Destination: Romance: Five Inspirational Love Stories Spanning the Globe

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He covered his eyes with his hand. That would certainly explain why someone might be upset enough to pull up the surveyor’s markers. But something didn’t make sense. He’d walked past the church the evening Miss Courtland had said she had choir practice. Walked by, but didn’t go in. The cemetery to the right of the church had, like the lilacs, reminded him of his mother. His heart couldn’t handle the guilt, so he’d walked back to the hotel. But the town cemetery was there, beside the church.

  Yesterday when he and Bennington had tramped around the wooded riverbank, he’d not encountered a single cross or headstone. How could there be a cemetery?

  He set off for the courthouse, but before he’d taken a dozen strides he halted. Perhaps the man at the land office—what was his name? Dorsey. Wilbur Dorsey. If anyone would know of a second cemetery in the area, it would be the land agent.

  Wilbur Dorsey sneered at Donovan’s question regarding some kind of cemetery along the riverbank.

  “Sonny, I’m near sixty-eight years old, an’ I lived here all my life. My pappy a’fore me, an’ his pappy a’fore him. I know ever’thing about ever’body hereabouts.”

  Donovan forced a smile. Sounded like he’d come to the right person, and it wasn’t as if he was divulging confidential information. Mayor Gilbert had said Dorsey was the land agent with whom he’d arranged for the survey, so Dorsey knew the piece of property in question. “Then you know whether or not there is a cemetery there on the property Mr. Bennington wants to purchase?”

  Dorsey’s face screwed into a grimace as if he’d just taken a dose of castor oil. “Ain’t no decent folks buried out yonder. Jest some dirty injuns buried somewhere ’longside the river.”

  Donovan lifted a single eyebrow and stared at the man. “We’re talking about the same piece of property, aren’t we? You ordered the survey for Mayor Gilbert for the tentative building site for the mill.”

  A half-hearted shrug lifted Dorsey’s shoulders. “Yeah, I know the property. My pappy and gran’pappy knew Lemuel Weaver and his kin. So, some injun bones is buried out there. Don’t make no never mind to me, and it shouldn’t to you, neither.”

  The man’s callousness clenched Donovan’s stomach. “But we saw no headstones.”

  The land agent tossed his pencil on the desk and snorted. “I don’t see no problem. Like I said, ain’t no decent folks care a hoot about them stinkin’ Cherokees.”

  Donovan gritted his teeth. “Well, apparently somebody cares, because the survey stakes were pulled up.”

  Dorsey retrieved his pencil and grabbed a scrap of paper. “Reckon you’ll be needin’ another survey, then.” He jotted a note and stuck it on the spindle on his desk. Without another word, the land agent turned and went about his business.

  Apparently dismissed, Donovan let himself out and looked down the street toward the courthouse. If Miss Courtland’s grandfather was the one who’d removed the markers, that meant he cared a great deal. The problem now was figuring out how to look into the matter without offending the town folk like he had Wilbur Dorsey, angering Miss Courtland and her grandfather, or getting himself fired.

  The notion of turning in his resignation fled. Bennington would replace him in heartbeat, most likely with someone who—as Mr. Dorsey put it— didn’t care a hoot about who might be buried on that land.

  CHAPTER 6

  Th e front door of the church stood propped open. Odd that the place was open on a Tuesday afternoon. Donovan’s curiosity sent him threading his way between wagons and horse droppings to see if perchance the pastor was about. He reached the church steps, and a cloud of dust propelled by a sturdy broom greeted him from the gaping door.

  “ Pfft, pfft!” Donovan waved his hand to shoo the dust and debris away from his face and clothing. “You certainly have an unusual way to welcome visitors around here.” He coughed and batted dirt off his trousers.

  A gentleman with white hair and a short white beard stepped through the doorway, wielding the broom. “I’m so sorry.” He brushed dust from Donovan’s shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Please forgive me.”

  Donovan chuckled. “It’s a warmer welcome than I received at the last church I was in. No harm done.” He extended his hand. “Donovan McNeary.”

  “I’m Pastor Parkin.” He set the broom aside and gripped Donovan’s hand. “It sounds as if I should try to leave you with a better impression of Christians than your previous experience.”

