by DiAnn Mills
Edward had always been proud and stubborn. Why, even as a boy, he felt duty-bound to outlift, outrun, and outshoot every other boy in town. Everything was a game, everyone a competitor. No one was surprised then, when within a week of his return, Edward began hobbling about on the crude wooden crutches the army sent home with him. She’d been so proud of the way he refused to be pitied and insisted upon trying to do his share around Moorewood. By mid-January, his grit paid off, for the gnarled stump that had been his leg had healed enough to strap on the peg he’d whittled for himself. Seeing his drive and determination dwindle each time the prosthesis slipped and caused him to fall nearly broke Brynne’s heart. But it had given her a drive and determination of her own….
Late one night, after everyone had gone to bed, she tiptoed into the room he shared with Julia and took the peg from where it leaned near the door. Sitting at the kitchen table, she’d turned it over and over in her hands, trying to puzzle out a way to connect it to a brace, a holster…something that would secure it to Edward’s body.
The idea struck like lightning, and Brynne had barely been able to contain her excitement. She’d lit a lantern and headed for the shed, where her father had kept an old leather wagon tarp.
Night after night, Brynne worked by lamplight, sewing straps to the body of the brace. Day after day, someone demanded an explanation for her swollen bloodied fingers. She couldn’t very well tell them she’d done the damage trying to drive the needle through the deerskin, lest one of them let the cat out of the bag and spoil Edward’s surprise. “I’m trying to get the blackberry hedges under control so we’ll have a hearty crop next summer,” she’d say, smiling as she hid her aching hands behind her back. She was working on the blackberry hedges during the day, but that wasn’t what was turning her fingers red and sore.
And then one night, after three weeks of secret struggling, Brynne completed the brace. The sky turned the deep purple shade that signalled the dawn as she added the padded liner that would protect Edward’s scarred stump from the hard wood. She’d slipped the peg and its brand-new brace into Edward and Julia’s room, thanking God he’d never noticed it was missing, and then Brynne returned to the kitchen to wait…and pray the brace would fit.
It did, Brynne discovered just after sunup. She’d been at the stove, tending the biscuits she’d baked, when she heard an unfamiliar sound. The step-slide-clomp, step-slide-clomp began at the front stairs and echoed down the hall.
Edward thumped into the kitchen, beaming. “When did you do this?” he’d asked, his voice foggy with emotion. “How did you do this?” Wiggling his brows, he smirked wickedly. “I’m stumped, sister dear!”
It had been good to see him standing there on his own, grinning like his old self, with no crutches to support him. So good that Brynne couldn’t answer. Instead, she’d covered her face with both hands and wept softly.
He’d limped over to where she stood and took her in his arms. “Brynne, Brynne, Brynne,” Edward had sighed, stroking her hair. “I know why you’re such a good teacher—because I’ve never known a gentler, more kindhearted woman.” There had been tears in his own dark eyes when he’d held her at arm’s length to add in a raspy whisper, “I haven’t felt much like a man since I got home…till this morning.” He’d kissed her forehead. “Thank you, Brynne. And God bless you.”
She watched him now, moving about at almost his old speed, and smiled ruefully. When he’d walked into the room, she’d tried to sidestep his question, but she had seen the telltale eyebrow arch that was proof her quick change of subject hadn’t fooled him in the least.
She wondered how long he’d wait before demanding an answer to his question. Wondered, too, how she’d phrase her response.
Ah, to be a child again, she thought, sighing, like Richie, and never have to worry about protecting others from bad news, always able to believe in happy endings.
Because right now, she’d give anything, just about anything, to believe that her father was still alive.
Chapter 3
March 1865
Cullen Adams, this is the third time in a week you’ve come to school late,” Brynne scolded gently. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
She didn’t expect the boy to respond, for Cullen hadn’t said a word since his parents died in a Yankee raid on Petersburg. Why Clay, his older brother, made the child come to school at all seemed as big a mystery to Brynne as Cullen’s silence. If sitting in her makeshift classroom all these months had made a difference in his behavior, Brynne would have been the first to insist that he attend. But he sat alone in the last row, staring blankly ahead, never speaking, barely moving. It was time to discuss the matter with his brother.
