by Julianne Lee
Headed up the Walton’s Ferry Road toward what passed for the town of Hendersonville in this time, there was a stretch of silence that nevertheless was comfortable. Shelby listened to the creak of the wheels over each bump and rock in the road, and the flat thud of horses’ hooves on the packed dirt, and settled in for a long ride. Resigned to this pace, she searched for ways to appreciate the process itself. She turned her attention to the world surrounding her. Fields to either side whispered in the late afternoon breeze. Birds flitted back and forth, filling the air with song. The wagon moved through dappled shade, then slanting sunshine that warmed her beneath the cooling breeze. Also warming her was Lucas’s arm against her shoulder.
Finally he said, “When are your sister and Tom going to tie the knot?”
Shelby shrugged. “I’m not certain. They’re engaged, but haven’t set a date yet. Soon, I think, though.” Father was right when he’d said there was a danger. In private with her sister Susannah had made it clear she’d already sampled a piece of her future husband, and in the foyer back at the house there had been an obvious vibration of knowledge from both of them. Father had reason to be unhappy with Susannah’s behavior, and even Mother appeared to think it unseemly. Shelby hoped desperately her own attraction to Lucas wasn’t so obvious, given the sensitivity of these folk to such things.
There was another brief stretch of silence, then she pointed with her chin to the team and said, “Those are some mighty fine horses.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
“Father says you and your brothers are the best horsemen around.”
Lucas chuckled. “He sure tells a different story when I’m trying to sell him stock.”
She laughed, too. “Well, that’s just business, I’m sure. Me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen animals this good looking. Not even Tom’s pair.”
“Yup. And he bought that pair from us in any case. They weren’t neither of them worth a fig as racers, and they matched up real nice, so Tom’s father bought them. Didn’t give a da...uh, darn what sort of temperament they had so long as they looked sharp. I was just as happy to get rid of them, ’cause that there four-year-old he’s got is mean as a copperhead. Don’t be repeating this, but Donelson paid twice what they were worth to us.”
“Just business.”
Lucas nodded, and gave her a surprised smile. “You’re pretty smart for a girl.”
She ignored that and asked, “Do you win many races?”
A big, white smile crept across his face. “You know we do. Every month in Hartsville we beat the pants off most comers. Daddy used to race his stock against Andrew Jackson’s horses sometimes. Beat them, too. Beat everybody.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and his eyes were lit up with a bright sparkle. It was plain he loved the horses. Good. Something to talk about that interested them both but wouldn’t get Mary Beth into trouble.
Shelby asked about the races, and Lucas was happy to tell stories. Races won by a nose, bets won that kept the farm afloat all year and reputation made that had folks talking for decades, horses so beautiful and with so much heart it brought a tear to the eye.
He began talking about the first horse his father had given him at the age of eight, an ugly old workhorse named Charlie. “You recall old Charlie.”
Of course Shelby did not, and she wanted to hear the story, so she said, “It’s been a while. Refresh my memory.”
Lucas took a deep breath and began on what must have been a well-loved subject. He had cared for that animal like a pet, eventually teaching it to race and jump in bad imitation of the thoroughbreds. Though Charlie had never been a fast horse, nor was he much of a jumper, he had been more of a companion to Lucas than even his brothers. Though Charlie had been dead more than a decade, Lucas still missed him. Now he had his dogs and they were almost as loyal, and better hunters besides.
As he talked, and the sun set, Shelby became more comfortable. She found herself leaning in to catch the scent of tobacco on Lucas, dimmed beneath his clean and seldom-worn clothes that smelled faintly of cedar.
Though the buckboard crawled, time flew, and it was almost a disappointment to find they’d arrived at the spot where the dance was gathering. Shelby had lost all track of where they were, but figured the creek running alongside the road was Drake’s Creek, which meant the track they’d traveled from Main Street was Shackle Island Road. Probably. Maybe. Unless they’d turned somewhere and she hadn’t noticed.
