He ran his hand over his tousled hair. “Good afternoon, Miss Courtland.” His smile set off strange flutters in her stomach. “Good afternoon, Mr. McNeary. How may I help you?”
“My employer, Mr. Bennington, has sent me with a message for Mayor
Gilbert. Is he in?”
“Y-yes, he is.” Her voice hiccuped. For goodness sake, he’s going to think
you’re a silly twit. She pulled in a breath and swallowed. “I’ll let him know
you’re here.”
Her face warming, she scurried to the mayor’s door and tapped. In response to his grunt, she peered in and informed the mayor of his visitor.
Instead of simply instructing Nora to show him in, Mayor Gilbert strode to
the door.
“Come in, come in, Mr. McNeary. Is Mr. Bennington with you?” Nora stepped aside as the men shook hands, and she caught a whiff of
Mr. McNeary’s shaving soap.
“No, sir. He had some paperwork that required his attention.” The men retired to the mayor’s office, but the door didn’t fully close and their voices floated out to Nora’s office. Mayor Gilbert said something about
the surveyor’s report being available in the next day or so.
Nora’s interest piqued. Like everyone else, she’d speculated over the location of the new mill. Most likely it would be close to town, a centralized point
for the farmers bringing their cotton and hemp to be processed. But despite
the news of the mill spreading like wildfire, the building site remained anyone’s guess.
Nora shrugged. In all likelihood, the mayor was planning on a grand announcement. But when Mr. McNeary spoke, his statement surprised her. “Mayor, with all due respect, it seems to me you’ve gotten things out of
order. Surveying land we don’t yet own is premature. Mr. Bennington wants
to know when you expect to get a response to his offer.”
The mayor harrumphed, and even though Nora couldn’t see him, she
could picture the way he always waved his hand in dismissal over things he
deemed unimportant. “A minor detail, I assure you. If we have the survey report in hand, it will show them we are most anxious to expedite the matter.” Nora frowned for a moment, thinking over the events of the past weeks.
Had she neglected to compose a letter for the mayor or send a telegram? No,
she was certain he’d not instructed her to do anything of the sort. If communications had taken place with the landowners, the mayor must have done it
himself. She glanced toward his office door. Strange. He normally dispatched
chores of that nature to her.
The door opened abruptly and the mayor clapped Mr. McNeary’s shoulder. “You tell your boss I’ll let him know the minute I hear back from the
owners. I’m sure it’ll be any day now. Good day.” And the door closed. Mr. McNeary turned. When he caught her eye, his smile arrested her,
hampering every effort to continue her tasks. The papers in her hands fluttered to the floor like so many butterflies newly freed from their cocoon prisons. Several of them glided gracefully before landing at Mr. McNeary’s feet. Arrows of embarrassment shot through Nora. For a fleeting moment, she
considered diving under her desk. But his smile only deepened as he stooped
to retrieve the pages.
She lifted her hand to her forehead. “Goodness, I’m so clumsy.” His grin disarmed her. “Not at all.” He swept up the papers, tapped the
edges on the floor, and held out the neat stack to her. With a quick glance
over his shoulder, he leaned closer and whispered. “He annoys me, too. You
must possess extraordinary patience to work for him.”
A giggle rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. “Thank you.” He cocked his head. “Perhaps you’d do me the honor of having dinner
with me this evening.”
“I’m sorry.” Surprise quivered through her to realize she truly was sorry
she had to decline. She shook her head. “I have choir practice this evening.” “Oh.” He crossed his arms and his eyebrows arched. “You’re a singer?” “Goodness, no.” She dipped her head and added the papers to the stack
on her desk. “I play the organ for the choir.”
“I see. Blessed with musical talent and patience.”
Why was she breathing like she’d just run uphill? “I-I don’t know that I’d
call it talent. As for patience—” She heaved a sigh. “I need this job.” He nodded, as if in commiseration. “Maybe I’ll drop by and listen to choir
practice.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a charming, lopsided smile as he
exited.
