by DiAnn Mills
“…the fellow who designed the buildings,” he finished, shaking his head incredulously. Clay heaved a sigh. And grinning, he said, “Well, I’m glad you let me in on your secret. It’s a good thing to know if a man aims to be, uh, friends with the teacher.”
She crossed both arms over her chest and tapped one foot. “Go ahead. You may as well confess the rest.”
“Confess?” Clay’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “The rest?”
Rolling her eyes with feigned exasperation, Brynne began counting on her fingers all she knew about him. “You not only donated the wood from the outbuildings on your property, you handed over windowpanes and hardware as well. And,” she said with a tilt of her head, “you did quite a bit of the work yourself.”
He was certain his cheeks were redder even than Gentry’s had been moments ago. Clay took her hand and led her away from the church and didn’t stop until they were shrouded by the low-hanging branches of a weeping willow tree. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you.”
“Cullen’s doing quite well, don’t you think?” she injected.
He waved the comment away. “Mmm. Yes. A little better.” He looked at her distractedly, then blurted, “I dreamt of you last night.”
A small gasp escaped her lips as her eyes widened. Pressing a hand to her bosom, she glossed over his comment. “Did you see the A-plus Cullen got on his last arithmetic test? And did you know that I saw him following along as one of the other students read a passage out loud,” she rattled, “his finger underlining every word in his history book. He was even moving his lips! And—”
Clay grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. “I’m glad Cullen has finally decided to come out of his confounded self-induced, self-pitying trance. It’s high time he started behaving like a man, if you ask me,” he said through clenched teeth. “But—”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him, Clay. He’s barely more than a boy.”
Boy, my foot! he wanted to counter. But then he remembered what he had prayed during church, and he felt his impatience being washed away as he looked at her. The way she stood there, hands pressed against his chest and trusting eyes searching his face, made his heart beat fast.
Clay was a man who never did anything without first devising a careful plan. He hadn’t planned what he might say if he got her alone. Hadn’t planned to get her alone! But now that he had, he wouldn’t let opportunity slip by.
“Brynne,” he rasped, “have you any idea what a difference you’ve made in—”
“Helping Cullen was just part of my job,” she interrupted.
Clay smiled as his hands slid slowly from her shoulders to cup her cheeks. “And what about the difference you’ve made in my life? Is that part of your job, too?”
“Your life?” Her lips parted with surprise as Brynne glanced left, then right. “I suppose…I guess…It’s only natural,” she stammered, “that any positive effect I’ve had on Cullen would also…”
His thumbs followed the contours of her jaw. “The effect you’ve had on me has very little to do with what you’ve done for my brother,” he grated. “I’ve been watching you, almost from the moment I limped back from the war, and—”
“How did it happen?” she interrupted, straightening his tie with a wifely nonchalance that made his face burn.
“How did what happen?” he asked, confused.
“Your wound of course.”
“Mortar shell.” Clay shrugged one shoulder. “Blew a chunk of my thigh away.” He searched her face for any trace of sympathy.
As though she could read his mind, she lifted one brow and grinned. “Well you’ll get no pity from me, Mr. Adams.” Nodding at his injured leg, she added, “Your leg got you here, alone with me under this tree, didn’t it?”
“That it did,” he said, smiling.
Still grinning, she put a hand on a hip and narrowed one eye. “Exactly why did you bring me…?”
Brynne never finished her question, for her words were swallowed up by Clay’s insistent kiss.
Chapter 7
August 12, 1865
To the Carter Family
Spring Creek, Virginia
When I left your warmth and hospitality, I promised to find out what I could about the Colonel.
Well, I met a man who spent some time in the camp where they took the Colonel. He says he never met anyone name of Richard Carter. Could be he never heard of him because the Colonel was one of a dozen or so soldiers who escaped one night during a thunderstorm.
I am not one to believe in false hope. I can only say that I pray the Colonel was one of the lucky ones who stole their freedom that stormy night.
If I hear anything more, I will get word to you. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Very truly yours,
Trevor McDermott Williams
Why does bad news always arrive right on the heels of bad news? Brynne wondered. Guilt hammered her heart as her mother flitted about the kitchen, giggling happily.
“I told you he was alive!” Amelia gasped, flapping Trevor’s letter in the air. “Your father escaped from that nasty old prisoner of war camp, and right this minute he’s making his way back to us!”
Brynne’s heart ached with fear and dread—fear that her mother would find out that she’d been an unwitting accomplice in her father’s death, dread that her father would never rest in peace, as she’d hoped, on Kismet Hill—thanks to the information she’d stupidly passed on to Ross Bartlett.
Over and over again, her mind replayed the memory that was torturing her: the day when Ross had wrapped his arms around her and he told her he’d be leaving on the morning train. He’d looked so handsome in his wide-brimmed black hat and many-buttoned uniform, a gleaming cutlass at his hip. She’d thought at the time it had been concern for her family that prompted Ross to ask where her father and brother would be stationed. If she’d known how he intended to use the facts, she’d never have willingly shared what her father had written in an earlier letter: “The only way into Fort Fisher is by way of a narrow channel, so fear not, family, for I am safe, so long as the Yankees don’t try a land and sea attack!”
