Why couldn’t someone get violently ill, or split their head open? Anything to give him something to do. Not that he really wanted to see anyone hurt, but he’d already straightened his shelves, dusted the jars of tonics and elixirs and remedies, and looked over his inventory of medical supplies. He needed something to do.
He wished he’d never laid eyes on Celia Wilcox.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true—which was the whole problem. Every time he saw her he was sorely tempted to forget his promise to himself to stay away from her. Even at church—especially at church—the memories would appear before his mind’s eye, memories of the Fourth of July dance, the way she felt in his arms, and their kiss. How was he ever going to get her out of his mind? Obviously, she was completely unaffected by him.
Although, remembering the way she reacted to his kisses . . .
No, he mustn’t remember. She had obviously forgotten.
The longer he stayed away from her, the more difficult it became to think on anything but her. He was like a drunk wishing for that next drink, longing for it. Maybe if he could talk to her one more time, let her insult him and tell him she didn’t care for him, he’d start to dislike her. Then he could quit these confounded, Celia-induced delirium tremens.
Truett growled and tossed the journal aside. Sure, he could face down a bunch of armed men and risk his life, but one disagreeable, unpredictable young woman had sent him reeling.
But she wasn’t disagreeable, not really. She had come here, a place she didn’t want to be, to help her family. No, she was vibrant and beautiful and intelligent, with a mind of her own. And yet, he’d seen her be vulnerable and sweet too. There was so much there that he wanted to explore, and he wanted her to want to know him as well.
Truett was tired of these thoughts. He grabbed his hat and coat. A ride to clear his head, some fresh air—that was what he needed.
He burst out the door, heading for the livery to get his horse.
Celia hoed between the rows of purple-hull peas, chopping and leveling the little shoots of green grass that sprouted here and there between the leafy vegetable plants. It had finally rained, which their plants needed, but now the grass was threatening to take over.
She still hadn’t worked up the nerve to talk to Truett, and two weeks had passed since she’d sent the notices to the Huntsville and Nashville newspapers about their farm and horses for sale. Still no response. A week ago, out of desperation, she’d sent the advertisement to a newspaper in Birmingham and one in Decatur, but still nothing. Even though it only cost a few cents to run the ads, especially in the weekly newspapers, she couldn’t keep using up the family’s money on newspaper notices. They were down to their last five dollars. She lay in bed at night, unable to sleep for thinking about their situation. Things were looking desperate. She might have to give up her savings for the family's survival.
Celia slashed at another weed, then grabbed one that was as high as her knee. She tugged until it gave way, its roots snapping and sending her backward a step.
Her breath came fast, but not fast enough to satisfy her lungs. Perhaps it was the humid heat stifling her. She stopped to rest. Leaning on her hoe handle, she wiped her forehead with a handkerchief.
Would she end up as Bethel Springs’s next schoolteacher?
Perhaps it was the heat that made her feel so sick she wondered if her breakfast biscuit would come back up. But the thought of facing a roomful of children of various sizes and ages frightened her more than she cared to admit. Harley and Tempie were handful enough. They were too young to go to school for at least another year. She loved the little twins. They were her brother and sister and she was barely able to handle them. What if she had to teach two dozen Harleys and Tempies? She’d almost rather face a road full of rattlesnakes.
She looked up. Lizzie stood at the edge of the pea patch, pausing in her picking to patiently wipe Tempie’s hands while the child sniffled back her tears. Harley stood nearby, squealing about a toad he had caught.
Celia bit her lip. She loved her family and had come to help Lizzie out of love, but she wasn’t the “cheerful giver” her sister was. Lizzie never complained, but if Celia was completely honest with herself, there was a bit of resentment alongside the love that had made her give up her job in town because her Mama was sitting around grieving herself to death.
Was it right to feel animosity toward her own mother for taking her father’s death so hard? Maybe I’m just not a very good person. All Celia did was fuss and fume. She didn’t even like her own company these days.
