mouth lifted, appearing more like a snarl than a smile.

  Charity hurried to the kitchen door. “Mrs. Sparrow, what can I do to help?”

  The plump woman straightened and brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. “Well, you can start by calling me Hannah.” She blotted perspiration from her forehead with the corner of her apron. “It’s right nice of you to offer to help. Can you check the biscuits?”

  “Certainly.” Charity grabbed a towel and pulled the pan of golden brown biscuits from the oven. “Mmm, they’re perfect. The dog usually tries to bury my biscuits.”

  Hannah chuckled. “It would be a sad thing if I couldn’t make a decent biscuit after nearly forty years of practice.” She deposited two fat roasted hens onto a large platter. “If you’ll fill the water glasses, I’ll put these birds on the table and call everyone to supper.”

  As soon as all the boarders were seated and Hannah asked God’s blessing on the meal, conversation flowed as freely around the table as the serving vessels. Charity listened, trying to pick out the persons who might be the most willing to share information. The man whose name she couldn’t remember gave her a syrupy smile and wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Would ya pass the biscuits, please, Miss Galbraith.”

  Charity obliged him with a polite nod.

  “Thank ya kindly, ma’am.”

  Tate Ridley snorted. “Looks like Arch got hisself some fancy manners. You tryin’ to impress this here Yankee lady, Arch? Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You’re a Yankee yourself, ain’t ya?”

  The man Tate Ridley called Arch growled back. “There’s nothing wrong with being polite. You could stand to learn some manners yourself, Ridley.”

  “Boys.” Sheriff Flint held up his hand. The lamplight from the wall sconces glinted off his badge. “I’d be obliged if y’all didn’t start anything I’d have to finish, ‘cause I’d be mighty vexed if y’all interrupted my supper.”

  Hannah pointed her fork at both Ridley and Arch. “I’ve told you before. You two can disagree all you want, but not under my roof.”

  Ridley grunted and shoveled food in his mouth.

  Arch shrugged. “Sorry, Miz Hannah.”

  Everyone ate in silence for a few minutes. Perhaps now was a good time to inquire if any of these local folks could aid her search.

  “I wonder if any of you can answer a few questions for me.” Several pairs of eyes looked her way. “You see, in addition to the articles I’m writing for the magazine, I’m also trying to locate someone. Perhaps some of you might know where I could find him.”

  Sheriff Flint took a sip of water. “What is this person’s name?”

  Charity blotted her lips with her napkin. “All I have is a first name—Wylie. He would be about twenty-four years old. He is a former slave, having been at Covington Plantation since 1859.”

  Tate Ridley glared at her and set his fork and knife down with a clatter. “You’re lookin’ for a darkie?”

  “I’m looking for my friend’s son whom she hasn’t seen in eleven years.”

  Ridley demanded to know why she’d waste her time and called Wylie by a derogatory reference that Charity detested.

  “Mr. Ridley, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using that term.” She mentally counted to ten and cut her glance to the others at the table. “Slave records were kept, but there was a fire and the records were destroyed. Might there be any place else I could look? Were records of slave sales kept in any of the county offices?”

  Frances Hyatt spoke up in her mousey little voice. “Miss Galbraith, why don’t you ask Dale Covington? He might know.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I already did, but he couldn’t recall the young man.”

  Another derisive snort came from Tate Ridley’s side of the table. “Young man! Mighty highfalutin way to refer to a—”

  “Tate. I believe the lady has already stated her request for you to mind your mouth and your manners.”

  All heads turned toward the kitchen door. Dale Covington stood in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed and his jaw twitching.

  Dale met Tate’s glare without a blink. It wasn’t the first time he’d locked horns with the crude fellow, but it normally occurred at the sawmill where they both worked. Most times Dale ignored the man’s uncouth language, but not this time.

  “Miss Galbraith is a lady, as are the rest of these women. Some of her questions may open wounds better left alone, but she’s not being intentionally hurtful. You are. Keep your disrespectful opinions to yourself.”

  The ladies sat wide-eyed, and Miles Flint smirked, while Arch Wheeler and Elden Satterfield just kept eating. Tate Ridley pursed his lips and clenched his jaw. Charity Galbraith, however, turned a bright red and her eyes snapped with displeasure.

  He turned to Hannah. “My apologies, Mrs. Sparrow, if I overstepped my bounds.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I put your order from the mercantile on the kitchen worktable.” He tugged the brim of his hat at the ladies and turned, striding through the kitchen to the back door.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped and turned. Miss Galbraith hurried through the kitchen.