It wasn’t until she paid her respects to the Prentices last week that Brynne learned what Ross had done with the information….
Joshua Prentice had also served—and died—at Fort Fisher. After church, Joshua’s sister Camille told Brynne a long story, all about how Camille’s father, who had been an officer at Fort Fisher, explained the fall of the fortress: The Union army and navy had attacked simultaneously, and the South, though well-manned and well-armed, had not been equipped for the two-pronged attack.
“My daddy says he saw your ex-fiancé leadin’ the Bluecoats in,” Camille added with a baleful glare. “One minute, Ross was givin’ orders to the Yankees, next minute the east tower was toppling over on my poor sweet brother.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if your own father was there, too.”
Camille had paused to dry her eyes on a dainty hanky. “They nearly caught Ross, slinking away from the melee.” All ladylike decorum was set aside as Camille made her final statement. “If that low-down polecat ever shows his face ‘round these parts again, he’ll wish they had hanged him.”
Brynne had gone over and over it in her head, and try as she might, she could not escape one ugly fact: because of her loose tongue, hundreds of men—her own father included—had died!
She made an effort to pull her thoughts together and pay attention to her mother. “Mama,” she said, a hand on Amelia’s arm, “seems to me the sergeant made it clear there isn’t much sense in holding out for…”
“Brynne Amelia Carter,” her mother hissed, shoulders hunched and fists bunched, “I’ll not have such talk in this house.” Her eyes blazed with indignation. “Your father is alive, and he will come home.” She shook the balled-up letter under Brynne’s nose. “You promised once that you’d keep your negative comments to yourself. I’m holding you to it, do you hear?”
In all her life, Brynne had never seen her mother so angry. At least, she’d never been as angry with her. “I’m sorry, Mama. I never intended to hurt you. I only thought…”
“I know what you thought,” Amelia bit out. “You thought if you were patient long enough, I’d stop behaving like a dotty old woman and come around to your way of thinking.” She took a deep breath, then lovingly smoothed the letter against her stomach and put it back into the envelope.
Fresh tears filled her eyes. “I believe your father is alive, and I’ll go right on believing it,” she said past the hitch in her voice, “because your father can read me like a book, and I won’t have him seeing a trace of faithlessness on my face when he walks through that door. Not after all he’s been through.”
More than anything, Brynne wanted to console her mother. But words and actions would seem empty and hollow to this woman who saw her daughter as a disloyal skeptic. Tears brimmed in her own eyes as she hurried to the back door. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she repeated as she ran outside, “so sorry…”
Brynne didn’t stop running until she’d reached the summit. There, she fell on her knees and looked toward the heavens. “Lord,” she cried, “help me deal with this horrible secret…and to discern between false hope—and faith in what is possible.”
Brynne did want to share her mother’s steadfast conviction, for she missed her father desperately. But, in the years since he’d been gone, she’d taught schoolchildren that two plus two equals four, C-A-T spells cat, Paris is the capital of France. Those facts were as undisputable as Ross Bartlett’s acts of treachery and the ruination of her beloved South. Did her mother really expect her to accept the remote possibility that her father had survived the brutality of this awful war? Faith in God’s might and power was one thing, but…
“Brynne?”
Immediately, she recognized the deep timbre of his voice. But how did Clay find me here? she wondered, dabbing her eyes with a corner of her apron. Ever since that day beneath the willow tree, she cared very much what he thought of her. He’d told her, when that first delicious kiss ended, how much he admired her strength of character. What would he think if he saw that she’d given in to self-pitying tears? What would he think if he knew the reason for them?
“Your sister-in-law told me I might find you here,” Clay said, settling beside her and sliding an arm over her shoulders. “This is quite a view you have on the world,” he said after a moment. “It’s easy to see why you’ve kept it such a well-guarded secret.”
“This was my father’s favorite place,” she said softly. “He came here often, when the trials and tribulations of life beset him.”
He lifted her chin on a bent forefinger. “And what trials and tribulations have brought you here, my sweet Brynne?”
Silently, Brynne repeated his endearing words. If you knew the answer to that question, you wouldn’t be looking at me with such care in your eyes, she told him mentally. I am here because I’m a faithless follower and a miserable excuse for a daughter. And that’s the very least of my sins.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Why is this place called Kismet Hill?”
“My father, like his father-in-law and Grandpa Moore before him, was often drawn to this place. Papa had read in one of his books that, in the far east, kismet means ‘God’s will.’ It was God’s will, he believed, that his father-in-law Grandpa Moore settled this land, and God’s will that it remained in the family ever since.”
Brynne brought Clay’s attention to the stubborn little pine, growing from the boulder behind them. “Papa said this was God’s will, too.” She sighed. “It’s been here for as long as I can remember, growing slow and steady, despite the constant wind and the bitter cold and the desolation of this place.”
He took her hands in his. “Seems to me if God could make that pitiful little thing grow where nothing else could, He truly can do the impossible.”
The impossible, Brynne repeated mentally. Could Clay’s simple words be God’s answer to her prayer? A hopeful smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
“What’re you grinning about?” Clay asked, wiping an errant tear from her cheek.