The clearing was large, with a bonfire at one end tossing sparks into the clear night sky to mingle with the stars. Lanterns hung here and there in a stand of beech trees, and tables were stacked with mounds of food. Two men with fiddles tuned their instruments, plinks and plunks drifted across the clearing, mingled with commentary in low voices, and a third stood by with a harmonica. Wooden benches stood about, and there were clusters of ladder-back chairs and odd rockers for people to sit in. Folks were arriving from several directions, and it appeared this must be the biggest, most inclusive event of the season. Better-dressed rich folks mingled with the less well off in their Sunday best, who also mingled with those who were ragged but nevertheless clean. Everyone brought food and drink, and bright faces anticipated a fine evening.
It was a quirky experience to recognize faces in this crowd when she had barely met anyone in this century, and Shelby did a double take when she spotted Samuel Daley across the clearing in conference with a cluster of men in bib overalls. He was better dressed than they, in wool trousers and a linen shirt, and didn’t seem to fit in well with the other men. Nevertheless, the group was having a high old time, laughing and carrying on amiably, and Samuel was laughing right along with them.
Lucas’s brother Amos stood with the woman who had given Shelby water the other day, who Shelby took to be Ruth. She was a graying woman of quiet dignity, showing a thickness around the middle for her years. But she held herself with a grace that seemed independent of her corset. And the way Amos held her hand and leaned in to speak to her, Shelby could tell the two were in love in that way only older couples seemed to have. In them she could see the married folk like her parents, who had grown together so thoroughly neither could contemplate life without the other. Ruth’s warm eyes, when she looked at her husband, seemed to still see the young beau she’d married so long ago.
Loitering near them was a man Shelby figured must be Gar. At least, he looked enough like Amos and Lucas to be their brother. He had the same straight, black Brosnahan hair and was as tall as Amos, but rail thin. His hands were small and white, and he had an air of delicacy about him that was quite unlike his brothers. Her suspicion was confirmed when Lucas went to talk to him and called him by name.
Music started up, and that brought smiles to everyone. The fiddle was lively, and what the players lacked in fine polish they more than made up for in enthusiasm. Shelby’s toe began tapping all on its own.
Gar’s wife turned out to be nearby, identifiable by the flat, demanding way she spoke to her husband. She had a round face that was pleasant enough, but when she opened her mouth it became apparent Father’s assessment of her wasn’t entirely unfair. Wearing silk velvet rather than the plain woolens and linens and cotton worn by everyone else, it seemed to Shelby Martha would rather have married a wealthy Nashvillian than a nobody from Hendersonville. In her conversation she mentioned the city at every opportunity. Shelby wondered whether Gar sensed his wife’s disregard for him, his family, and his home, or if he was blissfully clueless. She decided he couldn’t help but know. It was too plain to miss. Nevertheless, he gave pleasant—though short—replies to her comments and never let anyone see whatever he might be thinking of her. Shelby figured after five years of marriage and no prospect of an early end to it, he had learned to tolerate her selfish nature.
A parade of other faces went by, this way and that, which all blurred together as the evening progressed. Nobody introduced themselves for they all thought she was Mary Beth Campbell, who they’d known since she was a baby. They
spoke of things she was supposed to know, of children and animals and old folks not present whose names she couldn’t begin to place and store in memory, for they went by too fast, and it was all she could do to not appear an idiot. When Lucas asked her to dance, she went with some relief.
Her relief was premature. The dance was a group effort, the nature of which was unfamiliar to her. It involved two lines facing each other, clapping to the music, and pairs going down the middle. She knew she was going to screw up when it came her turn. But then when she found herself reaching for Lucas across the way, he guided her along, and it was good. She was able to follow him, responding to his cues, and when they reached the other end and separated she didn’t want to let go. They resumed clapping, then everyone executed some sort of do-si-do maneuver, arm-in-arm, and Lucas’s gaze on her was bright with merriment. Laughter rose in her, and she couldn’t take her eyes from his tanned and ruddy face.
