by DiAnn Mills
Wiping her eyes with the back of a hand, she slid her father’s letter from her skirt pocket. Most of the time, her mother kept the letter with her, in her pocket, but she had let her daughter borrow it, and now Brynne stared down at the blackened paper. Her father’s handwriting, like the man itself, bespoke power and determination. He had promised to move heaven and earth to come home to them, but even Richard Carter didn’t possess that kind of strength.
He’d left them in May of ‘62 and hadn’t gotten a letter through until July. In it, he told his family there had been a lot of activity near the Rappahannock River. As his unit continued to push south to block the enemy, it had grown smaller and smaller. “You know that I believe in the truth,” he’d written, “and so I shall never lie about my situation.” He’d closed that letter with a promise to return, too.
They didn’t hear from him again until November of ‘63. This time, he wrote that the fighting had escalated in the area. They were thinking of building a secret weapon, he’d told them. But he hadn’t said what sort of weapon, and since the family hadn’t heard from him again, no one knew if it had been a success. All they were left with was his second promise to come home.
The next letter described his move to Fort Fisher. “The Yanks will never defeat us here,” he had promised. “Not unless they should be foxy enough to come at us both by land and sea. But I believe the Northern generals are not as clever as the Southern.” And then again he had promised, “I promise to be home as soon as I am able.”
If this, his final correspondence, had not been delivered in person by the young sergeant, it would have been easy to believe that maybe Richard could keep his promise. As it was, Trevor’s description of the colonel as he’d last seen him made it only too clear there was little hope her father had survived.
Head in her hands, Brynne sobbed and remembered those last precious moments with her father.
“Why must you go?” she’d demanded. “No one expects it of you, not a man with all your responsibilities…”
“I expect it of me,” he’d said, buckling his haversack. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t do my share to protect what’s mine?”
She’d read newspaper accounts of the fighting that had already taken place. And she’d done her Christian duty, standing among neighbors and friends as they buried sons and brothers and husbands. Brynne wanted no part of any obligation that would have her saying a final farewell to her father! “But Papa,” she’d pressed, “we need you here. Why not leave the fighting to the younger men?”
He’d put both hands on her shoulders and given her a gentle shake. “I realize I seem ancient to you, daughter, but there’s plenty of fight left in me.”
She’d wriggled free of his grasp and stood at the window, hugging herself to fend off the cold chill that had wrapped itself around her. “What if…What will we do if…?”
Resting his chin atop her head, he hugged her from behind. “Nothing is going to happen to me, sweet girl.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” she’d said, facing him. And with the last of her hope, she’d added, “Can you?”
“‘No man is sure of life,’” he quoted from the book of Job. “But you can be sure I’ll do everything in my power to come home.” Drawing her into a comforting embrace, he’d added, “Home is what I’m fighting for, remember?”
Now, Brynne folded the letter and returned it to the worn envelope and resigned herself once more to the inevitable. She had hoped that in coming here, to their special place, she might find reason to share her mother’s optimism.
Here, he’d told her breathtaking stories that simplified the miracles of life. Her favorite was his explanation of how one lonely scrub pine had been able to grow from a fissure in a boulder at the top of the hill.
“Some time ago,” he’d said, “a tiny seed parted from its mother plant and soared through the heavens in God’s palm, searching for a place to rest. From on high, God pointed to a minuscule crevice. ‘There?’ the little seed asked. ‘But Lord, nothing can grow in solid rock!’ And God said, ‘You can grow there, if you believe enough in Me.’
“So the seed coasted to earth on the breath of God, and nestled deep in the darkness of the crook where nothing else had had the courage to go.
“God smiled upon that brave little seed, and because it had trusted so completely in Him, He saw to it there was soil enough, and water enough, and the seed took root and grew, and it survived.”
