He pressed his lips together tightly. He hoped she’d not take exception to what he needed to say. “My point exactly. Charity, whoever did this isn’t likely to be put off by the fact that you’re a woman.” The words he overheard Tate say at the sawmill echoed in his mind.
“…oughta be an example to everyone in the county. The message is clear.”
A cold chill gripped him, followed in its wake by anger. But this anger was different from the heavy burden he’d dragged around for years. His gaze traced the outline of the stubborn set of her jaw.
“Why hasn’t the sheriff done anything?” She leaned closer and dropped the volume of her voice. “I think Tate Ridley knows something about it. You should have seen the smug look on his face at dinner today.”
He worked to keep his tone quiet and calming. “Miles Flint can’t arrest anyone for the crime until he has solid proof. Tate said he was playing cards Friday night, and his friends are backing up his story. Unfortunately, a smug look on his face isn’t enough to build a case against the man.”
A tiny growl of frustration emerged from her lips. “You sound just like the rest of them. Dale, a horrible crime has been committed, and all anyone is doing about it is talking.”
She rose from the swing and paced the length of the porch and returned. He let her spout her vexation. She stopped and extended her arms, palms up in entreaty.
“Did this man have family? Will they know what happened to him? What if no one is ever punished for his murder?” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. Her muffled words defined her dread. “Dale, what if that man was Wylie? How could I ever tell Essie that her son—”
Dale fairly leaped from the swing and was at her side in two strides. He captured her wrists and gave them a gentle tug. “Charity, I’ve asked myself those very same questions, and I agree with you. It was a horrible crime. Hatred is so deeply ingrained in some people they can’t see past it.” He cupped her chin and tipped her face up. “You and I can’t change what happened—not the murder two nights ago, and not the death and destruction of war. All we can control is the way we respond to it.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know.”
He cocked his head at her. “I don’t suppose you’d listen if I asked you to discontinue your search.”
She arched an eyebrow and set her jaw in a stubborn posture that was becoming familiar.
He wanted to argue with her but knew it to be futile. “I didn’t think so.”
She adjusted her shawl and returned to the swing. “I looked for you this morning in church. When you weren’t there, I grew concerned.”
Dale sat beside her. “I went out to visit my sister and brother-in-law. There was something I needed to do that I’d put off far too long.”
Charity stood and pushed back the desk chair. Stretching her stiff legs felt good. Trying to put articles together to please Mr. Peabody and the readership of the Keystone put every journalistic skill she had to the test. Nothing she’d written this morning rang true. Just when she knew the angle with which she wanted to address these articles, the news of the lynching set her off balance. Perhaps she needed a brisk walk in the crisp fall air to clear her head.
She grabbed her shawl and hurried down the stairs. She found Hannah rattling around in the kitchen.
“I’m going for a walk. Is there anything you need from the store?”
“Oh yes.” Hannah wiped her hands on her apron. “You would save me a trip if you could pick up a couple of fat stewing hens at the butcher.” She stepped over to a shelf in the corner and pulled down a crock. She withdrew a few coins and deposited them into Charity’s hand. “That should cover it. Be sure to get some nice plump ones.”
Charity slipped the coins into her reticule. “I won’t be long.” She stepped out the back door and breathed deeply of the spicy scent of autumn leaves and wood smoke. A squirrel scolded her for interrupting his acorn-gathering. She grinned at him.
“All right, I’m leaving.” The leaf-strewn pathway around the side of the house crunched beneath her feet.
She crossed the street and set out down the boardwalk. She smiled and said hello to several people she recognized from seeing them in church. Some returned the greeting while others narrowed their eyes in suspicion and passed by without so much as a nod.
The bell over the door of the butcher sang cheerfully as she entered. A stout man in a soiled apron gave her a gap-toothed smile.
“Vat es do you need today, Fräulein?” His German accent tickled her ears after hearing so much Southern dialect over the past month.
“Mrs. Sparrow at the boardinghouse wants two plump stewing hens.” She dug Hannah’s money from her reticule and held it out to the man. He bobbed his head and deposited the coins. She waited while he wrapped the birds in paper.
With the promise of Hannah’s chicken and dumplings in her arms, Charity headed back to the boardinghouse. As she passed by the saloon, two men nearly collided with her as they exited.
“Well now, who do we have here?” One of the men blocked her way.
“This here is that Yankee writer lady. Wonder what all she’s writin’ ‘bout us poor ign’rant Southern folks.”
Charity sucked in a breath and clutched the chickens tighter. She attempted to step around the men, but they bumped her into the alley between the saloon and the hotel. One of the men grabbed her wrist, causing her to drop the hens in the dirt. He leaned close and hissed in her face.
“You best watch your step if you know what’s good for you.”
The second man, who looked vaguely familiar, took up where the first one left off. Both men reeked of sour mash whiskey. “You keep askin’ a lot of nosy questions about things that don’t concern you, maybe you’ll find yourself up to your neck in more trouble than you bargained for, missy.”
