“Very well.”
“I was wounded. I managed to slip on a Federal coat in order to disguise myself.”
Lydia gasped, but he held up a hand. She let him continue.
“A nurse found me and took me inside the hospital, even though she suspected my ruse. If not for her, I probably would not have survived.”
Lydia placed her hand on her throat. “And she returned with you to care for you?” Who was this woman? Did she have intentions with her husband?
Charles cupped her face as if reading her thoughts. “She was in trouble. When I found a way to escape, I knew she had to come with me. I had to save her as she saved me. I could not let that poor girl travel on her own. I told her I would bring her home to my wife, who I was certain would care for her.”
“Of course.” She placed a kiss on his lips. “Where is she?”
Charles gave her a squeeze and stepped inside the house. He returned with a girl in a ragged dress that hung from her gaunt frame, a swath of cloth twisted around her head, its long tail falling down over one shoulder. She glanced around the gathering, and her mouth formed a little O.
Ruth’s scream pierced the silence.
Ruth’s heart pounded in her chest. Noah grabbed her shoulders, but she shook him free. Chills ran down her spine. She was seeing a ghost.
A ghost, there on the porch.
She picked up her skirts and ran up the steps, pushing past the confused faces of the Harpers. Her breaths came in rapid succession.
Alive.
She reached out a trembling hand, afraid the ghost would disappear under her touch. Her fingers touched the warm skin of a face she had thought she’d never see again.
“You’s alive!”
Bridget nodded, choking on words that Ruth could not understand. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the living miracle that stood in front of her.
Ruth wrapped her sister in her arms, and they sank to the ground in a heap of fabric and tears. When Ruth could breathe again, she held Bridget out away from her.
“How? I saw him… I saw….” Her voice cracked, and she could not push the words past the lump in her throat.
Bridget shook her head. “I know. I’m so sorry. He went out in the woods, and I followed him. I done found a shovel and thought I could knock him in the head and then get everyone untied. I thought I could save us.”
Ruth glanced up at Lydia, who stood wrapped in Charles’ arm and staring down at them with wide eyes. Ruth stood up and pulled Bridget to her feet.
“You was so brave,” Ruth said.
Bridget wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the Harpers with worried eyes. Ruth rubbed Bridget’s back. “It’s safe here.”
Bridget looked at Mr. Harper, and a strange expression crossed her face. It was something closer to trust than Ruth had ever expected Bridget to show a white man. He nodded to her.
The people gathered close, pulling in to see who this strange girl was who had caused such a stir. Noah pushed past them and stood beside Ruth, worry in his eyes. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. There would be much she would have to share.
Bridget drew a long breath. “So I followed him into them woods. But he heard me before I could get a good swing on him. He musta hit me pretty good, because when I woke up I had this cut on my head. I think he thought I was dead.” She reached up and touched a scar that ran from underneath her scarf and down the side of her temple.
She shrugged. “I didn’t know where anyone was. Everyone was done gone when I made it back to the camp.”
“How’d you make it out there on your own?” Ruth asked.
“I only had to walk for one day before I found a camp of Union soldiers. They was in pretty bad shape. I showed ’em how to bandage a wound right, and they kept me. I went with them up to they hospital and worked there.”
“God done brought us miracles today,” Ruth said. She squeezed Noah’s hand. “He done brought me my family.”
Bridget nodded. “I saw Byram come to the hospital. I had to run. Mr. Harper took me with him.”
The people all looked at Mr. Harper with wonder. He gave a small shrug.
Tears streamed down Ruth’s cheeks, and laughter bubbled up within her. She looked at Noah. “Noah, this here is my sister. Bridget, Noah is my husband.”
Bridget’s eyes flew wide. “Husband?”
She grinned. “Yep. You just missed it. That’s why I’m in this here fancy dress.”
Everyone laughed.
“Speaking of dresses,” Lydia said. “I think I have just the right one for Bridget. Green would suit her nicely. Don’t you think so, Ruth?”
Bridget turned her big eyes on Ruth, and Ruth laughed. “There’s a lot you is gonna have to learn about Ironwood.”
She grabbed Bridget with one hand and reached her other out to Lydia. “If you’d not saved me that day, I wouldn’t be here now to see my heart done made whole again.”
A tear slid from Lydia’s eye. “It’s I who should thank you. You’ve saved me more than I ever did you.”
Charles chuckled. “The Lord works in some strange ways. It would seem we all needed saving in one way or another.”
The wind picked up and blew across a new Ironwood, one ready for the changes that would come, her people strengthened for the challenges ahead. Mr. Harper wrapped his arm around Lydia, and she smiled up at him, a different woman than the one he’d left.
Ruth drew Bridget close and led her into the house behind the Harpers, her new husband on her heels.
Ruth knew there would be plenty of hard times to come. War still raged beyond their lands, and the future remained uncertain. But they would make their way, a people brought together by hope.
Today, they would dance and forget all that separated them. They would whistle the tune of new life, new hope, and a new Ironwood.