Though she had always loved the way he told tales, with wonder and awe rumbling in his deep voice, Brynne had never understood its application to her own life. It seemed to her the little pine had endured many hardships by blindly doing as God asked it to do. For one thing, it stood completely alone all these many years, without grass or flowers or another tree to keep it company. And the wicked wind had blown cold for so long that the spindly thing had needles on only one side, and leaned hard toward the rocks, as though seeking shelter from the constant blasts of tempestuous air.
It had been here for as long as Brynne could remember, yet the tree stood barely taller than she, while pines that had rooted in the forest’s loamy soil for half as long had developed trunks as big around as barrel hoops and needly branches that raked the undersides of the clouds.
Well, she told herself, it’s a nice story, all the same. She didn’t have to learn a lesson from every tale he told, did she? And Richard had taught her many valuable lessons here, like how to find her way through a dense forest, where to find drinking water, how to tell which berries and mushrooms were poisonous so she could survive in any locale.
Much to Brynne’s dismay, though, she realized her father had overlooked the most important lesson of all: He hadn’t taught her how to survive the loss of him.
Chapter 6
The community of Spring Creek had finally built themselves a new church building where they could meet to worship God. Clay chose the same seat in the new building every week, hoping that as few people as possible would notice him and his brother.
“Sit front and center,” had been Brynne’s advice, “so Cullen can hear God’s Word, loud and clear!” Third row from the altar, at the end of the pew nearest the stained glass windows was as close to front and center as Clay intended to get.
He found himself daydreaming during the services, a practice that would have earned him a heated scolding from his mother, even at his age, had she lived. Try as he might, he could not focus on the music or the words filtering around the tidy chapel, for just as he had chosen this seat near the wall each week, Brynne found her own favorite spot every Sunday, too: in the pew right in front of his, but in the center, right where he couldn’t help but see her pretty profile.
Like an earthly angel, he thought, smiling inwardly as he watched her sitting there, looking serene and beautiful as she stared ahead, hands folded primly in her lap. Her students, he’d noticed in weeks past, scrambled and shoved for the opportunity to sit beside her. Mary Scott and Sammy Barber had won the contest this week, and though neither child had yet seen a tenth birthday, each sat almost as tall as their teacher.
She moved with the grace and agility of a doe, and something told him that despite her fragile-looking bone structure, Brynne was anything but delicate.
He remembered that day when she’d ridden out to the farm in her dainty two-wheeled buggy to discuss Cullen’s emotional problems. Her diminutive size and stature had given him a powerful urge to wrap her in a protective embrace. When she bounded toward his front door, he couldn’t help but grin, for everything about her, from the smile that lit her eyes like a beacon to the surefooted way she moved, forced him to see her as larger than life.
The congregation rose in unison. “Please turn to page one hundred twenty-one in your hymnals,” the preacher said, nodding to the organist. Smiling, Mrs. Henderson nodded back, leaning hard on the ivory keys as the first melodious strains of song filled the new church.
“Sing praise to our Creator, O son of Adam’s ra
ce,” the parishioners sang.
Clay stood, open hymnal balanced on one palm, head bowed and eyes closed. After years of loss, he had something to sing praise about again, he realized. Brynne’s suggestion that he bring Cullen to church, for starters. Before, the boy barely lifted his chin from his chest. Now, at least, he made eye contact from time to time. He sent a heartfelt “thank You” heavenward.
“God’s children by adoption, baptized into His grace,” the song continued.
He regarded Cullen from the corner of his eye. The boy was staring hard at his songbook. Though he’d turned to the right page, he stood as silent as a statue. Clay sometimes wondered what might be going through his brother’s head. Was he picturing the explosion that killed their parents? That would certainly explain the shadows that so often dulled Cullen’s dark eyes and twisted his face into a tortured scowl.
Granted, it had been a difficult piece of news to hear. Still, despite the slight improvement Cullen had shown, until Brynne had confronted him, Clay’s patience had been wearing thin. After all, Cullen had turned thirteen on his last birthday, older than some of the boys Clay had fought with in the war. They had performed many tasks to assist their older comrades, from handing rifles down the front lines to reloading muskets. They filled canteens and sewed rips in the men’s shirtsleeves. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, their soft angelic voices could be heard in the distance, singing sad old ballads that lulled the tired soldiers to sleep.