  “Sorry to interrupt. It looks like you’re busy.” Donovan gestured to the broom. “I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions.”

  The pastor laughed. “I welcome the interruption. Come in and sit down.”

  Donovan sat on the back pew. “Thank you.”

  The pastor perched on the edge of the pew across the aisle and tucked his hands under his arms. “I’ve been hoping to meet you and the other gentleman. I believe his name is Bennington, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re certainly pleased you’ve chosen Pine Ridge for the site of your new mill.” The pastor’s smile broadened. “Not only will the mill mean more jobs for the area, it will bring in new families. Our community will grow, and so will the church. Yes, we’re all mighty glad you’ve come.”

  Not all. There was at least one person who wasn’t happy about the mill. “Pastor, can you tell me if there are any other cemeteries around here other than the one beside the church?”

  “Well, yes.” Pastor Parkin nodded. “Many folks in the area have their own private, family cemeteries on their land, and there are a few Confederate cemeteries about a day’s ride from here.”

  Donovan drew in a deep breath. “What about out along the banks of the Conasauga River?”

  Caution staked a guarded veil across the pastor’s eyes. “What exactly are you asking?”

  There was no guarantee the preacher’s opinion wouldn’t be as jaded as the land agent’s, but Donovan decided getting right to the point would save time. “Mr. Bennington is purchasing the parcel of land along the Conasauga belonging to the Weaver family. It has come to my attention recently that there may be a cemetery on the land. Would you know anything about it?”

  He watched Pastor Parkin’s face for any hint of disdain and detected none. Without blinking, the clergyman gave a slow nod. “It is my understanding that there’s a burial ground along the riverbank on the Weaver land.” His thick eyebrows dipped. “I wasn’t aware the site of the new mill was along the Conasauga. Most folks have assumed it would be built nearer to town, along Granite Creek.”

  Donovan shook his head. “According to Mayor Gilbert, the creek is sometimes reduced to no more than a few inches of water during summer droughts. The mill requires a more dependable source of water power.” He put his hands on his knees. “What about the cemetery, Pastor?”

  The preacher leaned against the back of the pew and studied Donovan with an unblinking stare for a full minute. “I’ve been the pastor here for over twenty years, and I know most everyone for fifty miles around. Most are kind, generous, hard-working folks. You’re young, but you’ve probably read how the Cherokee and Creek Indians were forced from their land back in the 1830s. Not many gave up their land without a fight.”

  He rose and walked to the open door. “Mr. McNeary, like I said, most of the people in this town are good folks.” He turned to face Donovan again. “But there are a few whose forefathers had no love or compassion for the Cherokees. Those people were raised under the shadow of bigotry. Yes, there is a Cherokee burial ground along the banks of the Conasauga. Many of the residents of Pine Ridge—at least those under the age of forty—don’t even know it’s there. However, there are some so tainted by hatred passed down from generation to generation, they’d not hesitate to stir up trouble. While some may view the burial ground as sacred, others deem it unworthy of notice, much less protection.”

  Donovan suspected Hosea Courtland was among the former. “Tell me, Pastor, do you know Hosea Courtland?”

  The preach
er’s perceptive gaze made Donovan squirm. “Of course I know him, and if you ask my opinion of the man, I’ll tell you he’s a fine, Christian gentleman.”

  The conviction with which Pastor Parkin stated his feelings for Nora Courtland’s grandfather was clear and rang with principle. He’d not utter a single negative word against Hosea Courtland.

  Before Donovan could decide how to phrase his next question, the pastor took his seat again and stroked his beard with his thumb and forefinger.

  “As hopeful as I am about the new mill and what it will mean for this community, I will urge you to rethink any plans to build it at the burial ground. It makes no difference who is buried there. Knowingly disturbing the final resting place of anyone is not only disrespectful, it’s deliberately hurtful to the loved ones left behind.” The pastor’s admonition stung.

  “But wouldn’t you agree that my boss has the right to build whatever he pleases on land he has purchased?” A twinge of guilt skewered Donovan at his insinuation that the sale of the property was already final, but he wanted to get the church leader’s opinion. Knowing he had an advocate in the man to whom many folks looked for guidance would solidify his argument if he had to confront Bennington.