First thing next morning, she set out to do just that.
Brynne had heard much about Clay Adams, but though she had seen him around town, she hadn’t exchanged more than polite nods with the somber-faced man. Once, in response to something Buster the postmaster said, she’d seen Clay smile. Until that moment, she’d guessed his age to be thirty or thirty-five—but the smile had so completely transformed his face, that she decided he was closer to twenty-five after all.
She felt a strange interest in this man who was now the guardian of her silent student, an interest that had first begun to grow when she had talked with his parents about him. The Adamses had moved to Spring Creek from Louisiana in the summer of ‘59, and as their younger son’s teacher, Brynne had had occasion to talk with the parents, first at school functions and then at numerous church gatherings. Ernest and Claudia had been so proud of their eldest son who was attending a Boston college. When he graduated, they said, he planned to put his education to use improving their tobacco plantation.
The war killed the plans of thousands like the Adamses. Clay, his mother tearfully told Brynne one Sunday morning, felt duty bound to defend his beloved South and had enlisted in the Confederate Army the moment he heard about what had taken place in South Carolina. He fought long and hard…until an injury suffered during the Franklin-Nashville Campaign in November of ‘64 sent him home, just weeks before his parents became victims of the slaughter in Petersburg. The war had put a heavy hand on Clay’s family, just as it had on Brynne’s. Maybe that was why she felt this strange sense of kinship with him….
Since childhood, Brynne had made a hobby of tracing the meaning of folks’ names. Her own meant “the heights,” a fine name for a girl with her head in the clouds, Brynne told herself, but not at all appropriate for a young woman like herself, with both feet planted firmly on solid ground.
Clay’s name meant “of the earth.” Now there’s a name, she’d told herself, that fits like a comfortable shoe. He stood tall and broad as a mighty oak, with hair the color of acorns and eyes as blue as a summer sky, and he looked as though his feet, like hers, were planted solidly on the earth. She just wished that one day she could see him smile again….
As she guided her two-wheeled buggy over the bumpy road toward Adams’ Hill, Brynne wondered how he would react when she told him to keep his brother home from school. The time, she’d say, would allow the boy to heal privately from his emotional wounds. Would Clay be the kind of man who’d understand that her idea had been born of concern for his brother—or the type who’d tell her to mind her own business?
She pictured the determined set of his jaw and the deep furrow that lined his brow. “I have a feeling he’ll be a bit of both,” she told herself.
He’d been so engrossed in repairing the pasture fence that Clay never heard the buggy’s approach. When he finally caught sight of it from the corner of his eye, he nearly hammered his thumb. Cullen’s teacher, he acknowledged, grimacing as he drew a sleeve across his perspiring brow. If she had come this early on a Saturday, it couldn’t be good news that brought her.
Jamming the hammer handle into the back pocket of his trousers, Clay tucked in his shirt as she smiled and waved in friendly greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Adams,” she called, bringing the buggy to a halt at the
end of the drive. “My, but you’re up and at it early.”
He cocked one dark brow and tucked in a corner of his mustachioed mouth. “What can I do for you?”
He winced with guilt at the startled expression his gruff tone had etched on her pretty face, but thankfully she recovered quickly. Wrapping the horse’s reins around her left hand, the pretty young teacher adjusted the bow of her wide-brimmed hat. “I need to speak with you about your brother,” she said, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin.
He’d been casually leaning on the fencepost, but now he straightened in response to her statement. “What about him?” Clay crossed both arms over his chest. “He givin’ you some sort of trouble?”
She blinked several times, as if trying to read the reason for the anger in his voice. “Quite the contrary. Cullen is the best-behaved boy in class.” Pursing her lips, she added, “Trouble is, he isn’t learning a thing.”