Nora sucked in a breath, a tremble shaking the floor beneath her feet. But
it wasn’t the floor that shook. She sank down into her chair and propped her
elbows on her desk, her hands covering her warming cheeks. “Oh, my.”
Donovan walked away from the courthouse calling himself three kinds of a fool and questioning his own sanity. Did he really tell her he might drop by for choir practice? What was he thinking?
While the prospect of Donovan walking into a church might delight his mother—God rest her soul—he’d not darkened the door of a church since… well, since Ma’s funeral.
How Ma had grieved over her straying son, begging him to “come back to the Lord.” Shame bit him to think of the years he’d allowed to slip by while he neglected the things of God. He’d thought one day he might go back to church, but he’d always been too busy trying to be successful.
He hated to see how hard his mother worked, especially after his father died. Even when she was sick, she went faithfully to work. His plan had been to work hard and rise in rank so his mother would never have to work again. Well, she was at rest now. Except that she’d left this world without seeing the sole desire of her heart come to pass.
Th e day of Ma’s funeral, the preacher berated him, barely stopping short of blaming him for his mother’s death, saying Donovan had come to church too late. Now, as then, guilt skewered him. He couldn’t deny his mother would have been overjoyed to see her prayers answered. If he fulfilled her wishes now and returned to the faith he’d been taught as a child, Ma would never know.
CHAPTER 3
Nora scooped apple cobbler into a small bowl and set it in front of Grandpa, smiling when he sniffed it with appreciation. She poured their coffee and rejoined her grandfather at the table.
“ That was a mighty fine Sunday dinner, Nora girl.” Grandpa smacked his lips.
“I could probably serve you cold biscuits and jerky and you’d still say that.” She patted his hand. “Now slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick eating so fast.”
He gulped a bite of cobbler. “Don’t wanna dawdle.”
“We have the entire afternoon.” But telling Grandpa not to hurry through his meal when he planned to go visit his wife’s burial place was like telling the sun not to rise.
Disappointment had threaded through her two evenings ago when Mr. McNeary had not dropped by for choir practice. At the time, she’d speculated that perhaps his boss had altered his plans. But when he didn’t appear at church this morning, disconcertment niggled at her. She could understand being hindered, but if he’d stayed away from church out of disinterest, her disappointment was better directed to compassion for his soul rather than any romantic interest.
Grandpa polished off his cobbler and rose. “I’m just gonna fetch my hat. We’d best be on our way.”
The dishes and cleaning the kitchen would have to wait. Clouds had gathered to hide the sunny sky they’d enjoyed while walking home from church, but that wouldn’t stop Grandpa when he wanted to “spend time with Eve.”
Together they hitched their old mare to the buggy and drove as far as the river. The flat rocks at the crossing poked up above the water, providing dry places to set their feet to reach the
other side. Nora held Grandpa’s hand to steady him as the water swirled in lazy circles around the rocks. Once on the opposite bank, they hiked nearly a half mile through the trees and underbrush until they arrived at their destination—the abandoned Cherokee burial ground. Few people knew of the place or cared about it.
But Grandpa cared. The love of his life, Nora’s grandmother, rested beneath a mound of rocks now overgrown with weeds and wild grapevine. A dozen more mounds scattered along the riverbank marked the graves of Cherokees who once called New Echota home. These were the lucky ones, Grandpa had said, because they didn’t have to endure the brutal Trail of Tears. They’d died at the relocation forts before the forced march started. The graves were barely recognizable to anyone other than someone who knew what they were.
Grandpa pushed dead leaves and twigs aside from Eve’s grave, and then settled himself on a nearby downed log. “Eve, my love, forgive me for lettin’ so much time pass between visits. I know you don’t miss me near as much as I miss you. After all, you’re there in heaven with Jesus.”
