Dear Readers:
Aaron McCarver has long been a favorite author of mine since his earlier works with Gilbert Morris. It’s been my absolute pleasure to get to know him better and hear his heart for writing, history, and God. Aaron is an amazing storyteller with a rare talent for weaving in the subtle nuances of history while giving the reader a gentle spiritual message. I’m so blessed to call him friend.
Diane Ashley is a new friend who has impressed me over the last few years with her love of history and God. Her gentle spirit and loving heart spills out on the pages she creates, and I find her to be one of those up and coming authors to watch.
Now as Diane and Aaron combine their talents, I’m reminded of stories by Eugenia Price and Nancy Cato. Stories of life on the river hold me spellbound, and Diane and Aaron have captured the heart of riverboat epics while giving the reader a strong feeling of Southern grace and beauty. I found it nearly impossible to put this book down as I found myself caught up in the story of Lily and the obstacles she faced in the pre-Civil War South.
I have a special fondness for Southern literature and if the same is true for you, I think you’re going to find Lily, book one of the Song of the River series, to be a pleasurable gem. So find your favorite comfy chair and settle in for a fascinating story of romance, intrigue, and forgiveness. You won’t be sorry!
—Tracie Peterson, award-winning,
bestselling author of over ninety-five books,
including the Striking a Match series and House of Secrets
© 2012 by Diane T. Ashley and Aaron McCarver
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-542-7
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-862-6
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-863-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
Cover credit: Studio Gearbox, www.studiogearbox.com
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
For more information about Diane T. Ashley and Aaron McCarver, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.dianeashleybooks.com
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Author biographies
Dedication
Aaron: I dedicate this book to my best friend, William D. Devore, Jr. It is hard to put into words how much you mean to me. The closest of friends for over twenty years, God has used you in so many ways in my life. I have learned so many things from you: how to be more patient, how to not allow life to stress me out, and how to be a true friend, to only name a few. Like David and Jonathan, God has knit us together as true brothers. You are indeed a special gift from God to me, one that I will always treasure. “As iron sharpens iron …”
Diane: For Deborah and the “Walleen” sisters: Good memories with great friends. Thanks for your supportive words, caring hearts, and wise advice. The true measure of our friendship is that it remains strong even when our pathways diverge. All three of you are precious to me, and I treasure the times when we are together. May God continue to bless you as you have blessed me.
Acknowledgments
We, of all people, know what a collaborative effort a book truly is. We would like to thank the many people who helped us with our newest endeavor:
Our agent, Steve Laube, who tirelessly works on our behalf and muddles through legalese and other languages foreign to us.
Our editors, Becky Germany and Becky Fish, and the wonderful team at Barbour. May God bless our work beyond what we can possibly imagine to bring about His will.
And a special thank-you to Dr. Don Hubele and his Bibliography and Research class of Spring 2011 for your invaluable research assistance: Naomi Ahern, Amanda Barber, Christopher Bonner, Kirsten Callahan, Salina Cervantes, Alexander Crowson, Samantha Edwards, Ebony Epps, Kathleen Hennessy, Erin Hoover, Evan Jones, Allison Kalehoff, Krista Kliewer, Bonnie McCoy, Angela Morgan, Mary Morris, Aubry Myers, Chelsea Randle, Karisa Rowlands, Mark Samsel, Megan Timbs, Isaiah Tolo, Deanna Vanderver, Phillip Williams.
Chapter One
Natchez, Mississippi Spring 1859
Lily Anderson watched the passing scenery from the comfort of her uncle’s carriage. Stately mansions with manicured grounds gave way to the smaller, sturdy homes of local merchants as they traveled toward the Mississippi River. They passed a busy mercantile and several shops before the carriage took a sharp leftward downturn toward the raucous, bustling dock that lay far beneath the genteel residences of Natchez’s wealthy plantation owners and merchants.
Natchez Under-the-Hill. She sniffed the air appreciatively as she disembarked, picking up the scents of fresh coffee, burning wood, and fish. How she loved the river. She barely noticed the disreputable, rickety inns and saloons that sprouted like weeds on either side of the winding road called Silver Street.
Roustabouts slumbered in the scant shade of ramshackle buildings while a pair of glassy-eyed Indians staggered down the street, each clutching a brown bottle close to his chest. Lily’s eyes widened at their blatant drunkenness, but their presence did not deter her eagerness to absorb every detail of her surroundings as she followed Aunt Dahlia.
Voices shouted in an exciting mix of languages … English, French, German, and even lilting Norwegian dialects. The latter brought disturbing memories, but Lily pushed them away, determined to enjoy her outing on the river.