“Just the fact that you seem to be a mind reader.”
“I can’t read your mind, Brynne, but I think I know what’s in your heart.”
The mere thought of it set her pulse to racing. Brynne didn’t want him to know the truth about her part in the devastation that befell Fort Fisher….
He kissed each of her eyelids, her chin, the tip of her nose. “You’re feeling guilty because you don’t share your mother’s optimism about your father’s safe return. You don’t think he survived the prisoners’ camp, do you?”
Brynne focused on their hands. “I don’t see how he could have.” There was venom in her voice when she said, “The sergeant who delivered Papa’s last letter described how things were the day the Yankees took my father away.”
“You really hate them, don’t you?”
She set her jaw. “I’ve tried not to. I’ve tried, instead, to hate what they’ve done. But sometimes it’s hard to separate the vicious acts from the men who committed them.”
Clay nodded. “I felt the same way for a long time.” Unconsciously, he stroked his mangled thigh. “But I’m realizing that God can’t come close to me, not when I hold such bitterness in my heart. I’ve had to let go of my anger and forgive. That’s the only way I can feel close to God again. But it’s not easy.” On a lighter note, he added, “Still, God calls us to have faith.”
Brynne harumphed. “In what?”
“Why, in Him of course.”
“I have plenty of faith in the Lord.” It’s He who has lost faith in me, she thought dismally. “Death is as much a part of life as birth. I think He also calls us to accept that.”
“If you really felt that way, you wouldn’t be here.”
“How can you possibly know why I’m here?”
“I overheard your prayer. Deep in your heart, you hope your mother is right.”
Brynne snatched back her hands. “You couldn’t be more wrong! That wasn’t why I was praying. It’s my fault. All my fault,” she spat, then bit her lip to keep back the words that would reveal her guilt. She choked, then continued more calmly, “But that doesn’t change the fact that my mother may as well try to hold onto the air, for all the good her hope is doing her.”
“She’s holding onto the air every time she takes a breath. Seems to be doing a pretty good job, that air, at keeping her alive.”
Who do you think you are, Brynne demanded silently, coming up here, uninvited, telling me what I think and feel? She leapt to her feet and began pacing a few steps from where he sat.
“ ‘When the Spirit of truth comes,’ “Clay recited, “‘he will guide you…’ ”
Guide me to what? she demanded silently. To tell the truth and face the hatred of everyone in Spring Creek who lost a loved one at Fort Fisher? No thank you! “How is it you can quote the book of John so easily, yet you can barely tolerate sitting through a Sunday service?” she snapped. “I may not believe in the impossible, but I haven’t turned my back on God!”
“What makes you think I have?”
She took several steps closer to face him. “You stopped going to church.”
Clay sighed. “I only stayed away to give myself time…”
“Your leg was healed long before your first visit to the Spring Hill church, Mister Holier-than-thou!”
He chuckled quietly. “I stayed away,” he continued as though she’d never interrupted, “to give my head time to clear, so that when folks slathered me with pitying comments and sympathetic stares, I wouldn’t respond with anger and resentment. I was angry with church—but that didn’t mean I’d given up on God.”
She understood only too well what he’d said. Brynne had yet to figure out a way to deal with those well-intended yet hurtful comments that came when people heard what happened to her father. What would they say if they knew the whole
truth?
“ ‘O ye of little faith,’ “Clay said, smiling slightly. “‘Do not be anxious…for your heavenly Father knows your needs.’ ”
If she and Clay had been anywhere else, Brynne might have kept a rein on her taut emotions, might have repressed the sob aching in her throat and the grief beating in her heart. But they were not somewhere else. They were high atop Kismet Hill, her father’s favorite place. Never again would he enjoy the pristine view as the crisp winds fingered through his hair. Never again would he hear the screech of an eagle overhead, or the rushing river waters below. All because of her!
Brynne slumped onto the rock where the pine grew, and hid her face in her hands. Before the first tear slipped between her fingers, Clay was beside her, engulfing her in a reassuring embrace. She had allowed herself a few tears here and there since the war began. But here, in his arms in this special place, Brynne let herself mourn openly, for Edward, for Moorewood, for Virginia, for her father.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “It’s going to be all right.”
Too ashamed to admit her horrible sin to Clay and unable to trust herself to make up some other excuse to leave Kismet Hill, Brynne scrambled to her feet and, without a word, ran toward Moorewood.
She didn’t get far before Clay caught up to her. “Talk to me, Brynne,” he said, gripping her upper arms. “What did you mean when you said it was your fault? What’s your fault?”
Too much had happened in too little time, shattering Brynne’s control. “If…if I, if I tell you,” she began haltingly, “will you leave me in peace?”
A faint smile glittered in his eyes. “I doubt it.” He gave her a gentle shake. “Let me help you, Brynne.”
She bit her lower lip to stanch the tears that burned behind her eyelids. “If you could help me, it would be a miracle,” she sighed, her voice foggy with grief and sadness.
For a long moment, Clay didn’t speak. “We’re on Kismet Hill,” he said at last, nodding toward the little pine. “If a miracle can happen anyplace, it’s here.”