Nora quietly stepped away to give Grandpa privacy. Over the years, she’d come to love this place nearly as much he did. Every tree and stump, every mound of rocks and the souls that rested beneath them. It used to sadden her that these graves didn’t bear crosses or grave markers like those in the cemetery in town. But as Grandpa had often reminded her, the animosity held by many of Pine Ridge’s residents toward the Cherokees made this remote place a more fitting and tranquil spot for their cemetery.
It had taken several years, but eventually Grandpa had released his resentment of the man who had won this land in the lottery in 1835. Lemuel Weaver wasn’t a bigot. He’d merely wanted the land to homestead, a place to bring his bride from Williamsburg, Virginia. By all accounts, he’d loved this place—perhaps not as much as Grandpa did, and certainly not for the same reasons. But after several years, Lemuel had come to visit Grandpa and promised him he’d leave the graves in this small section of his land untouched.
Nora whooshed out a grateful sigh—not only for Lemuel’s compassion in not disturbing the burial ground, but also for Grandpa being able to let go of his bitterness. She looked over to where he sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, sharing his thoughts with Eve. Her heart swelled. One day she hoped to find a love like her grandparents had.
A distant rumble of thunder growled through the hills and hollows. She hated to cut Grandpa’s visit short, but she feared if they got caught in the rain, his frail body could succumb to illness. Dried leaves crunched under her feet as she walked back to join him.
“Grandpa, it sounds like a storm is coming. We’d better go.”
He glanced up at the darkening sky and nodded. He rose stiffly, kissed his fingertips, and pressed them on the rocks. “Until later, my love.”
They linked arms and made their way toward the place where they could safely cross the river. But before they’d gone more than a few yards, Grandpa halted and he pointed.
“What’s that?”
Nora’s gaze followed the direction of his finger and spied a small piece of red cloth tied to a short wooden stake, partially hidden behind some underbrush. She’d not seen it on their way to the burial ground. Grandpa went over and bent to take a closer look.
“Grandpa? What is it?”
He pushed back some blackberry vines. “It’s a marker of some sort.” He grasped it and wiggled it back and forth until the stake turned loose of the red clay soil. Grandpa straightened with the flagged stake. “It’s a survey marker.”
Alarm carved crevices across his brow as another rumble of thunder rolled through the woods. He pointed and swept his gesture along the riverbank. “Nora girl, look for others.”
“Grandpa, it’s beginning to sprinkle. We’d best—”
“Look! Look for more of these markers.”
Grandpa rarely raised his voice, but the intensity of his command pushed her to obey. She tramped through the trees and underbrush and located another stake with a scrap of red material tied to it. She turned to see where Grandpa was and saw him pulling up another marker about a hundred yards downriver. He slogged through the tangled growth of weeds to her side. With more strength than she’d believed him to possess, he yanked up the stake.
Rain wept from the dark clouds as distress strained Grandpa’s voice. “I don’t know who put these here, but nobody—nobody—is gonna disturb Eve’s resting place.” He made his way to the edge of the water and heaved the stakes into the river. He turned and held out his arms as if embracing the burial site. “Nobody.”
Yesterday’s rain had softened the ground along the riverbank, making navigation hazardous. Donovan grabbed a thick vine for balance as his boss batted his way past him, intent on visiting the building site again. Despite not yet receiving word from the Weaver family regarding his offer, Bennington agreed with Mayor Gilbert about the survey. Both believed having the survey already done would motivate the Weavers to accept the terms and sign the sales agreement.
“This is about money,” Bennington had reminded him. “I doubt these people have ever seen that much money, much less know how to count it.”
Bennington halted and unrolled the paper in his hands. He studied it and sent his searching scrutiny up and down the riverbank. “According to this plat, the markers should be right along here.” He thrust a sausage-like finger toward the area. “Check over that way.”
Donovan moved downriver, searching back and forth for the survey markers the mayor said they’d find. He maneuvered around several piles of rocks, but didn’t see anything that resembled a marker.