  The pastor lifted one eyebrow. “Let me answer that question with another question. Have you ever lost someone dear to you?”

  Donovan stiffened, his teeth clenched against the sudden burning in his eyes. He turned his gaze to the open door where he could glimpse one corner of the church’s cemetery with its collection of headstones and crosses, many of which were adorned with flowers. His own mother lay beneath the sod of a small cemetery in Massachusetts. With him working for Asa Bennington in Georgia, there was no one to place flowers on Ma’s grave. He held his breath and blinked, ordering the moisture in his eyes to retreat.

  When the pastor spoke again, his tone was gentle. “I suspect by your silence and the sorrow I see in your eyes that the answer is yes. Care to tell me about it?”

  Donovan studied the toes of his boots. “My mother died a few years ago.” He cleared his throat. “I miss her.”

  “I’m sorry, son.” Pastor Parkin’s voice held genuine sympathy and comfort. “When someone we love passes away, our pain lingers a long time, often for decades.” He paused and his words settled in Donovan’s chest like an anvil. “How would you feel if someone came along twenty or thirty years from now and built a mill on top of your dear mother’s grave?”

  Hours later, as Donovan lay in bed with only the dim moonlight peeking through his window for company, the pastor’s question haunted him. He sat up and curled his fingers into fists, ready to fight anyone who would do such a thing. There were just as many people who despised the Irish as those who hated the Cherokee, so it wasn’t beyond the realm of imagination to picture someone like Wilbur Dorsey or Asa Bennington casting such disregard on his mother’s final resting place.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward with his head in his hands. “God, I know I broke Ma’s heart by not going to church.” My son, you broke My heart by pursuing success instead of following Me. He slid to his knees. “Lord, I’m sorry. Why was I so blinded? Help me find my way back to You.”

  He searched the deep recesses of his memory for the scriptures his mother had taught him, but all that surfaced were bits and pieces.

  In all thy ways…

  For God so loved…

  …supply all your need…

  Trust in the Lord…

  He remained on his knees for a time, relishing the embrace of God’s unconditional love. If only Ma knew.

  “I wonder what Ma would think of this mill.” Perhaps it wasn’t his mother’s opinion that counted. He rose from his place beside the bed and stepped over to the small desk. He lit the lamp and picked up the yellow paper—the telegram he’d received from Bennington earlier today. There was a problem with ordering the gears for the mill, but his boss expected him to have followed through on his instructions by the time he returned. How would Bennington react when he learned of the burial ground? For that matter, would Donovan even have a job once his boss found out the Weavers had still not responded to the repeated offers to purchase their land?

  Nora exited the apothecary with the medicine for Grandpa and started toward home. One glance at the clock on the courthouse tower told her to hurry. Mayor Gilbert had grudgingly approved her taking time mid-day to run home and check on her grandfather, but she didn’t wish to press her luck.

  Across the street, she caught sight of Donovan McNeary waving his hand. Was he waving at her? A flock of butterflies turned loose in her stomach when he approached, and she berated herself. He was, after all, the enemy if he and his boss thought they were going to build their mill on her grandmother’s grave.

  “Good morning, Miss Courtland. How is your grandfather today?” His green eyes sparkled when he smiled at her, stirring the butterflies to more frantic flight.

  She tamped down her own smile, chiding herself for her schoolgirl flutters. “He’s a bit better, thank you. But I must get this cough medicine to him, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait, please.” He placed his hand on her arm for a brief moment and a tingle shot all the way to her shoulder.

  She halted her steps when her common sense told her to walk away. “I don’t have much time. Grandpa needs this medicine, and I mustn’t be away from my desk for too long.”

  His smile deepened and pulled a dimple into his cheek. Oh my, but he was handsome. She drew in a breath and forced her focus to the medicine in her hand.

  “By all means, you must take the medicine to your grandfather. In fact, I’d like to speak with you both. May I walk with you? It’s important.” How could she refuse his request after he’d shown concern for Grandpa?

