She dipped her head as a rush of heat filled her face. “What brings you over here in the middle of the afternoon?”
The grin that had accompanied his congratulatory words a moment ago faded. Unease traced creases in his brow, and his eyes darkened. He reached for her hand. “I got a reply to my telegram.”
Charity’s stomach tensed, and her breath caught. She braced herself for the expected answer to her search.
“The man I wired works in the records office, as I told you. He looked up the casualty lists from the battles at New Hope Church and Pickett’s Mill, since they were so close to each other and happened almost simultaneously.” He paused, his lips in a tight, thin line. “He found your father listed under those wounded and taken prisoner. Major C. H. Galbraith was included with a company of Union soldiers who were being marched to the railroad. Their destination was the prisoner of war camp at Andersonville.”
Charity clenched her fists. Such horrible things she’d read about that place. And to think her father—
Dale’s voice was quiet and even. “Your father died before they reached the railroad. He was buried somewhere along the roadside in an unmarked grave. I’m sorry, Charity. I know you wanted to pay your respects at his final resting place.”
She squeezed her eyes shut against the sharp pain that stabbed her middle. A burning lump formed in her throat, and she slipped her hands up to cover her face. The tears won the battle and escaped down her cheeks. Dale’s arms enfolded her against his chest, and he simply held her while she quietly wept.
After several minutes, Dale pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted her face. “I wish it could have been different. I’m truly sorry.”
She pulled in as deep a breath as she could manage and sniffed. She didn’t know if her grief would ever come to closure, but one thing she knew. Her father loved the Lord. Their separation was temporary. She’d see him in heaven one day.
Dale placed two fingers under her chin. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She forced a smile and nodded. “Thank you for sending that telegram. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I think it’s what I suspected all along. His final resting place isn’t an unmarked grave. He is in the presence of Jesus.”
Dale nodded and took her hands, giving her fingers a squeeze. “I’m asking Simon for the day off tomorrow. You’re finished with your articles. I’d like to come by and pick you up right after breakfast.”
Charity blotted the rest of the dampness from her eyes. “Where are we going?”
He looked straight into her eyes with an expression so tender, she nearly forgot to breathe. He brushed the tops of her fingers with his thumbs.
“It’s a secret.”
Chapter 19
Charity took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. Light frost still encrusted the grass and rooftops, awaiting the sun’s warming rays to melt it away. She snuggled into her shawl and tucked the corners around her arms.
She glanced sideways at Dale as he drove the rented carriage down the lane where the last of the autumn leaves relinquished their hold on the tree branches and drifted lazily earthward. He sat tall and strong and held the reins with easy confidence. As if he could feel her eyes upon him, he slid his gaze to her and winked.
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” She tried to sound petulant but failed. In truth, she relished the excitement of Dale’s planning a surprise.
A boyish grin that made Charity’s heart turn over tilted the corners of Dale’s mouth.
“Be patient a little longer. We’re almost there.”
She’d not been down this road before, and the scenery passed like a continuous painted landscape. Even the stark barrenness of the trees bore its own beauty against the cornflower blue sky. Through the trees she spied a few rooftops. She pointed in their direction.
“What is that over there?”
“That’s Crow Town.”
Ivy, the hotel laundress, had warned her against coming out here, but the reassurance of Dale’s company chased away any apprehension. She scooted a tad closer to him.
“Is that where we’re going?”
“No.”
She waited for him tell her where they were going, and when he didn’t, she blew out an exasperated sigh and leaned back against the carriage seat. She could have sworn she heard Dale chuckle.
Wood smoke spiced the air with its pungent aroma as they rounded a bend in the road. A river came into view, sunlight sparkling off the water as it tumbled over the rocks.
“What river is that?”
Dale grinned. “Do all journalists ask so many questions?”
Charity cocked an eyebrow at him and planted one hand on her hip. “It’s my job to ask questions. And then I write about the answers I find.” She pursed her lips. “Maybe I’ll write about an obnoxious Southern gentleman who thinks it’s great sport to irritate visiting journalists.”
