by Amber Stokes
A hand came around her wrist like a manacle, but this time she didn’t want to hear their offers or insults. She turned her face away and pulled as hard as she could, dismayed when the sweaty man managed to not only hold on, but also start to reel her in. This man had cold eyes, his words like boulders rolled into a still pond as he asked in a deep voice, “What’s Taylor got that I don’t?”
The curly head next to him bobbed up and down as he snickered. “Who’d ’ave thought the stiff Prince of the South would’ve had it in him?” The man bent over his plate and shoveled sausage into his mouth as his friends chuckled.
Margaret gritted her teeth, wanting to slap these woodsmen for their innuendoes and unkind words about her and Zachary. How could she set them straight? Would they try to harm her now that they thought she was immoral?
“Leave her alone.”
Margaret turned to find Dorcas standing behind her with her hands on her curvy hips.
“You dolls sure are feisty,” the man holding onto her said gravely, though everyone around him grinned. “Why didn’t you dance with me on Saturday?”
His grip was starting to loosen as he focused his attention on Dorcas.
“Mebbe she prefers a man who knows how to treat a woman well, Grant!”
Grant turned to snarl at the man farther down the table. Margaret tore out of his grasp and hurried back to the kitchen. She caught Dorcas’s eye before the door swung shut, and the girl gave her a nod. It wasn’t quite an apology for her callous joke, but Margaret was still grateful to be out of the dining hall just the same.
Returning to the stove, she heaved a sigh and shoved thoughts of rude men, Saturday night, and Zachary Taylor out of her mind—though they still sat heavy on her heart.
***
Zachary grabbed two bowls of breakfast potatoes and carried them into the dining hall. One of the men whistled, and laughter floated around the room, but he didn’t have time for their unending nonsense. Meg had been avoiding him, and he didn’t blame her. He had looked for her at the general store in the weeks following that fateful dance, but she must have changed her schedule to keep from seeing him.
When the crude comments turned to complaints before the kitchen door closed behind him, Zachary grimaced. They must have discovered how badly he had burnt the potatoes. His cooking was suffering in addition to his pride, if the millworkers’ consistent grumbles of late were to be believed. Something had to change, or he would get fired, for sure.
Oh, flapjacks! Who cared about losing his job when he’d already lost his heart?
That afternoon he waited around the corner of the general store, procrastinating on cutting vegetables for supper in hopes that he might catch a glimpse of Meg. He hoped she was doing all right. And he hoped no one saw him lurking in the shadows like some sort of spy.
He had mentally rehearsed his supper preparations for chitterlings and sweet potato pie—complete with butter—three times before he heard someone entering the general store. He glanced around the corner just in time to see Meg’s blond braid and long skirt swish through the door. After hesitating for no more than three seconds, he followed her.
A bell above his head rang as he stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Meg whirled around, meeting his gaze for only a moment before turning back to the shelves of canned food. Nerves hit him full force. What should he say to her?
While she still seemed as shy as ever, he couldn’t tell much beyond that. Had he made life worse for her by not defending her when he should have? His mother would have been ashamed. His father would have whipped him good. But even though neither of them was here to punish him, he was doing a decent job of punishing himself. If only he were brave enough to tell her he was sorry, to tell her he had never wanted to hurt her.
He saw Meg watching him surreptitiously through her light lashes as she pretended to fumble with some cans and debate between similar dry goods. Something in him ached powerfully, and before he could contemplate it, he walked back out the door.
Instead of heading to the cookhouse like he really should have done, he walked right out of town, heading toward the woods. He needed to think.
The farther he got into the uncut trees, the more his shoulders relaxed, his muscles releasing. Images of Meg floated through his mind as he breathed in the fresh air and left the clangs and whirs of the mill behind: Her sweet smile whenever she would whisper “hello” to him on the street. The day she brought his supplies to him at the cookhouse before she picked up hers. The rainy afternoon he let her borrow his coat, watching her practically drown in the cloth as she thanked him and raced back to the lumber camp. The moment she entered the dance hall a month ago, a look of peace on her face and an unusual confidence tempered by her steadfast, gentle spirit. And then the midnight hour, when she ran because he hadn’t helped her.
He growled at the last thought, stopping to lean against one of the wide redwood trees, chest heaving and fists clenching and unclenching. He tilted his head back, eyes closed—but the memory of her flight wouldn’t leave him.
When he opened his eyes, a bright color on the forest floor captured his attention.
He stared at it for a long while, thinking about Meg and beautiful things and the God who created them. And an idea came to him—one that felt like the day after Appomattox, like facing hard realities with bravery, like finding freedom in the future, like coming upon a flower in the forest.
***
Margaret was ready. She wouldn’t let anyone grab her wrist today. No one would detain her unwillingly, and no words would make her cry. Grab the food, put it on the table, and flee the dining hall. No deviating from the plan.
With a deep breath to fortify herself, she hefted a big bowl of biscuits and headed out to face the woodsmen at supper.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw Zachary stand to attention near the wall to her left, almost as if he had been leaning there for a while. Waiting for her?
Shaking her head, she marched over to the farthest of the two long tables, banged the bowl down a little too forcefully, and spun back in the direction of the kitchen, making sure to keep her arms close to her sides.
Before she reached the kitchen door, though, a warm hand encircled her wrist. “Meg, wait. May I speak with you a moment?”
The nickname soothed her, so much sweeter and stronger than “Margie.” But the tables all had ears, and she could feel the heat of embarrassment sting her cheeks. She tried shaking him off. “Let me go,” she hissed. “I’ve got supper to tend to. Don’t you?”