“That’s impossible,” he grated, shaking his head. “I see to it he does his lessons, every night after supper.”
She raised a brow in response to the heat of his words, then leaned forward slightly to say, “I realize this visit is impromptu, Mr. Adams, but…”
He watched as she bit her full lower lip and tilted her head. I like a woman who thinks before she speaks, he thought, hiding a smirk. It’s a right rare commodity these days.
“I seem to have completely forgotten my manners,” she said, holding out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve ever been properly introduced. I’m Brynne Carter, Mr. Adams.”
Frowning, he focused on the tiny, lace-covered hand for a moment. He tried to shake off the gentle feeling growing inside him toward her. She’s just more of what I’ve had too much of lately…trouble, he told himself. “I know who you are,” he growled, meeting her eyes. “What do you take me for, some kind of simpleton? Spring Creek has but one teacher.”
When she realized he had no intention of taking her hand, she made a fist of it, then rested it on her hip. After a moment of intense scrutiny, she climbed down from the buggy seat and tethered her horse to the post Clay had just repaired. Tapping a fingertip to her chin, she gave his dusty work boots a cursory glance. “It appears you’re putting most of your weight on your right foot, Mr. Adams.” She met his eyes. “Would you mind very much shifting it to your left?”
Clay’s brow wrinkled with confusion. He hadn’t moved a step. How could she have noticed his limp? He looked at his feet, then focused on her face. “What?”
Mischievous light danced in her dark eyes. “It’s the most sensible thing to do, since we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“The wrong…” When understanding dawned, Clay chuckled softly and shook his head. Extending his own hand, he said, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Carter.”
The power of her grip amazed him even more than the way her hand all but disappeared in his. And the way she stood there, blinking up at him, made his heart lurch. The sunlight glinting on her hair reminded him of ripe chestnuts.
Clay’s ears had grown hot. His cheeks, too. He turned her hand loose and tried to recall why she’d come here in the first place. “Now, tell me about this trouble Cullen is giving you.”
She glanced toward the house. “Where is he?”
“In the barn, mucking out stalls. Why?”
Brynne untethered her horse and climbed back onto the buggy seat. “I don’t think he should overhear our conversation.” Pausing, she swung her gaze to his eyes. “Do you suppose we might go on up to the house?”
“You’re not a woman who beats around the bush, are you?” he asked, grinning slightly.
Brynne grinned right back. “I find bush beating a terrible waste of time…and unnecessarily hard on the shrubbery.” Smiling, she patted the seat beside her. “You’re more than welcome to drive,” she added, offering him the reins.
He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Well,” he grumbled, “I reckon the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I’ll be able to get back to work.” Clay climbed up beside her and relieved her of the reins. He didn’t say another word until he parked near the front porch. Neither did Brynne, and something told Clay this was not typical behavior for the lovely little teacher.
Though he’d stared straight ahead as they made the ten-minute trip from the road to the house, he could see from the corner of his eye her every reaction to the sights around her. As they rode over the narrow drive that curved like a gently flowing river of crushed stone, her eyes had widened. A little smile curved her lips as they passed beneath stately magnolias that lined the entire length of the drive.
He’d had the same eye-popping reaction the first time he’d seen the big house, with its black-shuttered, many-paned windows that offset wide double doors on the first floor. A dozen red brick steps led from the drive to the massive portico. Tall columns supported either side of the porch roof, crowned by a second, equally grand porch, enclosed by a white picket rail.
A sense of well-being had wrapped ‘round him like a mother’s hug the first time he caught sight of those four imposing chimneys, silhouetted against the blue, sun-bright sky. And the two gigantic oaks that flanked the porch. And that sea of velvety white crocuses…
“White crocuses,” she sighed. “They’re my mother’s favorite flowers.” Brynne turned a bit on the buggy seat to face him. “How did you avoid the Yankee raids here at Adams’ Hill?” she asked, incredulous. “Why, they completely burned the Smiths out. And it’ll likely take us years to repair the damage they did at Moorewood.”