Ironwood
March 15, 1865
“Mista Harper! Mista Harper!” Ruth bounded down the stairs as quickly as her swollen belly would allow. Betsy said she was only days away from the birthing, but she had to be here for Lydia today.
They said white ladies had a hard time birthing children. She’d seen the truth in that today. Lydia was too small for the babe that grew in her. But Lydia didn’t seem to know she wasn’t supposed to be strong enough. They’d all feared she wouldn’t make it. But Ruth knew Lydia possessed a strength beneath the surface that the rest of them would never fully know.
“Ruth!”
Mr. Harper paced the floor at the bottom of the stairs, no doubt overcome with his nerves. He’d made it in from his regiment a scant few hours ago, and his wife’s wails had torn through Ironwood for near on two hours now. Twice, he’d nearly broken down the door to get to her, and both times Betsy had shoved him from the room.
Ruth stopped and grinned at him, her hand drifting to her lower back to rub at the muscles that always seemed to be sore. “You can go up now.”
“And the babe?” He grasped her shoulders and looked like he might shake her.
“They’s both doing just fine.”
He let out a long breath and dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time she made it back up to the room, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed with the tiny bundle in his arms. He beamed down at his wife.
Lydia laughed, her wet hair plastered to her face from the pain of bringing new life into the world. Pain that now seemed forgotten. The babe in Ruth’s own belly put its feet against her ribs and pushed, nearly stealing her breath. It wouldn’t wait much longer to join them.
“Since you have yet to ask, I have brought forth a son.”
Mr. Harper looked up from the tiny face with surprise as if he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten something so important. “A son,” he repeated, staring back down into the tiny face. “So you were right that it would be a boy.”
“We should name him Robert, after your father.”
Mr. Harper grinned like a boy who had just gotten a stick of hard can
dy. “Welcome to Ironwood, Robert. We hope you like your new home here.”
Ruth settled her hand on her stomach and watched the new little family, the peace in her heart growing. If this little boy grew up with a heart like his momma, well, then the rest of the world better go on and get ready. The Harpers of Ironwood brought change. They forged their own paths and made their own ways. They were a people of convictions and dreams and hopes that reached past their time. Like the ironwood trees that grew wild all over this land, they were stronger than they seemed—and this would forever be their home.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed the first story of Ironwood. I’d love for you to take a few moments and leave a review online. It means the world to an author to get feedback from readers, and having readers share about my books helps me keep putting stories out.
If you are reading this novel for a book club, you’ll find reader questions on the next page.
After that, stick around for a few more pages to meet Emily in an excerpt from book two, Heir of Hope. Emily grew up an orphan, so she never expected to inherit Ironwood Plantation. When she discovers an old diary hidden in the attic, her life becomes entwined with her Civil War ancestor. Soon Emily begins to wonder how a woman long dead can keep showing up in her dreams…
Happy Reading!
Books by Stephenia H. McGee
Ironwood Plantation Family Saga
The Whistle Walk
Heir of Hope
The Liberator Series (A Trilogy)
Leveraging Lincoln
Losing Lincoln
Labeling Lincoln
Stand Alone Titles
In His Eyes
www.StepheniaMcGee.com
Sign up for my newsletter to be the first to see new cover reveals and be notified of release dates
1. Lydia is nervous about her wedding and leaving her home. In the first chapter of the book, we see her hiding in the barn and acting like a child. Why do you think she has such a difficult time with the concept of “becoming a lady of her own home?”
2. Ruth and her sister Bridget are responsible for the fire that ultimately destroys their home and their family. Why do you think they may have taken such a risk by stealing flour, and how do you think the tragedy affected Ruth throughout the story?
3. In the first part of the book, you are introduced to two very different ways of life in the old South. How do Lydia’s and Ruth’s perspectives compare and contrast? While there are obvious differences in lifestyle, do you find any similarities in the way they think and act?
4. Ruth struggles with the pain in her past, yet tries to hold firm to her faith. How do you think this attitude bleeds into her everyday life and service at Ironwood?
5. Lydia discovers she has more in common with the people she had always been taught were beneath her than she ever thought possible. After Lydia and Ruth share their painful pasts, how do you think this may have altered how they saw each other?
6. Lydia believes she may have killed a man. How do you think this affects her? Do you think Charles’s reaction to the incident and his acceptance after she shares her past play a part in her turning to God?
7. Ruth begins addressing Lydia as “Mrs. Harper”, then “Miss Lydia”, and finally simply as “Lydia”. When and why do you think these changes occur?
8. Ruth is torn between her love for Noah (and the hope of finding a good man to share her life with) and staying with Lydia. Why do you think she chooses to stay instead of run with the other slaves?
9. Lydia decides to free the slaves of Ironwood. What do you think it would be like for a woman during this time to make such a bold declaration? How do you think Lydia may have felt as she stood on the balcony looking over all the people of Ironwood?
10. When Ironwood becomes occupied by the Union army, things change drastically for Lydia and Ruth. How are some of their roles altered? Do you think these changes will affect life at Ironwood going forward?
11. Did you find any symbolism in the story? What do you think Ironwood came to represent to its people?
12. Were there any parts of the story that you could relate to? Did you find anything in Lydia and Ruth’s story that mirrors struggles women still deal with today?