“Someone else is taking care of it this evening. I wanted to come see you. Talk with you.”
His words were low, rusty. He wanted to talk with her? Did he ever talk with anyone?
She pushed her way into the kitchen.
He followed her. “I bought something for you.”
Margaret didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Gertrude. “Go away. Please.”
He brought out a thin, slightly long box from inside his coat. A man was giving her something. Would her mother be happy for her? Or would her father warn her to beware of Zachary’s tricks?
“Why would you give me anything?” She threw the question over her shoulder on her way to check on the chicken.
He came up behind her as she bent over the stove. Too close. “I ordered it. For your birthday.”
She glanced back at him, feeling her forehead wrinkle in confusion. “My birthday’s in November.”
He grunted. “An early present.”
Standing, she found the box dangling right in front of her face. Her palms started to sweat, and she rubbed them on her apron, afraid to take the gift from him. “Why are you here?”
He held her gaze, but no words came. Maybe he had run out. She knew the feeling.
But still he grasped the gift. The slight tremor in his hand caused the box to shake, and she couldn’t make him suffer any longer. Accepting it from him, she noticed her own hands flutter slightly.
Opening the box, she let the object inside slide into her palm. The shine made her gasp. “The fairy slipper…” It was a little glass carving of the orchid in the woods. She cradled it and turned her startled gaze back to Zachary, who was studying her.
“Why?” She swallowed, the chicken all but forgotten until Dorcas rushed in and nudged her out of the way. The smell of something burning finally registered.
“Oh!” Clutching the figurine, she lifted a hesitant gaze to Gertrude, worried she was about to receive a lecture. The woman just pointed to the back door. Dorcas waved her away, and Anna rushed into the kitchen to help. It was getting a little crowded, especially with someone like Zachary in the room. No wonder he didn’t have many servers assist him—he dominated a kitchen.
With a gentle hand to her lower back, Zachary ushered her outside. The rare spring-evening sunshine gleamed off her glass gift, blinding her momentarily until she found Zachary’s dark but soft gaze again.
“I saw a flower like that in the woods,” he whispered as he gestured to the item she held. “It reminded me of you.”
“Why?” When he didn’t answer right away, she pondered it. How did Zachary see her? “Is it because it stands alone?” She tried to sound haughty, but her voice cracked and betrayed her.
“No.” He crossed his arms, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but determined. “Because it stands out.”
She lowered her gaze, watching the duff slide as she traced a foot over the ground. “How?”
“It shines in a dark forest.”
She could feel him staring at her, waiting. “I don’t shine, Zach. Nothing about me stands out.”
After a moment of silence, she glanced up. His smile was tender and his words reassuring. “Everything about you stands out to me.”
The tears came then.
“I’m sorry, Meg. For what happened at the dance. I let you down.” When she didn’t respond right away, he pleaded, “Please don’t cry.”
He reached out hesitantly at first, then boldly wiped her tears with his thumb. Before he could catch them all, she threw herself into his arms, careful to hold his gift at a distance so it wouldn’t get crushed. His sturdy frame didn’t budge, though he grunted from the unexpected force of her embrace before he lowered his forehead to rest on hers. She felt him soften like butter sitting on a sun-warmed table, and she smiled into his shoulder as she considered fairy slippers and faith.
When they finally pulled apart, he asked, “Walk with me?”
The nod she gave was for both Zachary and God. She tucked her arm in his, the glass slipper in her hand glinting brightly in the mellow light.
Acknowledgements for Fairy Slippers
To have readers fall in love with your characters—to know you’re not the only one who cares about them—is a precious gift. Rebeka of The Other World blog expressed interest in reading more about Zachary Taylor in her review of Bleeding Heart, so when a writing contest presented an opportunity to write about Zachary in short-story format, I decided to give it a go. Rebeka very kindly cheered me on and shared her thoughts on the first draft, and her encouragement planted the seed for Fairy Slippers. I’m indebted to her and to Anne Elisabeth Stengl, who created the contest that prompted me to write this Cinderella retelling.
Special thanks also go to my proofreader, Rachelle Rea, and my cover designer, Lena Goldfinch. Their nurturing and effort have made these flower stories so much lovelier to look upon, and I’m immensely grateful for them both.
“The Heart’s Spring” Series
Bellflower (Short Story .5—Prequel to Forget Me Not)
Forget Me Not (Book 1)
Bleeding Heart (Book 2)
Fairy Slippers (Short Story 2.5—Packaged with Bellflower; Companion to Bleeding Heart)
Morning Glory (Book 3—Coming Soon)
About the Author
Amber Stokes works as a content writer for a Christian publisher and writes inspirational fiction depicting the seasons of life and love. Her passion for books compelled her to earn a bachelor's degree in English and to run her own freelance editing and publicity business for over a year. Happily, the next step in her career lies in the Pacific Northwest—a part of the world she's always considered home.
She loves to meet new reader and writer friends! You can learn more about Amber’s books at Seasons of a Story Publishing, and you can connect with her on her blog, Seasons of Humility, as well as on Twitter, Pinterest, and Goodreads. You can also drop her a line at [email protected].
If you’d like to learn more about “The Heart’s Spring” series and view extras for these short stories, please visit www.TheHeartsSpringSeries.blogspot.com.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Bellflower: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast
Acknowledgements for Bellflower
Fairy Slippers: A Retelling of Cinderella
Acknowledgements for Fairy Slippers
“The Heart’s Spring” Series
About the Author