Clay shrugged. “Don’t rightly know,” he admitted, stepping down from the buggy.
She was watching him, he knew, and making note of his limp. Dear God, he prayed, don’t let her feel sorry for me. I can take just about anything from her but that. Just in case pity was shining in her eyes, he avoided her gaze as he reached up to help her from the buggy.
But Brynne wasn’t having any of that! “Mr. Adams,” she said brightly, forcing him to look at her, “you are a true gentleman indeed.”
He didn’t see a trace of pity on her face, which only made her all the more beautiful to him. He clamped his hands around her waist—a waist tinier than any he’d ever seen—to lift her from the seat.
“Now, don’t strain yourself, Mr. Adams.”
He bristled for a moment, but the gentle look on her face told him her comment hadn’t been motivated by pity. “Why, I’ve hefted sacks of wheat and corn that weigh more than you, Miss Carter,” he said, putting her gently onto the ground. She seemed so small, so vulnerable. And yet, if all he’d heard about her in town was true, she’d more or less single-handedly run Moorewood while her father and brother were fighting. Suddenly, Clay didn’t want to let her go. He wanted, instead, to draw her close and wrap her in a protective hug.
“Forgive my boldness, Mr. Adams, but do you have anything warm to drink inside? I know the sun is shining bright as can be, but I’m afraid I’ve caught a bit of a chill….”
The question broke the trancelike connection that had fused his eyes to hers. He quickly unhanded her, and with a grand, sweeping gesture, invited her to precede him into the house. If he led the way, she’d have to walk behind him and watch him shuffle along like a three-legged dog. “Could be there’s some coffee left from breakfast,” he said.
She lifted her skirts and dashed up the stairs. “That’ll be just fine.” She stopped suddenly and faced the barn. “You’re sure Cullen won’t overhear?”
Clay held open the front door. “Not if we get this matter settled before sunset.” Brynne pursed her lips. “Well,” she huffed, smiling only with her eyes, “you’re not one to beat around the bush either, are you, Mr. Adams?” And with that, she breezed past him and into the house.
“Do you mind talking in the kitchen?” he asked, closing the door behind them.
“The kitchen is my favorite room at Moorewood.” She leaned forward as if telling state secrets. “Kitchens are the coziest rooms in any house,
where people can gather around the table and have a companionable conversation and…”
If he had to stand there and listen to her chatter like a magpie for another minute, he was likely to sweep her off those tiny feet and give her a big kiss, just to shut her up. Clay grinned and quirked a brow. Not such a bad thought, he told himself.
“…the very best place to discuss the day’s events. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, yes,” he agreed, though he hadn’t the foggiest idea what she’d been babbling about. “The kitchen’s right down that hall.”
She headed in the direction he’d pointed and helped herself to a white mug from the shelf above the cookstove. She hadn’t even taken her gloves off yet when she touched a palm to the coffeepot. “Good. It’s still warm.” And as though she were the lady of the house rather than the guest, Brynne smiled. “May I pour you a cup?”
Clay had to admit she looked lovely standing there at the stove, his mother’s coffeepot in one hand, his father’s favorite cup in the other. More than that, she looked as if she belonged. He shook his head to clear his mind. “I, uh, I’d just as soon get down to business, if you don’t mind.” He nodded toward the yard, visible through the window beside her. “There’s that fence to finish repairin’, and…”
“Then I suggest we sit,” she broke in, settling herself in a ladder-backed chair. Brynne placed her mug on the table and wrapped her hands around it. “Tell me, Mr. Adams, how long since Cullen has spoken?”
Clay turned his chair around and sat across from her, leaning both arms across the seat back. “My folks were killed in Petersburg in December,” he said matter-of-factly. “When I told Cullen about it, he said, ‘You’re lyin’. Ain’t no way they’re dead!’ “Clay frowned, linked his fingers. “Then his eyes filled up with tears and he ran out to the barn.” He met her eyes. “Hasn’t said a word since.”