Tears stung her eyes. She wanted to cry, to break down and sob out her frustration at feeling trapped, and the shameful realization that she wasn’t the “good” person she always thought she was. Lizzie was sweet and generous and uncomplaining, while Celia was grouchy and ambitious.
She blinked to keep the tears at bay as she scraped at the stubborn green weeds, making miniscule progress down the long row of their garden. What was the use anyway? The grass and weeds would never stop growing, never stop plaguing the garden, fighting and choking the life out of everything.
“Celia! I’ve got the mail!” Will waved a letter in the air from the edge of the back yard.
Perhaps it was good news for a change. She dropped the hoe and ran. Of course it was good news. God would not leave them here, would not make her stay. He’d made a way for her to get back to Nashville.
Will handed her the envelope and she tore it open. She read quickly, her eyes scanning the words. The writer of the letter was a man offering her an amount for the farm based solely on the acreage, but the amount was pitiful. Barely one-fourth the price her father had paid for the farm. The offer wasn’t even enough to pay rent for a decent house for two years, much less buy a house outright.
Celia looked away from Will’s hopeful expression.
Tears pricked her eyes as she clenched the letter in her fist.
“What does it say?” Will stared up at her, his blond hair messy after his ride to town.
She wanted to scream, but tears rose faster and drowned the urge. She placed the wadded letter into Will’s hand and stalked away, her head high, her shoulders straight, hoping no one knew she was about to break into sobs.
When she was out of sight of the house, Celia ran. She ran up the hill to her father’s grave, fell to her knees, and let out her fury in sobs.
“Stupid man. Who does he think we are? That we would take such a paltry sum for the only home we have.” She pounded her fists on the hard ground by Daddy’s headstone until shards of pain shot through her hand. She leaned forward, staring at her father’s grave.
“Why, Daddy? Why did you have to die? I’m so angry.” The sobs started again, shaking her shoulders. They finally stopped and she clenched her fists. “You should never have brought them here. You should never have left us. Now what can we do?”
She looked up at the silent tree branches, tears still dripping from her eyes. She shouldn’t complain, shouldn’t rail at her poor father. It wasn’t as if he’d chosen to die. And it was the utmost foolishness to blame God and accuse Him of not caring. But why was He letting this happen? Her plans of a year ago seemed to have been burned to ashes, all but hopeless. How could things have changed so quickly? God, why?
Her father’s gravestone seemed to mock her, whispering that her mother had wasted the family’s money on the white marble obelisk. She had to get away from it. She didn’t want to see it anymore or think these thoughts.
She scrambled to her feet and began walking, she wasn’t sure where. She walked toward the woods along the ridge, which was mostly covered in grass and pale broom straw, her hatless head absorbing the full heat of the sun.
She made her way down the side of the ridge, toward the trees and the shade. Then she wandered aimlessly through the heavily wooded area. She wasn’t even sure if she was still on her family’s land, or if she’d wandered onto the Beverlys’ wide-ranging acreage. She kept her mind off thoughts she didn’t want to think by conc
entrating on the varying trees and their different-shaped leaves, the wild blackberry vines and their thorns, or the textures of the trees’ bark. Gradually, her heart was soothed and her tears dried, making her skin feel tight.
Celia took deep breaths, inhaling the freshness of nature. Here there was no pungent manure to assault her nose, no children crying or screaming or demanding to be fed or washed or left alone. Here, she didn’t have to see Lizzie working harder than any fourteen-year-old they’d grown up with in their city-bred world, or Will limping on his hurt leg. Here, Mother didn’t sit around looking as if she had abandoned them mentally, emotionally, and for all practical purposes. Here, none of those things left her feeling guilty or sad or desperate.
She lifted a branch and stepped under it. Just then she noticed a dark opening hid in the side of a little hill.
A cave!
She couldn’t remember Will or any of the children mentioning it, perhaps because they were supposed to stay on their own land and not wander onto other people’s property. Did anyone else know about it?