When it came time to eat, Shelby found the food more delicious than she’d ever had at a pot luck in her own time. Here she found no sausage balls made with packaged biscuit mix. No artificially flavored lime gelatin molds containing mismatched fruits and vegetables. Not one casserole made with canned mushroom soup or processed cheese food product. Instead there was fresh fried chicken, fried okra, fried green tomatoes, pulled pork, ham, beans and ham, boiled greens with ham, big pones of cornbread, light bread, biscuits, apple pie, chess pie, berry pie, and enough beer and whiskey to stink up the entire clearing. They ate from an assortment of plates, some stoneware, some decrepit china, some wooden or tin, using an equally odd assortment of spoons and knives as utensils. Shelby stuffed herself with as much as she could fit inside her corset, and wished for more room. She knew she’d be hungry later. It seemed she was always hungry these days.
When the music started up again, Lucas took her hand to twirl her around the clearing some more, making her laugh out loud. But then one of the fiddlers called out to him.
“Hey! Lucas Robert! Hey, boy!”
He looked up, and squeezed Shelby’s hand to make her be still. She staggered to a stop and hung from his grip, gasping for breath and giggling. The fiddler was holding up a harmonica.
“Brosnahan! Come play! We need you, boy!”
With a big grin, Lucas squeezed Shelby’s hand again, murmured he’d be right back, then caught the thrown harmonica as he ran to be with the musicians. On the fiddler’s signal, they all leapt into a high-spirited tune in which it seemed each player was racing the rest to reach the end. On and on they played, faster and faster, fiddle racing harmonica and harmonicas racing each other. All the way to the end, when the music came to a halt as if they’d all crashed into a wall.
Lucas threw back his head and let out a long, exuberant whoop.
Rebel Yell.
Shelby’s heart clenched. All the joy drained from her in an instant. At once she was reminded of Lucas’s fate, to die on a battlefield in a war that would devastate the entire South. All these neighbors, all the folks living here now, would be touched by it in horrible ways. She had to fight the tears that came.
Lucas’s smile was too bright. His cheeks were flushed red with whiskey and joy. He drew a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, then pressed the harmonica to his mouth and with a glance at Shelby under his eyelashes he began to play again, solo. Soft, slow and sweet, the tune evoked a well-loved place. Home. In Lucas’s music she heard a depth of feeling that touched her soul.
The fiddlers joined in, adding layers and supporting the heartbreaking thread of Lucas’s harmonica. Shelby’s heart swelled with the music, then slowly, gently, the tune came to a close with one long, sustained chord.
The rapt audience burst into applause. Smiling at Shelby, Lucas tossed the harmonica straight into the air to be caught by the fiddler when it came down, then took her by the hand again to draw her along with him. They strolled past folks dancing, some still eating, some lounging on chairs and benches and talking under the music, to the edge of the clearing, where lantern light and campfire light gave way to silvery, moonlit shadows. Lucas wasn’t entirely steady on his feet. He’d had his share of the raw moonshine whiskey passed around in stone jugs, and Shelby counted it a good thing he wouldn’t be driving her home in a car later on.
“Beautiful night,” she said, then she shivered and wished her cloak were handy. “Cold, but pretty.” The waxing moon shone brightly in a cold, cloudless sky.
Without a word, Lucas removed his suit coat and placed it around her shoulders.
“Won’t you be cold?”
He shrugged. “Nah. I’m too liquored up to feel the cold any.” As he stepped back, a rock caught his foot and he staggered some, then he leaned to steady himself against a tree. His hand squeezed hers, and he said, “You having a good time?”
“I’m having a wonderful time. More than I thought I could.”
A tiny frown creased his brow at that, but he let it go. He sighed and looked up at the moon for a moment, and she watched his face in silence. Either he was thinking deep thoughts or else he was about to pass out from too much whiskey. But then he turned his face back toward hers and leaned down to kiss her.