As she and her aunt picked their way past bales of cotton and barrels of tobacco, her gaze absorbed the myriad boats lining the banks. Rugged keelboats and waterlogged rafts butted up against lofty steamboats, each awaiting cargo or passengers to be transported downriver to the port of New Orleans.
“Don’t dawdle, Lily.” Aunt Dahlia’
s annoyed tone drew her forward.
Lily would have liked more time to soak in the energy and color of the busy landing area. If she had her way, she would spend every afternoon down here. Sometimes she dreamed she would even have her own riverboat, Water Lily, and ply the crowded waters of the wide river. If not for the accident that took her parents, she would not have to dream. She would already live on the river.
A snap of her aunt’s fingers brought Lily back to the present. “Come along, girl. Quit gawking like a simpleton.” Aunt Dahlia shook her head. “One would think you had not grown up in Natchez.”
Lily glanced toward her aunt, comparing her to the memory of her mother, the sweet and gentle woman whom God had called home far too quickly. Her aunt could never match the beauty and spirit that flowed from Mama. Aunt Dahlia was more … commanding. At a height of five foot eight, she towered over the other ladies and most of the gentlemen in Natchez society. Mama had been much shorter and more genteel. Even though her mother had died nearly a decade ago, if Lily closed her eyes, she could see Mama’s shiny blond hair and laughing blue eyes. Aunt Dahlia, however, had inherited her father’s coloring, her hair and eyes as brown as the river flowing along the nearby bank. When she was vexed, her upper lip thinned out and nearly disappeared. It was hard to imagine that Mama, so happy and carefree, was Aunt Dahlia’s sister or that the two women had shared a common upbringing.
“I’m coming, Aunt Dahlia.”
“I’ve never seen you move so slowly, girl. What’s the matter with you?” Her aunt sniffed and reached for the handkerchief in her reticule. “One would think you don’t appreciate your good fortune in being able to attend the Champneys’ party. The invitation indicated we should arrive prior to three or risk being left at the dock.”
Sunlight beamed down on them, warming Lily’s shoulders. “It cannot be—”
A young boy barreled into Lily, nearly knocking her over. “Oof.” Sharp pain distracted her as her teeth stabbed her tongue. A sudden tug separated her reticule from her forearm, and the child raced off, triumphantly escaping with her belongings clutched to his dirty chest.
Forgetting that she was not chasing one of her sisters in the gardens at home, Lily grabbed her skirts and dashed after him. “Stop, thief!”
Heads turned, but no one seemed to absorb the meaning of her words, or perhaps no one wanted to help.
Lily couldn’t let him get away with her reticule. It held too many valuables, like the handkerchief her sister had embroidered for her last year. Was the distance between them narrowing? It seemed so. She pushed her legs to their limit. He would have to stop running at the bank. There was nowhere for him to go.
But she underestimated her quarry. He glanced back, and she caught a glimpse of his wide green eyes. She bunched her skirt with one hand and reached out with the other, nearly catching hold of his skinny arm.
The boy avoided her grasp by inches and sprinted up the muddy bank. He hesitated a bare instant before leaping across a narrow stretch of stagnant water to land like a cat on the deck of a barge laden with wooden casks.
Lily stood panting, her gaze clashing with the young thief’s. “Come back here with my bag!” Forming the words made her tongue sting, but she ignored the pain.
An impish grin split the boy’s freckled face. “Come take it from me.” He made a face before turning away.
Frustration boiled through her. Lily measured the distance to the boat. She would have to leap across nearly two feet of water. She would never make it.
The boy walked to the front end of the barge and jumped from it to a side-wheeler, one of the steamboats whose giant paddle wheel was mounted along its center instead of its back end.
She paralleled his progress on the bank, hoping to find a way to reach him. Squinting against the sunlight, she thought she could see a gangplank ahead that had been extended to the bank. Perhaps she could catch up with him there and wrest her property from his thieving hands.
A steamboat whistle blew its mournful tones, and a nearby paddle wheel began to thrash the water. The sound must have distracted the boy as he jumped once more because he misjudged the distance. Lily watched in horror as his feet teetered on the edge of the steamboat deck he was trying to reach. Then he fell backward into the river and disappeared.
“Help!” She croaked the word, her throat dry from her exertions. Lily took a deep breath and tried again. “Help—man—overboard!” Her shout was louder and garnered more attention from the nearby deckhands.
The many boats vying for space near the bank made the water appear paved with decks. Lily pointed a shaking hand to the place where the towheaded boy had disappeared. Time stretched endlessly as she waited to see if he would resurface. Had he drowned?