Excerpt: Heir of Hope
My name is Emily Burns, and this is the story I never intended to write.
Back when my life made sense, I dreamed of being the next breakout novelist. But this isn’t the masterpiece I visualized presenting to publishers. Nonetheless, perhaps if I put it on paper it will stop burning in my mind and cease pushing its way into my dreams.
Maybe if I get it out I will finally have some peace.
So, where to start? When writing fiction, they say the proper thing to do is to drop the reader somewhere in the middle of the action and let them figure out what’s going on. That’s called a hook. Well, since this isn’t fiction, I’m going to commit a cardinal sin and do something entirely different. I’m going to start at the beginning – the time at which my very predictable, ordinary life got turned upside-down.
It began just one day after I first ventured south of the Mason-Dixon Line, at the start of a relaxing retreat full of writing and the long anticipated chance to start my novel. That’s where life handed me something far more interesting than even my overactive imagination could have produced.
My thirtieth birthday found me alone, overworked, and generally fed up with my life, and I needed out. No more excuses. Time to get serious about that book. So despite my boss’s protests, I cashed in my vacation time and packed my bags for two gloriously free weeks.
Fast-forward a few phone calls and a short flight later, and I’d settled into a remote cabin nestled in the towering pines blanketing the northern Georgia mountains. I’ve always loved the mountains. I still remember camping once when I was a kid. That summer held the last good memories of my parents. Anyway, I’d taken the first step and gone to a happy place. Then came the most important of all moments in writing: starting.
I stared at my computer for a good twenty minutes before I took a break and checked e-mail, played games, and posted results to stupid quizzes on Facebook. Okay, so maybe the cabin wasn’t that remote. But, I couldn’t get too far from civilization, because, seriously, every writer needs the Internet. You know, for research.
I took a deep breath. Time to get to work. Put the proverbial pen to page, or, rather, fingers to keyboard. The blank page stared back at me. I drummed my fingers and narrowed my eyes at the flashing cursor’s impatience. I’d taken three classes and read all kinds of How To Write and Sell Your Novel books. I could spout all the rules on point of view, creating tension, and developing plot. I knew the fundamentals. How, after all that, could my computer screen still be blank?
Nevertheless, there I was, angrily tapping the backspace key because yet another opening line just wasn’t enough of a “zinger” to make me the next best-seller. And then the doorbell rang.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t – pardon my cliché – make me jump out of my skin. Even people without friends expect to hear the familiar ding-dong once in a while. There’s always the UPS man, Girl Scout, or political activist to account for. But, here in my rustic paradise, I didn’t think I even had a doorbell.
I cracked the door open and peered out. A round-faced, bespectacled man in a grey suit stood on the porch. He smiled warmly. I eyed him suspiciously, mentally shifting through any of the cabin’s contents that might serve as a weapon. He looked harmless enough, but a woman alone in the woods could never be too sure.
“Miss Emily Burns?” The man’s thick Southern drawl coated each word in a sticky layer of gentlemanly charm.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been looking for you. You’re not an easy woman to find.” He lifted a hefty manila envelope.
I recoiled behind the door, ready to slam it in his face.
He took a step back. “Forgive me. My name is Buford Cornwall, and I am a lawyer from Itawamba County, Mississippi. I�
�m here to talk to you about your estate.”
I eased the door open farther but still kept my hand on the knob. “Ita-what-a?” I looked at him as if he’d just escaped his padded cell. “Estate?”
“It-uh-whum-buh,” he drawled out, “and I’m here to talk to you about the estate your great-aunt left to you.”
“You’ve got to be mistaken,” I said, knowing this poor fellow had trudged through the red dirt in his tasseled loafers for nothing. I wasn’t the kind of gal to have any sort of estate.
“No, no. I’m quite certain. Took me quite a bit of research, but I tracked you all the way through the child welfare system. Then, wouldn’t you know it, found you on Google.”
I frowned. Good old Google. Who needed private investigators anymore, when anyone could be hunted down on the Internet? “Well, Mr., uh…”
“Cornwall. Buford D. Cornwall. But, you can just call me Buford.”
“Right. Mr. Cornwall, maybe we’d better talk about whatever it is you’ve got in that folder.” I studied him a moment longer, until my curiosity overpowered my cynicism, and then stepped back from the door, allowing him entrance to the one-bedroom cabin I hadn’t bothered to clean. I eyed the dirty dishes in the sink, hoping he didn’t notice the pried-open soup can still sitting on the counter.
He hustled in without hesitation and let the bulk of his frame settle into one of two wooden chairs at the small table that served as both a dining space and my writing desk. It protested with a slight groaning sound. I fought the urge to do the same.
Shuffling my papers around as if they were something important, I gave myself a moment to collect my thoughts. My parents died when I was ten. My father grew up in the system. My mother never knew her father, and her mother died of cancer when Momma was twenty-three. I had no relatives. I know, because surely one of my three social workers would have diligently looked for some before dumping me into New Jersey child services.
The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1) Page 30