He laughed. “It’s the Chestatee River.”
Dale snapped the reins and encouraged the horse to pick up the pace. Less than a half mile down the road, Dale slowed the carriage. An odd-looking structure loomed just ahead. It appeared constructed of brick with openings here and there along the sides. A dome-shaped hole yawned on one end. At least a dozen men labored at various tasks. Dale steered the horse up the rutted drive toward the activity.
“Dale, what is this place?”
He pulled the horse to a halt and set the brake. “It’s a brick foundry. That structure there is a large kiln where they bake the bricks.” He hopped down and strode around the other side. “Come on.”
She hadn’t planned on a lesson in brick making, but Dale’s obvious excitement teased her senses. She took his hand as he solicitously helped her step down. They stood for a moment while Dale scanned the work yard. The workers gave them little notice. He captured her hand and tucked it securely within the crook of his arm.
“This way.”
She noticed that he measured his strides to match hers, but what she suddenly realized was the absence of his limp. Had God healed Dale’s leg, or had He healed his soul? A smile warmed Charity from the inside.
They walked up to a man holding a clipboard, and Dale addressed him.
“Mr. Burnett.”
The man looked up. “Ah, Mr. Covington. Good morning.” He shook Dale’s hand. “This must be Miss Galbraith.”
Dale made the introduction. “Mr. William Burnett. Miss Charity Galbraith.”
He tipped his hat. “Miss.”
“Mr. Burnett and I spoke yesterday at the sawmill when he stopped in to see if we could give him any scrap wood for the kiln.”
Mr. Burnett tucked the clipboard under his arm. “I understand you’re here from Pennsylvania.”
“Yes, I am.” Charity gave him a polite nod. “I write for Keystone Magazine. I’ve just finished a series of articles.”
“But Mr. Covington here tells me that’s not the only reason for your visit.” Mr. Burnett glanced back at Dale and pointed across the yard. “Right over there. The man in the gray overalls unloading the firewood.”
Charity looked in the direction Mr. Burnett pointed. A young black man, perhaps twenty-five years of age, dragged pieces of scrap lumber off a wagon and stacked them near the kiln. She clutched Dale’s arm and drew in a sharp breath. “Dale, is that who I think it is?”
He placed his hand over hers. “We’re about to find out.”
Hope sprang up in her heart. Oh, God, please let it be him.
The young man looked up as they approached, and Charity gasped. He had his mother’s eyes. The hope within her burst into joy.
Dale greeted him. “Good morning. You might not remember me. You worked on the plantation owned by my family for a time. I’m Dale Covington.”
The fellow lowered his eyes. “Yes, suh, ah ‘members you.”
Charity couldn’t restrain herself a moment longer. “Wylie?”
He yanked his gaze up, alarm etching his face.
&n
bsp; Tears burned Charity’s eyes, and her throat tightened. “I’m so glad I found you. Your mother, Essie Carver, is one of my dear friends.”
The uneasiness fled from Wylie’s expression, and his eyes widened. “My mama is still alive?”
Charity brushed a tear away, and a glorious shiver ran through her. “She is. She lives in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and she works as a dressmaker. The greatest desire of her heart is to find you.”
Elation spread across Wylie’s face. “Oh, praise de Lawd, my mama…my mama is alive and safe.”
Delight danced through Charity’s midsection. She could hardly wait to take the news back to Essie and watch the expression on the mother’s face as Charity told of meeting her son.
Dale stepped forward and pulled out his wallet. “Wylie, I took the liberty of checking into the cost of a train ticket to Harrisburg.” He peeled off several bills and folded them. He reached for Wylie’s hand and slipped the bills to him as the two men shook hands.
Overwhelmed with Dale’s act of compassion and generosity, Charity could barely contain her jubilation.
Wylie shook his head. “Oh, no, suh. I cain’t take this.”
“Yes, you can.” Reassurance rang in Dale’s voice. “Please.” He enclosed Wylie’s hand between both of his. “Miss Galbraith here can give you your mother’s address.”