  “Yes, of course.” She bit her lip as he cupped her elbow and they made their way across the street. If he thought he was going to threaten Grandpa for pulling out those stakes, he’d better be ready for a fight.

  She darted a glance up at him as they walked. “I don’t want Grandpa upset.”

  He sent her a knee-buckling, soft smile. “Nor do I.”

  Moments later, they entered the house, and Nora pushed Grandpa’s door open. He looked so frail against the stack of pillows. “Grandpa, there is someone to see you.”

  Mr. McNeary followed her into the room and Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. He rose up from the pillows and clutched the quilt with one hand and pointed a bony finger at Mr. McNeary.

  “You the one who’s been out surveyin’ around my wife’s grave?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Alarm rose in Nora’s chest and her glance ricocheted between Grandpa and Mr. McNeary. Caution told her to not allow her grandfather to say too much, but it might be too late. “Grandpa—”

  Mr. McNeary’s expression turned sorrowful and he hung his head. “I was afraid it might be something like that.” He held out open hands. “I didn’t know.”

  A thread of comfort spiraled through Nora at Mr. McNeary’s admission. A secret desire hidden in the recesses of her heart wanted to believe he wouldn’t be deliberately hurtful. He looked over at Nora.

  “May I ask, if it’s a graveyard, why aren’t there any headstones?” His tone held no hint of disdain.

  Grandpa’s eyes softened. “There’s no markers like you see in the church yard because it’s a Cherokee burial ground. The Cherokee don’t put up no fancy gravestones. But there’s more to it than that. Sit down, young man.”

  Mr. McNeary pulled a chair over close to Grandpa’s bedside. “I don’t want to tire you, but if you’re willing to explain, I’d like to hear it.”

  Grandpa nodded. “I married my wife, Eve, back in 1833. She was half Cherokee, her papa bein’ a white man. We had us a son the next year. But even though she weren’t full-blooded Cherokee, the way the law read, if anyone had so much as a drop of Cherokee blood, they was stripped of everything they owned and forced to go to a relocation fort. My Eve was in one of those forts, a
nd I sneaked around lookin’ for a way to free her. Almost got caught a few times, but I never stopped tryin’ to get her out of there. I planned for us to go deep into the mountains where they’d never find us.”

  Moisture glistened in his eyes. “That fort was a horrible, filthy place. Little wonder so many of the Cherokee took sick before they even started marchin’ toward Oklahoma. Disease, spoiled food, dirty water. My Eve got sick. She kept gettin’ weaker and weaker, even though I tried to take her food and medicine.” A tear escaped down his cheek and got lost in his white beard.

  Mr. McNeary lifted his gaze for a moment and connected with Nora. Something deep but unspoken traveled between them. She saw nothing but regret and sympathy in his face.

  Grandpa’s voice softened, as if he spoke to no one in particular. “Jesus took my Eve home. She died before I could get her out of there. I woulda died myself but I had our little son to raise. When I looked at him, I saw her. He’s Nora’s papa.”

  Grandpa fixed his eyes on Mr. McNeary. “Out yonder along the riverbank is a Cherokee burial ground. My Eve’s restin’ place. No, there ain’t no fancy gravestones. The Cherokees just use a pile of rocks to keep the animals from diggin’.”

  Nora sat on the edge of the bed and took Grandpa’s feeble hand. “There were a lot of people who condemned and shunned my grandfather for his marriage to a Cherokee woman. It’s taken over fifty years for the animosity to fade away. I don’t want it stirred up again.”

  Grandpa’s brow dipped and he raised his voice. “I don’t care. I’ll fight anyone before I’ll let them desecrate Eve’s grave.” A cough rumbled up from his chest and seized him with a brutal spasm.

  Nora jumped up and reached for him, looking over her shoulder at Mr. McNeary. “You’ll have to go now.”

  But to her surprise and great annoyance, Mr. McNeary didn’t leave. Instead, he picked up a pitcher of water from the dresser and poured a bit into the tin cup beside Grandpa’s bed.

  “Sip this, Mr. Courtland.” He held the cup to Grandpa’s lips and glanced at Nora. “Get two damp towels and heat them on the stove.”