Charity’s heart pounded, but she refused to cower. She lifted her chin and drew herself up as tall as she could. “Take your hands off me. How dare you threaten me? You two are nothing but unprincipled reprobates with nothing better to do than harass a woman.” She yanked her wrist free. “Furthermore, I suspect that you likely had something to do with murdering that poor man last week, and I hope you get everything that’s coming to you.”
The first man hooted in derision. “Whoever done that was just clearin’ out the vermin.”
Charity’s lungs heaved with indignation. “I’m sure the sheriff will be very interested in your opinion.”
The second man snarled and grasped her upper arm in a vise grip, digging his fingers into her flesh until she winced. His breath turned her stomach. “You better not go makin’ any accusations you can’t prove.”
Before she could swing her foot back to give the bully a hard kick, Dale stomped across the boardwalk and knocked the man on his backside. Had the situation not been so tense, she’d have thrown her arms around his neck.
Dale glared down at the man lying in the dirt between two rubbish cans and pointed his finger in the heathen’s face. “You’re lucky I can control my temper.” He kicked the man’s leg. “Get up.”
He jerked his gaze to Jude Farley standing a few feet away. “Jude, I warned you and the others at the sawmill to leave Miss Galbraith alone. Now I’m telling you, if you even look at her sideways, you’ll have me to deal with. You understand?”
Jude muttered under his breath.
Dale eyed the first man who dusted off his trousers. “What’s your name?”
The stranger sneered. “None of your business.”
Dale nodded. “That’s all right, you don’t have to tell me, because I’m making it my business to find out.”
He turned to Charity whose expression was a mixture of outrage and cussed stubbornness. “Are you all right?”
She answered through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”
Two chickens lay at Charity’s feet, unrolled from their paper wrapping and now coated with dirt. He pointed at the two hapless birds. “How much did t
hese cost?”
Charity told him, and he held his palm out to the men. “Pay up.”
Both men dug in their pockets and tossed a few coins in Dale’s hand. He in turn handed the money to Charity. She gave the pair of miscreants one last glare before turning on her heel and marching down the boardwalk toward the butcher.
Dale backed the two weasels up against the wall. “If you ever touch Miss Galbraith again, I will personally drag what’s left of you to the sheriff’s office and throw your worthless hides in jail.”
The two skulked away, muttering oaths. Dale clenched his fists as he watched them go, trying to control his rage at seeing Charity accosted.
She returned a few minutes later with a bundle wrapped in butcher paper. Dale relieved her of the package. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Thank you, Dale. Those two made me so mad, but I wasn’t any match for them.”
His anger fought for expression, but he held it in check. “What did they say to you?”
“Nothing too much. They just don’t like the fact that I’m a Yankee and I’m writing about the Reconstruction.”
He shot a glance her way. Why did he feel she wasn’t telling him everything?
“I didn’t know that one man, but I’ll deal with Jude at the sawmill.” He paused. “You will tell me if anyone bothers you again, won’t you.”
She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. “I’m sure they won’t.”
“Charity…”
She pointed to a boy tacking up a notice on a post. “What’s that?”
They stopped to read the poster over the boy’s shoulder. The young towheaded fellow looked up at them. “Preacher is payin’ me fifteen cents to hang these all over town.”
Dale grinned down at him. “Fifteen cents? That’ll buy a lot of candy.”
The youngster grinned back. “I’m partial to peppermint.” He tipped his cap to Charity. “I best get goin’. I got work to do.”
Charity read the large headline aloud. “A Unity Rally?”
The notice proclaimed that Pastor Shuford called for everyone in town to attend church this upcoming Sunday because he was going to set forth a challenge to every person to put aside their malice and take a stand against the recent violence and come together in unity.
A tiny scowl dipped Charity’s brow. “I’m glad somebody is doing something.”
Dale released a soft snort. “Miles Flint better be there because things are likely to get pretty heated.”
They continued to the boardinghouse. Dale handed Charity the paper-wrapped package and opened the door for her. “Charity, may I escort you to church this Sunday?”
She cocked her head. “Yes, you may.”
He managed a tight smile and bid her a good afternoon. His temper still simmered as he walked to the mercantile. What was he thinking? Was it possible for a Yankee and a Rebel to worship together?
A smirk tilted his mouth. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
Chapter 12
The little church filled quickly, and Charity was glad Dale suggested they arrive early. Men stood to give ladies their seats, and by the time Pastor Shuford led in the singing of “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah,” the chapel was packed. As the hymn died away and people settled in, the preacher began by asking those who had lost someone in the war to raise their hands.
Charity turned in her seat and swept a glance across the room. Almost every hand went up. The pastor walked up and down the center aisle counting. He began whittling down the focus with more specific questions, demonstrating how some had lost sons or fathers, brothers or cousins, husbands or sweethearts. Some lost multiple loved ones, while others admitted to nightmares or periods of melancholia. Some lost land or business or fortune.