Celia had heard of Indians in the area using caves for storage and shelter. Could there be something interesting inside, some old pottery or perhaps pictures, painted on the walls? She went inside.
The hollow sound of dripping water greeted her. The floor of the cave was solid, but bumpy, its walls rounding up into an arch over her head. Several yards away, light streamed in from above, probably from a hole in the cave ceiling. Cautiously, she proceeded. A few wet spots showed where water continually seeped through the rock walls.
She soon reached the hole in the ceiling. On the floor beneath it were a few sticks and dirt and debris from the outside world. Farther in, the cave narrowed and the ceiling lowered, so that she had to bend down to keep from bumping her head on the rock. Then she came to what seemed like a little round room, and there the cave ended.
As she turned to leave, her eye caught sight of a black bundle lying on the floor, tucked against the wall in the little cavern. She bent over to pick it up. Carrying it closer to the light streaming in through the hole, she realized it was two things. When she lifted them, she gasped..
In one hand she held a black hood, complete with eye holes. In the other, a long black cloak.
The hooded horseman’s disguise.
The longer she stared at them, the more her hands shook. Her first impulse was to throw them down and run away. But she forced herself to take a deep breath.
Perhaps there was a clue as to who owned these things. Maybe they didn’t belong to Truett after all.
She carefully looked over the material, but what was she looking for? It wasn’t as if she would find his name sewn inside. She tried to imagine Truett wearing the hood.
Suddenly, she knew how to find out if it was Truett’s or not. Before she could change her mind, she pressed the hood against her face and breathed in its scent.
The memory of kissing Truett flooded her senses as she inhaled the bergamot and rosemary cologne mixed with the scent that was uniquely his.
She held the hood against her cheek and closed her eyes, breathing in his smell. More images of Truett Beverly floated before her. She could almost feel his arms around her.
“God, please don’t let Sheriff Suggs kill him. Please help me talk to him.” The urge to protect him gripped her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have need of the hood and cloak again. But what if he did? She couldn’t live with herself if something happened to him and she didn’t tell him that he should not be risking his life like this.
She couldn’t be seen with the incriminating items, so she balled them up and left them where she’d found them, then scurried out of the cave to find Truett.
Celia rode toward town on Old Sallie. Her heart beat fast as she contemplated what she was about to do. She’d hardly slept at all last night thinking about what might happen if he rode out again to try to thwart Sheriff’s Suggs’ evil actions. It was only a matter of time before the sheriff would catch him.
If only she didn’t have to face him. Truett must still be angry with her, and she couldn’t blame him. It had been over three weeks since the night of the dance and their kiss. They had both worked hard to avoid each other.
She had to ask him to be careful, but how much should she tell him? Should she be vague and just say he should be careful? That wouldn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t know what she was talking about. She would have to tell him she knew his secret. And to tell his secret, she would have to get him alone, completely alone, where no one else could hear their conversation.
Old Sallie whinnied and bobbed her head up and down. Her own nerves were making the horse nervous.
She had to get the mail anyway, and then she would go to Truett’s office and speak with him. But as she came into sight of Main Street, she saw him helping his mother down from her buggy, with Griff standing nearby.
Now how was she going to speak to Truett privately with his mother around?
She couldn’t avoid them. Mrs. Beverly was already looking up.
“Well, if it isn’t Celia Wilcox!” Mrs. Beverly let Truett place her on her feet.
Truett glanced up, his eyes going wide at the sight of her, then closing for two full seconds.
Celia tried not to dwell on his reaction.
“Mrs. Beverly! How are you today?”
“Oh, I’m very well, you darling thing. Come over here and tell us the news.”
Celia hopped down off her horse before Truett’s mother told him to go help her dismount. She smiled her brightest fake smile at them.
Mrs. Beverly took her hand and held it out, looking her up and down. “My, how pretty you are, Celia!” She gave her son a sly look out of the corner of her eye. “Doesn’t she look pretty, Truett?”