“Praise the holy trinity,” the congregation continued, “undivided unity…”
Lovely as it was, the hymn couldn’t begin to compare with those simple tunes created by the youngsters on the battlefield. Those boys had walked side by side with the foot soldiers, straight into the bowels of battle. They’d seen all manner of death and destruction, yet managed to keep their fears at bay as the unit marched toward the next skirmish, and the next.
Clay remembered one in particular. As second lieutenant, Clay had been ordered to report to General Hood’s quarters for a top-secret conclave. The officers were bending over the map table, studying their options, when the youngster barged into the tent and stood at attention. “Dale Allen Jones, reporting for duty,” he’d said in a loud, official-sounding voice. “I can play a fife and drum; I know how to shoot. And I’m an orphan, so it don’t much matter iffen I get back to Chattanooga alive or not.” Looking straight ahead, he’d concluded his little speech with a snappy salute: “Brung my own bedroll and canteen, too.”
It was hard not to be impressed by a boy like that. Tough through and through, he more than made up for his smaller than average height and weight. “All spit and vinegar, that one,” the men often said of Dale. The boy never complained, not when the blisters on his feet bled, not when his flute was destroyed by enemy fire. He didn’t whine when the men who’d become his substitute fathers took direct hits, didn’t cry when they died. Even when a Union cannonball exploded near him, pocking his puny frame with shrapnel, Dale did not whimper. He would have been quite a man, Clay acknowledged, had he survived that last battle….
Dale, like so many boys who did their part for the South, understood that a man couldn’t hide from pain any more than he could hide from himself. Clay had begun to wonder when Cullen would learn that lesson. Did he enjoy the pitying stares and whispers that floated round him everywhere he went? Had he no pride at all?
The voices of his brethren united in a resounding tribute to the Almighty. “Holy God, mighty God, God immortal be adored.”
“Please be seated,” the pastor said. Amid the din of shuffling feet and hymnals dropping into bookrests, the flock sat on the hard wooden pews.
“Bow your heads and ask for God’s blessing,” came Gentry’s booming voice. “He will cleanse you of your sins, if you will only ask Him to.” The preacher raised both arms and closed his eyes. “Does something trouble your heart? Give it to the Lord! Have you done a deed that separates you from His love? Give it to the Lord! Do you harbor a grudge that darkens His light in your soul? Give it to the Lord!”
A hush befell the church as members of the flock searched their hearts and minds for sins to confess. As their murmurs sought God’s ear, Clay’s heart pounded. For while these good people of Spring Creek had been compassionate regarding his brother’s condition, Clay had not. Until Brynne had shared her opinions with him, he had believed that the boy didn’t need sympathy and mollycoddling, but a firm hand. The trouble with Cullen, he’d told himself time and again, is life’s been too easy. He’s a spoiled, weak boy.
“Give it to God!” Pastor Gentry repeated.
I was ashamed of him, Lord, Clay prayed. I thought he should be standing at the crossroads to manhood by now….
He watched as Cullen repeatedly folded and unfolded his hands. Clay shook his head. Lord, how can I help him?
“…give it to your Father in heaven!”
“Give it to the Lord!” the congregation repeated.
I give it to You, Clay prayed, and I beg You…bring Cullen around. Help me to forgive him for his weakness.
“So good to see you,” Pastor Gentry said, smiling and nodding as he greeted each parishioner in turn. “Good morning, Brynne. Don’t you look lovely this morning.”
Blushing, she tucked a flyaway curl under her bonnet. “That was quite a sermon, Reverend. Why, I believe your voice will vibrate in my ears till well past dinnertime!”