“You find anything?” Bennington yelled through the trees as he made his way in Donovan’s direction.
“No, sir. I’m looking.”
Bennington studied the plat again. “This is the place we paced off three weeks ago. I remember these rock piles.” He pointed at the rock mounds with his elbow. “We can use them for the foundation.”
After several more minutes of fruitless searching, his boss’s impatience mounted. Experience had taught Donovan that he didn’t want to be the target of Bennington’s irritation, but presently there wasn’t anyone else nearby.
“McNeary, where are those survey markers?” Predictably, Bennington’s harsh tone sliced Donovan’s ear. “Why didn’t you come and supervise the calculations yourself? What am I paying you for?”
Donovan sorely wished to remind his boss that Mayor Gilbert had ordered the survey on his own, and neither Donovan or Bennington knew anything about it until Gilbert informed them it was done. But Donovan did remember where the mayor had indicated the corner of the property lay. If the mayor’s surveyors marked it, he could find no evidence of it now.
“McNeary, you better find those markers, or else bringing the surveyors out here to recalculate the measurements will come out of your salary—if indeed you still have a salary by the end of the day.”
It wasn’t that Donovan didn’t believe Bennington would fire him, but this wasn’t the first time the man had threatened him with unemployment when things didn’t go precisely right. He chose his words carefully.
“It’s possible some animal knocked them down.” The speculation sounded far-fetched even to Donovan, but it’s all he could think of at the moment.
Bennington snorted in disgust. “What kind of animal would knock down all four stakes and carry them off? Unless it was a two-legged animal.” He wielded the tube of paper like a sword and slashed it in Donovan’s direction. “You get those surveyors back out here. And I’m making it your responsibility to see to it those stakes are in deep and secure.”
His boss turned and tramped toward the rocks where they had crossed the river. Donovan hastened after him, still sending his gaze darting left and right for any sign of a surveyor’s marker.
They climbed into the rented buggy and Donovan turned the horse toward Pine Ridge. He could feel Bennington seething in the seat beside him. His boss drummed his fingers against the sid
e of the buggy, a sure sign of agitation. For all Donovan knew, he might be unemployed by nightfall.
A muted growl preceded Bennington’s bark. “When we get back to town, I’m going to go see Gilbert. And he’d better have a copy of that surveyor’s report. You start nosing around and asking questions. I want to know who is antagonistic toward the building of the mill. If you make halfway intelligent inquiries, you should be able to uncover something.”
The man’s emphasis spoke volumes. Donovan hoped he wouldn’t let Bennington down, but nothing guaranteed he’d find the answers his boss wanted.
Bennington pulled a cigar from his inside coat pocket and bit off the tip. “In the meantime, you see to it that those rocks are moved down to the river’s edge where the workers can begin building the foundation as soon as the land purchase is done.” He stuck the unlit cigar between his teeth and clamped down.
Donovan drew a tentative breath. “Sir, should we begin moving the rocks and preparing the site if the land deal hasn’t been closed yet?”
His boss snatched the cigar from his mouth. “These southerners can’t be choosy about the price of their land. If they think I’ll quibble over dollars, they’re more stupid than I thought. This deal will go through.” He poked the cigar back into his mouth and spoke around it. “I’m leaving for Atlanta the day after tomorrow to order the gears and machinery. I’ll expect your report when I return, and I want the name of the person who sabotaged those markers.”
Donovan didn’t nod, but he swallowed hard.
CHAPTER 4
Nora brushed her hand over Grandpa’s forehead. The chill he’d taken in the rain on Sunday afternoon had resulted in a cough by Monday. Now this morning, he’d refused breakfast and limped as if his whole body ached. His feverish brow sent shafts of worry through Nora.
“You’re going back to bed this minute.” She took his shoulders and tried to turn him around toward his bedroom, but the old gentleman planted his feet.
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