Truett did not smile. “Yes, she looks very pretty.”
A stab of pain pierced her heart at his grudging monotone. But she had to keep her mind on her plan.
“Thank you, Dr. Beverly.” She flashed her smile at him, then turned her attention back to Mrs. Beverly. “How is your garden faring in this hot weather?”
“Oh, honey, it’s wilting like a plucked violet. This July heat is bad, but August is usually worse. But then it’ll be winter before you know it and we’ll all be complaining about the cold.” She laughed and clasped Celia’s hands. “You must come up to the house and see me. I told Lizzie I would show her how to make a pie crust. She says hers never turn out right. And I’ll come over and bring you some of my blackberry dumplings. Truett here says they’re his favorite, the best thing I make.”
Mrs. Beverly’s mouth smiled but her eyes seemed to drill right through Celia, no doubt trying to figure out if Celia cared for her son or was just being heartless. Her cheeks began to burn. Truett scuffed his feet, coughed, and cleared his throat.
Obviously the conversation was over, but Celia was determined to speak to Truett. Since his mother was standing there waiting for her to leave.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beverly.” She spoke quickly while edging away. “You’re very sweet to us. Good day, Mrs. Beverly. Dr. Beverly.”
A frown tugged the corners of his mouth down. She’d displeased him by calling him Dr. Beverly, no doubt. But surely he couldn’t expect her to address him by his first name in front of his mother.
As they started to turn away, Celia had an idea. “Oh, Truett—I mean, Dr. Beverly—Will was wondering if you could come by this evening and help him.” Her face burned hotter at the way he and his mother were looking at her. They must see right through her ruse to get Truett to her house. But I’m only trying to save him!
“Will has been trying to figure out what kind of animal has been stealing the eggs in the henhouse, and last night it killed one of our hens.”
“Probably a possum.” Truett stared back at her.
Celia waited for him to say he would come by, but when the silence stretched a few seconds, she added, “So you’ll come and help Will?”
“Of course.” He nodded, his eyes only a lit
tle less suspicious than before.
He loved Will. He would come for Will’s sake.
“Thank you so much. Will’s been missing you. He’ll be so glad to see you. Good-bye.”
Celia hurried away, her face burning.
She took a deep breath as she tied Old Sallie to the hitching post and walked inside, hoping the postmaster would think her red cheeks were simply from the heat.
An uncomfortable heaviness settled in her chest when she thought about how obvious Truett had made it that he no longer liked her. He probably considered her a cruel flirt. No wonder he didn’t even smile at her. No wonder his mother was trying to read her thoughts, to find out if Celia was going to hurt her son. Again.
She couldn’t stand to think about that.
Celia asked for her mail.
“None today, Miss Wilcox. Sorry.”
She nodded, then turned and walked out. Her disappointment at getting no mail was thrust to the back of her mind as she passed Truett’s office. But his mother was inside. No opportunity to warn him now. She’d have to try again tonight.
Chapter 18
Truett arrived after supper. He didn’t come inside, only came to the back door and asked for Will. Will ran out and they walked around the back yard in the fading light.
Celia watched them out the back window, trying to wash up the supper dishes. Truett and Will talked, walking around the henhouse, disappearing from sight for several minutes at a time.
All right, I’ve got him here, God. Now how am I going to get him alone to talk to him? Somehow she had to get him in the house, or on the front porch. No, the front porch might remind him of their kiss. He’d really wonder what she was up to. First she kisses him, then she tells him he can’t court her, then she avoids him for weeks, now she wants to talk to him alone?
He’d think she had lost her mind, or worse, that she was a tease. And that was the last thing she’d ever wanted to be known as.
But she had to speak to him. She had to convince him there were other ways to make sure the sheriff didn’t hurt innocent people. There had to be a way, a due process of the judicial system that would force the sheriff to uphold the law and not break it. She had to convince Truett that what he was doing was foolish and was going to get him killed.
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