  “I suppose I should thank you for coming to my defense, but
what did you mean about my questions opening wounds?”

  Before he could answer she rattled off her own indignant defense. “You may not approve of me being here, and perhaps my questions strike a nerve, but what I’m doing is in service to a friend.”

  “Well, isn’t that noble of you.” Dale folded his arms over his chest. “I may not be familiar with how things are done in Harrisburg, but around here right now, your questions might be considered inappropriate at best and dangerous at worst.”

  Her dark brown eyes shot sparks. “Dangerous! That’s silly. The war is over.”

  He returned fire. “It’s not over for everybody. Many Southerners are still fighting for their very existence, trying to regain some semblance of the way of life they once knew.” He bit his tongue and refrained from spewing his own list of losses, lest it sound like self-pity.

  Miss Galbraith stood with her hands on her hips. “Maybe they should have considered that before they seceded from the Union and started the war.”

  Dale’s fingers curled into fists, and he stared hard at her. She had no idea how it was in Georgia during the fighting and its aftermath. He contemplated educating her in the ways of the South, but he had a notion the explanation would be a waste of breath, if she was like most hardheaded Yankees.

  “There is some room for debate over which side was responsible for starting the war, but I’m talking about right now, today. You’re here to write about the Reconstruction as well as find your friend’s son. I’m only cautioning you to use discretion when you ask your questions.”

  She lifted her chin. “I’ll ask whatever questions I need to in order to find Wylie. Your advice is interesting. I wonder if my friend would consider my inquiries offensive if they lead to locating her son.”

  Dale nudged his hat with his knuckle and blew out a stiff breath. “Miss Galbraith, I didn’t say your cause is not a good one. It’s a fine thing you’re trying to do, even if it is a bit misguided and imprudent. I’m just suggesting you be careful who you ask. Not everyone will appreciate your devotion to your mission.”

  “Why is it imprudent? If your child was missing, wouldn’t you welcome any and all help to find him?”

  Her words slammed into him, nearly stealing his breath. Heat rose into his face, and his pulse pounded in his ears. A rush of blood fell into his belly.

  She took a step forward, genuine concern tugging her brow. “Mr. Covington, are you all right?” Her tone lost its defiant edge and gentle warmth took its place.

  All right? Was that a state of mind? He’d not considered for a very long time what it meant to be all right.

  Miss Galbraith’s dark eyes softened and a tiny crease formed between her brows. His chest squeezed. Had he noticed her enchanting eyes before? The slight blush in her cheeks? Her hair that glowed in the lamplight?

  He stiffened his spine. When was the last time he looked at a woman in that way?

  “Yes, I’m fine.” He stepped backward toward the door. “Please, just be careful.”

  She cocked her head. Her piercing gaze seemed to penetrate his soul. “I will.”

  He stepped out the back door into the gathering dusk. The chilled autumn air pulled him back to consciousness. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried down the shadowy street. Miss Charity Galbraith was certainly the prettiest Yankee he’d seen in all the years since the onset of the war and afterward.

  He slowed his pace. No point in hurrying home to an empty house. He welcomed the cool evening air on his face and took a deep breath. Someone had baked an apple pie. The crisp air laced with the homey scent spiked his loneliness. If only he could find a way to get past his anger. He didn’t like the way it made him feel. Even Pastor Shuford suggested his bitterness poisoned him.

  Miss Galbraith’s image graced his thoughts again. He sincerely hoped she’d heed his advice, but caution threw a red flag in his face. Caring about a woman, especially a beautiful Yankee woman, spelled trouble. After all, old hostilities were hard to shake.

  Chapter 5

  Have you gone soft in the head, Covington?”

  Tate Ridley’s caustic tone stirred Dale’s ire, and ignoring him didn’t appear to work. He turned to look the man in the eye. “I assume this is about your impolite behavior and crude language in the presence of ladies last evening.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my way o’ thinkin’, but it ‘pears like you done forgot which side you’re on.” Tate’s sneer pulled his lips into a grotesque frown. “How come you was defendin’ that Yankee woman? Are you forgettin’ what her and her kind did to us?”

  “Tate, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dale brushed past him to continue inventorying the stack of logs. “Miss Galbraith didn’t do anything to you. She is just doing her job, and I suggest you do yours.”