Shelby’s mind went flying in two directions at once. It was wrong to lead him on. Mary Beth would come back and find herself in a relationship she didn’t want, and shouldn’t attempt because of her attraction to Amos. At the same time, Shelby wanted very much to kiss him and would have been perfectly happy to ignore what was right for Mary Beth. She was stymied into inaction, and found herself helpless before the advance. Lucas kissed her.
Against her better judgment, she returned the kiss. The dim tang of moonshine on his mouth seemed exotic. And a mite naughty. He was less hesitant than before, and his passion was apparent though his mouth was closed. It went on for a good, long while, his lips warm against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. By the time he straightened again she felt flushed enough she might not need the coat any more. He looked into her face for a moment, his gaze keen like a bird’s, then looked out across the gathering of neighbors who continued dancing to the music.
“I think Gar might be moving to Nashville before too long.”
Shelby blinked. That was certainly out of left field. But then he continued and she didn’t have to ask why this concerned her.
“Martha is giving him a rash of grief, and wants him to move into the city where people dress nicer and require each other to have more money. Not that Gar will ever have enough money to suit her, but he’s expecting to take a job with her father’s firm so he’ll at least have more than he does now.”
“What does he do now?”
He gave her a sharp glance, which told her she’d just asked something Mary Beth would have known from birth. Nevertheless, he obliged, “He works with us. Father being in his declining years, he can’t do much more than get out of bed of a morning. It won’t be long before we three inherit the farm, I’m afraid. Until then, however, Gar’s a-going to have to make his own living if he’s not going to stay with us.” He hesitated before continuing, but then said as if knowing he shouldn’t, “I expect if he goes, and stays away long enough, he might not even inherit a share of the farm.”
This was mildly interesting, but not nearly as much as necking. Shelby kept quiet, gazed into his face, and hoped he would shut up and kiss her again. Maybe she could get him to open his mouth this time.
Still he went on. “And then there’s Amos, thinking about going out west to do some prospecting. When he strikes it rich he wants to send for Ruth and they’ll make a homestead in Nevada or California.”
Shelby glanced over at Amos. From looking at him, and from Mary Beth’s diary, she never would have guessed he was in the midst of a mid-life crisis. She returned her attention to Lucas as he continued, “Father is adamant he not go. He’s made it clear he doesn’t intend to leave even part of his farm to a western homesteader, and complains that Amos is too old to go adventuring like that. Amos doesn’t seem to give a care on that ac
count, and says he’d rather have his own place out there.” Though the conversation seemed idle, the tone of Lucas’s voice was not. There was something he was getting at, and Shelby didn’t know what it was. Her curiosity grew, and she forgot about kissing.
Lucas lounged against the tree and continued, “I reckon within a year I’ll be running the farm myself.” He shrugged, “Heck, I’m already doing most of it. Daddy taught me just the same as he taught them. Maybe better, ’cause they don’t want it and I do. I’ll be glad to take it over.” Still his tone was pointed, and a tiny inkling of what he was up to formed in her mind.
Especially when he spoke the next sentence as if it were a change of subject, but by now she knew it wasn’t really. “One day I want to take my racers to Ireland. Those folks over there know horseflesh like nobody else in the world. If I could make a name in Ireland, I’d be the top breeder in this country.” His glance to gauge her reaction convinced her of what was up. He was trying to impress her with his prospects for the future. This was working up to a proposal.
Now she knew she had to put on the brakes. She absolutely could not reply to such a question in Mary Beth’s absence, whether yes or no. It wouldn’t be right, particularly since she was not inclined to give the same answer she thought Mary Beth would. Panic rose, and once again she wished to be taken home to let her counterpart return to her own life. Quickly, before Lucas could ask the question, she patted his arm and said, “I hope you’ll make it there. You deserve it.” It was horrible to betray him like this, for she knew he would never live to take his horses to Ireland, or anywhere else. She was a liar and a betrayer, and her heart sank to her shoes that she was so mean to him. He’d been good to her, and surely deserved better. But she didn’t have any better to give. She had to cut him short.