Her heart faltered. She should not have chased him. A prayer of supplication slipped from her lips as guilt pressed down on her.
“What’s going on out here?” A tall, dark-haired man strode onto the deck of the steamboat where the child had fallen. His eyes, as blue as a summer sky, sharpened as he glared at her. “Are you responsible for all the noise?”
She gulped in air and nodded. “Child … overboard … chasing.” The steamboat rocked gently in the water, and she gasped. If they started the huge paddle at the back of the boat, the child might be dragged into it and killed.
His gaze left hers and swept the water. A gurgle alerted him, and he ran to the edge of his steamboat, dropping to one knee in a fluid movement and reaching into the water. When his hand lifted up, she could see the child’s wet blond hair and waxen face. The stranger heaved mightily and lifted the boy onto the deck.
A roustabout appeared from the darkened recesses of the steamship. He looked over to her before swinging a narrow plank toward the bank.
Lily ran across as soon as it touched the ground.
“You ought to keep a closer eye on your child.” The tall man knelt over the boy, but his gaze speared her.
She could feel her cheeks warming under his intense stare. How rude. Did he really think she was old enough to be the boy’s mother? Her mouth opened and closed, reminding her once again of her aching tongue.
The boy coughed and pushed himself to a sitting position, relieving her concern that he had drowned.
The stranger slapped him on the back. “You’re going to be okay, son.”
The boy nodded and coughed again.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” A lock of coal-black hair fell across the rescuer’s forehead, making her want to reach out and push it back. Shocked at the errant thought, she dragged her mind back to the subject at hand.
“I’m … he’s not—”
“He’s not dead, no thanks to you.” The man stood up and pushed back the lock of hair with an impatient hand. His eyes were hard and cold.
Before Lily could order her thoughts, the discharge of a gun made her jump.
The stranger took two steps forward, placing his body between her and the dock. “Get back.” He pulled his own weapon free of his holster, holding it easily.
Lily’s heart thumped in time with the paddle wheel on the boat next to them. She sidled up closer to the tall stranger and peeked around his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
The man did not answer. All she could see was a knot of men standing on the dock. One of them was pointing back the way she had come, and Lily suddenly thought of Aunt Dahlia. Had she been hurt? Robbed? Had the cutpurse who had gotten her own reticule been a distraction to separate the two of them?
Unseen hands shoved rudely against the small of her back, unbalancing Lily. She tried to stop her headlong sprawl, but it was no use. She fell hard against the stranger, and he tumbled toward the deck, too. Squeezing her eyes shut, Lily waited for what seemed an eternity for the impact.
Crash. The deck wasn’t as hard as she had thought it would be. She opened one eye and looked into his startled blue gaze. The stranger’s body had cushioned her fall. Somehow he had landed on his backside, so now she was lying on t
op of him, her nose squashed up against the brass buttons of his brocade vest. “Oh!”
“Are you hurt?” His hands grabbed her shoulders.
“No.” The sound was so soft she couldn’t hear it herself. She’d never had so much trouble with her voice. Lily swallowed. “I’m fine.” Much better. She pushed against his chest but somehow felt bereft when his hands let go of her. It must be relief she was feeling at being freed. It couldn’t be disappointment. …
“This is what I get for being a Good Samaritan.” The irony in his voice stung like a wasp.
Lily slid off him and sat up, one hand checking to see if her hat, a small white cap edged with the same blue lace as her dress, had been knocked awry. It was still firmly affixed. Probably due to Tamar’s careful work of securing it this morning.
The stranger stood up, holstered his gun, and brushed dirt from his clothing, taking an inordinate amount of time. He reached out a hand to help her stand.
She would have liked to refuse it, but she didn’t want any of the strangers on the dock to witness her efforts to stand on her own, so she grimaced and put her hand in his.
He pulled her up with ease, nearly jerking her arm out of its socket. “Don’t expect me to continue rescuing your rambunctious son, madam.” Again with that thick irony.
How dare he? She was not some wayward female. She was the victim. “He’s not my son!” There, she’d finally gotten the words out.
“Well, whoever he is, he’s not staying around to thank his rescuer.”
Lily swung around to see the thief disappearing around a bend in the road. “He took my reticule.”
“I see. Well, I doubt your reticule survived the dunking in the river. I suppose now you expect me to chase after him, but you’ll have to look elsewhere for a knight-errant.” He turned on his heel and stomped toward the interior of the steamboat.
Lily (Song of the River) Page 1