Disbelief sagged Wylie’s jaw. “I can really go see my mama?” He stared at the money in his hands.
“Anytime you want.”
He raised his eyes first to Dale, then to Charity. “How do a man say thank you fo’ sump’in’ like this?” Moisture shimmered in his eyes. “Seein’ my mama again is a dream I made myself fo’get.”
Giddiness tickled Charity’s middle. “I know how much it will mean to Essie.”
Wylie thanked both of them again and again, his voice wobbly. They said their good-byes, and Charity took Dale’s arm as they returned to the carriage.
Just as they reached the conveyance, Dale halted abruptly. Charity glanced to see what had caught his attention. A black man leaned on a shovel beside a large trough where they mixed clay soil with straw. The man appeared to be studying them intently. Apprehension snagged Charity’s stomach. Why was he staring at them?
Memories stirred in Dale’s subconscious and drew him back in time. The face that was forever etched in his mind stood before him. Was he dreaming? Could it be?
Dale slowly released Charity’s hand and turned to fully face the man, who now approached them slowly. The man’s face took on an ethereal reflection, and he raised his eyes and his hands heavenward.
“Oh, thank You, sweet Lawd Jesus. I’d been prayin’ fo’ this day, and You gived it to me. You’s the God who answers prayer.”
The man’s words of praise threw open the floodgates in Dale’s heart. He knew that voice. He especially recognized the way the man spoke to Jesus. “It’s you. You’re the man who saved my life.”
“An’ yo’ be the man I prayed fo’ all these here years. I prayed fo’ you to live, and I prayed fo’ God to let me see you ag’in.”
God’s mercy and grace rained down. Dale took two strides and embraced the man, clapping him on the back.
When they finally released each other, Dale brushed a hand across his eyes. “All these years, I never forgot the sound of your voice as you prayed. Thank you. Thank you for what you did.”
An exuberant smile broke across the man’s face. “Ah jus’ done what the Lawd whisper in my ear.”
Dale pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times why you put yourself in danger to save me. I know the answer now. But there is one question I’ve regretted not asking. What is your name?”
“I be John.”
Dale gripped his hand. “Thank you, John, for carrying me, praying for me, for saving my life. You are an incredible man.”
“I didn’ do nuthin’. Lawd Jesus, He done it all. All the glory go to Him.”
They parted with a vow to stay in touch. Dale helped Charity into the carriage and set the horse in motion. He reined in at the entrance to the brick mill to look back. John and Wylie were both waving.
Once they were underway back toward town, Charity slipped her arm through Dale’s. “Thank you, Dale. I dreaded going home and telling Essie I’d failed.”
Her touch made him ache with the longing to hold her in his arms. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“About what? Telling Essie I couldn’t find Wylie?”
“No.” He pulled the horse to a halt and turned in his seat. “About going home.”
The glow on her face lost a bit of its luster. “Now that the articles are finished and mailed, I suppose I’ll be leaving at the end of the week.”
The ache in his chest spiked. “Do you have to?”
Confusion etched its mark across her brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” He took both her hands. “You’ve put in many hours of research since you arrived here, and I’d like your opinion. Do you think a Yankee and Rebel can find love for each other?”
A blush painted her cheeks, and she drew in a soft gasp. An exquisite light brightened her eyes. “No. Not a Yankee and a Rebel. But a man and a woman whose lives have been forever changed by God can.”
He cradled her face in both hands and lowered his lips, hovering an inch away from hers. “I love you, Charity Galbraith.”
Her breath caressed his face. “And I love you, Dale Covington.”
He pressed his lips to hers, and his heart danced.
Connie Stevens lives with her husband of forty-plus years in north Georgia, within sight of her beloved mountains. She and her husband are both active in a variety of ministries at their church. A lifelong reader, Connie began creating stories by the time she was ten. Her office manager and writing muse is a cat, but she’s never more than a phone call or email away from her critique partners. She enjoys gardening and quilting, but one of her favorite pastimes is browsing antique shops where story ideas often take root in her imagination. Connie has been a member of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2000.
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