“You have a gift for changing the subject,” he said, taking her hand, “but I have one, too. My dear mama called it a stubborn streak.” Patting the hand he held, Gentry leaned close to say, “You make it difficult for me to do my job.”
Her eyebrows drew together in a confused frown as she took back her hand. “Your job? I’m afraid I don’t…”
Chuckling, Gentry grabbed her other hand. “It isn’t easy preaching fire and brimstone when you’re staring into the sweet face of an angel.”
Clay stood at the back of the church, waiting his turn to descend the stone steps. He’d never been overly fond of the hand-shaking ritual that concluded every Sunday service. Today, he found it even harder to bear. Look at him! Why, he’s flirting shamelessly with her, he fumed mentally. Him, a man of God, and here, on the steps of the church!
The conversation between the women in front of him captured Clay’s attention.
“Pastor Gentry is quite a specimen, don’t you think?” the Widow Jenson whispered.
“Mmm-hmm,” her elderly sister agreed. “I’ve always been particularly fond of blond-haired, blue-eyed men.” Winking, she added, “If I were a few years younger…”
The widow giggled. “A few years! Why, Annabelle, you’re old enough to be his great-grandma!”
Her sister sighed. “Well still, I wouldn’t mind a few minutes in Brynne Carter’s shoes right about now.”
A heavyset gray-haired woman barged to the front of the line and shoved Brynne aside. “Pastor Gentry, I am appalled!”
“Ah, Mrs. Anderson,” he purred, ignoring her angry tone, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
The woman tucked in her chins. “If you think you can sweet-talk me the way you sweet-talked her,” she spat, casting a glare in Brynne’s direction, “you’ve got another think coming!”
Gentry bowed slightly. “Can’t have too many ‘thinks,’ I always say.”
“Save your charm for someone who appreciates it,” she snarled. “What sort of preacher carries on so shamelessly in the House of God?”
The pastor drew himself up to his full six-foot height. There wasn’t a trace of a smile on his face when he said, “The sort who’s tired of the bachelor’s life.” He directed his next comment to Brynne. “And if Miss Carter would agree, I’d like nothing better than to escort her to the church picnic next Saturday.”
Mrs. Anderson huffed off without another word as Clay watched Brynne’s cheek flush crimson. It seemed to him she didn’t want to attend the picnic as the preacher’s companion. “I’m afraid Miss Carter is already spoken for,” Clay blurted.
Marching to the front of the line, he pumped the pastor’s arm. “She will be going to the picnic…” He cast a glance in her direction, and nothing could have pleased him more than the relieved smile on her face. “…She’ll be going with me.”
It was the reverend’s turn to blush. “Oh. I, uh, I see.” He tipped an imaginary hat in Brynne’s direction and shot her a disappointed smile, then turned to greet the next person in line.
Clay offered Brynne his elbow and together, they headed down the flagstone walk. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said, grinning up at him, “but I know how you feel about church events, so you needn’t feel obliged to…”
“Obliged?” he broke in, facing her. “Why, I’d be honored.”
If she continued looking up at him, blinking those long-lashed dark eyes and smiling that way, Clay thought he might just be obliged to kiss that very kissable mouth. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you,” he started, “about…”
She walked through the gate. “And I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.”
Clay felt like a schoolboy in the throes of his first mad crush as he stepped along beside her. “Oh? About what?”
“About the wonderful things you’ve done for Spring Creek.” She stopped walking and faced the church. “Just look at what all the scrap wood you donated has created. It’s a lovely church. A wonderful schoolhouse. Better, even, than what we had before. Why, there was enough to build a new home for the pastor.” Brynne met his eyes.
Clay tucked in one corner of his mouth. “The pastor’s house,” he grated, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Gentry. “Maybe I should have been a little less generous.” He met her eyes to say, “But how did you know I donated…” Shrugging, she smiled. “The only person in a small town who knows more than the doctor is the schoolmarm. Children are filled with all sorts of delightful—and personal—facts.” She leaned in close to add, “Billy Donnelly’s pa is…”