People all over the room murmured in response. A muffled sob sounded from the far right while others cleared their throats, fighting off tears.
Pastor Shuford returned to the front and held his arms out wide. “Do you see what we’ve shown here this morning? From the looks of it, almost the entire town is here today, and there isn’t a person in this room who hasn’t lost someone or something. True, some have lost more than others, but that should only serve to encourage us to be more compassionate, more Christlike.”
Charity leaned slightly forward in her seat, hanging on every word. The picture he so eloquently painted was exactly the portrait she’d been trying to capture in her articles—this war affected everyone.
“Most of the folks here are Southern-born.” The preacher cast his hand in a wide, encompassing arc. “But not all.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Charity lowered her gaze to her lap. She’d experienced enough disdain over the past month to know several in the congregation stared at her. Hadn’t the preacher shown, though, that everyone had suffered loss?
He stepped up onto the platform, and his booming voice carried to every corner. “South or North. Rich or poor. Learned or illiterate. Man or woman. Free or bond.” He lowered his voice and sent a hard look across the packed pews. “And yes, white or black.” He opened his Bible.
“In the tenth chapter of Acts, the apostle Peter preached that God is no respecter of persons. Brothers and sisters, listen to me. Every man who loves and fears God is himself a work of righteousness, because our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is Lord of ALL!”
A man leaped to his feet two rows in front of Charity and Dale.
“That ain’t so, preacher. Ain’t no colored equal to a white man.”
The preacher held his Bible aloft. “These aren’t my words, Floyd. This is God’s Word.” He gestured to all assembled. “And Juniper Springs is a community. You and your family are part of this community, just like every other person in this room.”
Another man stood. “I don’t see no coloreds in this room.”
A few others called out their agreement in ugly terms unfit for women and children’s ears.
“Friends, please.” Pastor Shuford held up his hands. “We must come together. Half of the word community is ‘unity.’ Violence has no place here. If we are to live as children of God, then we must acknowledge that we are all a family.”
Two men toward the rear began arguing, and Charity tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Squabbling only served to widen the gap separating the different persuasions. Above the angry shouts, the preacher’s pleading voice called for attention.
“Listen to what God says. ‘God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ Friends, neighbors, I tell you, the persecution and acts of violence are an abomination in God’s eyes.”
“What about violence done against us, preacher?”
“Them darkies is to blame. It’s ‘cause of them that war came down on us.”
“Oh hush, Jess. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A couple of women rose and ushered their children out the door.
Dale bent his head low and muttered. “This isn’t right. God, help me.” He stood and held up his hand for quiet.
Charity caught her breath, and her pulse tripped faster. She raised her eyes to the determined set to his jaw.
“Most of you here know me. You know who I am and what I was before the war. My family was wealthy and powerful. Now I work at the sawmill and the general store.”
Comments buzzed all around them, but Dale didn’t appear affected by anyone’s opinions. He spoke up with confidence and conviction.
“I want to tell you about a man I met during the war. I’d been wounded—in my side and my leg. I tried to crawl for cover, but I couldn’t move. Artillery exploded all around me. Rifle fire whistled on every side. I was a doomed man.”
Tears burned Charity’s eyes, and her throat tightened. She prayed silently for God’s strength for Dale to say what needed to be said, and for those around to listen, not just with their ears but with their hearts.
“A man I did not know crawled over to me and told m
e I was going to be all right. He carried me into the woods, and hid me where I’d be safe until the battle was over. Then he tore his own shirt to wrap around my wounds. He gave me water and took care of me. When it was safe to move, he carried me. For two days we traveled until he brought me to a regiment that had a doctor. All during that time, this man prayed for me. He prayed for strength to carry me, and he prayed for God to let me live.”
Charity dabbed tears from her eyes and glanced around the room. Every face turned toward Dale, every eye riveted on him.
“This man put his own life in danger to save me. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t even know me. But he knew Someone else. He knew Jesus. I could tell by the way he kept up a continuous conversation, not with me, but with the Lord.”
Dale shook his head and his voice broke. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times why that man did what he did. There is only one answer. He let Jesus do it through him.”
The man two rows ahead spoke up. “I suppose you’re gonna tell us he was a Yankee.”
Dale turned his head. “No, Floyd. He wasn’t a Yankee. He was a slave.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Dale sat down, and Charity risked a sideways glance at him. How hard was it for a once-wealthy, influential man to stand before the town and relate the story he’d hidden in his heart for six years?
Pastor Shuford stepped down from the platform. “Dale, did you tell this man you couldn’t accept his help because he was black?”
Dale shook his head. “No, sir.”
The preacher scanned the room. “It’s a good thing God isn’t bigoted against sinners, for we’d surely all be as doomed as Dale was on that battlefield. Had it not been for the compassion shown by that man, Dale wouldn’t be here today to tell us about it.” He gestured toward Dale. “When a man acts in a Christlike way, does God ask about the color of his skin to determine whether or not the act is acceptable in His sight?”
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