  “She’s writin’ for that magazine of hers. What do you think she’s gonna write about?” Tate followed at Dale’s heels, and a few other men stopped what they were doing to listen. “She’s gonna make it sound like the South deserved what they got and how them Yankees is a bunch of heroes.”

  Dale heaved a sigh. “You’ve made me lose count again. Look, Tate. Save your foul language for the gutter rats with whom you associate. Miss Galbraith is a lady.”

  “She’s a Yankee, and a Yankee is a Yankee.” Ridley nearly spat the word. “They might’ve won the war, but that don’t mean I hafta stand by and do nothin’ while she belittles me and mine.”

  “What?” Dale gave him a sideways glance. “She didn’t belittle you. Have you been drinking that moonshine again?”

  Tate’s face turned red. “She told me in her highfalutin’ talk that she don’t like the way I think.”

  “Simmer down, Tate. She’s not the enemy.” A twinge of guilt twisted in Dale’s belly. Hadn’t he thought of Miss Galbraith the same way? He turned his back to Tate and went through the motions of counting the logs, but his conscience nipped at him. “It’s none of your business what she chooses to do for her friend, and I’m sure she’ll write an honest account of the Reconstruction effort.”

  “Oh, you’re sure o’ that, are you? What’s the matter with you? You turn into a blue belly?” Tate practically hissed over Dale’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember the fightin’? Don’t you remember it was a Yankee minié ball that blew a hole through your leg? Did you forget how everybody sees you as a cripple now, and it’s the Yankees’ fault?”

  Heat rushed through Dale, from his toes all the way to the roots of his hair. The stigma that dogged him every time he limped screamed in his face.

  Cripple!

  Bitter acid filled his gut. He clutched his pencil so tightly it snapped in half. Coming out of the war a lesser man spawned rage in his heart. The doctors told him his leg had healed as much as it would, and he should be thankful to have survived. They called him lucky.

  Tate’s questions were preposterous. No, he hadn’t forgotten. He remembered every day, with every step he took, with every sympathetic look of pity.

  “Ridley.” Simon Pembroke’s voice broke the grip Tate’s words held on Dale. “Did you get that wagon loaded yet?”

  “I’m gettin’ to it right now.”

  “See that you do.”

  Tate leaned close to Dale’s ear and growled under his breath, “She’s a Yankee. Don’t make no never mind that she’s a woman. If you’re a true son of the South, you’ll see her for what she is.”

  Ridley sauntered off toward the partially loaded wagon, and Dale listened to his heavy-booted footsteps—his even-cadenced strides—fade away. Shards of animosity wedged themselves in his flesh, and the rancor he nurtured festered a little more.

  “Dale.”

  He turned. Simon Pembroke stood a few feet behind him.

  “Don’t let Tate get to you. I could stand here and tell you he’s a troublemaker, but coming from me it wouldn’t mean much since I’m a Northerner.” He sniffed. “But I’ll tell you this. You’re twice the man he is, and twice the worker.” He p
ulled a fresh pencil from his pocket and handed it to Dale. “Thought you might need this.”

  Pembroke turned on his heel and strode back to the office. Dale’s boss was a man of few words and didn’t approve of wasting time with idle chat. Dale came to work, did his job, and accepted his pay at the end of the week. In the nearly six years since he’d worked at the sawmill, Simon had never said such a thing to him before.

  Dale looked at the two pencils in his hand, one broken and useless, the other whole and purposeful. And he did what anyone would do. He tossed the broken one away.

  Dale spent the next hour counting and tallying the logs, but repeatedly had to admonish himself to concentrate. Tate’s words rang louder than Simon’s, and there was an element of truth in what Ridley said. Dale really didn’t know for certain that Miss Galbraith’s articles would reflect an honest disclosure of the Reconstruction process. Putting a splintered nation back together required the cooperation of all sides. Men bought lumber from Pembroke to reconstruct those buildings that were destroyed in the war. They carefully measured and cut, squared and nailed each board to create a solid structure. Likewise, each participant in the rebuilding of the nation must measure and ensure the trueness of what was built. If one didn’t double-check for truth, imbalance would result. It stood to reason Miss Galbraith would write from a Northern perspective, but she had a responsibility to make sure her articles communicated the truth.

  Last night he assumed any explanation to be a waste of breath. It might be wise to rethink that assessment. Perhaps he should enlighten her about the atrocities the South suffered. Politics aside, the cruelty of war destroyed much more than the Southern countryside. He just wasn’t ready to share with her all the parts of his life that had been destroyed.