by DiAnn Mills
Chapter 8
When she had finished her miserable story, he was silent for a moment, and she could not look at him; she was too afraid of the condemnation she would read in his eyes. “I love you,” he said softly, and her eyes flew to his face. “Don’t you know that by now?”
In the past few months, as they’d walked hand-in-hand down his magnolia-lined drive or sat side by side on her mother’s porch swing, Brynne and Clay had discussed many things, from his brother’s problems to world politics. Most of the time, though, he had kept a tight rein on his emotions.
But sometimes, when the breeze was soft and the birds were singing, Clay would hint that he loved her. Several times, she’d caught him staring at her, and she had been warmed all over by what she thought she saw in his dark eyes. If their hands accidentally touched as they exchanged Cullen’s schoolwork, she felt the heat of his feelings for her. And every kiss since that first one, beneath the willow tree, had told her how much she had come to mean to him.
Still…he’d never said the words aloud.
“I’m a traitorous blabbermouth,” she reminded him, “not a mind reader.”
Clay held her at arm’s length, his hot gaze boring deep into her eyes. “You knew that Bartlett was a double agent?”
Brynne’s jaw dropped with shock. “Of course not! I only just found out.”
He pressed a silencing finger over her lips. “Mm-hm. But if you had known, would you have told him what was in your father’s letter?”
Shaking her head, Brynne’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “Absolutely not,” she whispered hoarsely.
“So it’s just as I said…you’re not responsible for what happened.”
She turned away, unable to continue looking into his confidant gaze. Oh, how she loved this man! While Ross had been courting her, she had thought what she’d felt for him had been love. She couldn’t have been more wrong, she realized now.
Sadly, she’d never taken the measure of the man, hadn’t called Ross’s character into question, hadn’t weighed the positives against the negatives in his personality. He’d entered her life when her girlfriends were either married or engaged. It had seemed time to begin planning the future—a husband, children, a home—and so when he’d asked her to marry him, Brynne never considered any answer but yes. If she’d known what kind of man he’d been…
Brynne knew what he was made of now, not only by his own words and deeds, but in comparison to Clay, who had willingly gone off to war, prepared to die, if he must, so others might live. Once Clay had returned from battle, his leg damaged beyond repair, he avoided pity at all cost. He had been adamant about taking a stern, heavy-handed tactic to end Cullen’s silence—and yet in the end his love for the boy had outshone his desire to have his own way. Because of his patience, Cullen was at last beginning to break free of grief’s silence; in the past weeks he had begun to speak again.
Despite all these emotional burdens, Clay worked long, hard hours to keep Adams’ Hill afloat—and yet he had put what little free time he had into helping rebuild Spring Creek’s church and school. No, Clay was nothing like Ross.
The summer rolled by like a steaming locomotive as Brynne fell deeper and deeper in love with Clay. And, he continued to profess his undying love for her, despite her protestations that she was unworthy of it.
On Thanksgiving eve, the old-fashioned young man put on his best coat and tie and knocked on Amelia Carter’s front door. To protect her from the clamminess of his palms, he didn’t take her hand when Amelia opened it, and he cleared his throat to hide the tremors in his voice.
“There’s something we must discuss,” he said as Amelia stood back to let him in, “so if you have a moment…”
Over tea in her parlor, Clay told Brynne’s mother, “Under ordinary circumstances, I would speak with the Colonel about this matter. But these are hardly ordinary circumstances.”
Amelia nodded her agreement, her smile telling him that she knew why he’d come to see her. “I’m afraid I’ll have to do, then, since you haven’t the patience to wait for Richard.”
Clay met her eyes—and her statement—with straightforwardness. “I admire you, Mrs. Carter, for your steadfast belief that your husband will return, but there’s no point beating around the bush, for as your daughter so aptly put it on the day we met, bush beating is a waste of time that’s hard on the shrubbery.”
Amelia laughed softly. “That’s my Brynne, all right!”
“Then we’ll make a good pair, your daughter and I.” He leaned both elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “This war has taught me that life is fleeting, at best,” he began. “Call me foolish, or impetuous, but I haven’t the time or the patience to wait for Colonel Carter to give his permission for Brynne to marry me. I’ll take very good care of her and…”
“I’m sure you’ll be an excellent provider, Clay,” Amelia injected. She put her hand upon his sleeve. “But how does my daughter feel about this?”
He smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t want to discuss marriage with her until I had your blessing.”
She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “Do you love her?”
His heart beat double-time. “With all my heart.”
Nodding, Amelia stood and walked to the French doors. “Have you a date in mind? For the wedding, I mean?”
Clay rose and joined her. “I thought I’d leave the details to you ladies.”
Hands clasped at her waist, she focused on some distant spot known only to her. “You must promise me something, Clay.”
“Anything.”
She faced him, and in the late afternoon light that filtered through the bevelled panes, a silvery tear shimmered on her cheek. Amelia grabbed his hands. “Promise you’ll never leave her, no matter what your male pride calls you to do.” She blinked tear-clumped lashes. “Promise me you’ll never break her heart the way…”
“I promise,” he said, rescuing her from completing the sentence.
She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. “Well, then,” Amelia said, “you have my blessing.” She whispered conspiratorially, “So tell me, when do you plan to pop the question?”
Clay smiled. “Right now—if you’ll be so kind as to tell me where to find her.”
Amelia faced the horizon once more. “Where else?” she said on a sigh. “Kismet Hill.”
Clay turned to leave, but her hand on his sleeve didn’t allow it. “What are you and your brother planning for Thanksgiving?”
“Planning? A quiet meal, I suppose.”
“Just the two of you?”
Clay nodded.
“Nonsense!” Amelia closed the curtains, blocking the light—and the view—with one snap of her arm. “You’re family now. We eat at three, and we dress for dinner,” she tossed over her shoulder, “so I hope you both have neckties.”
Later that afternoon, Brynne watched as Clay walked away from her down Kismet Hill, his shoulders slumped with discouragement. Yes, she loved Clay Adams. But Brynne believed he deserved better than the likes of her, a silly woman who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he had said softly, turning her to face him. “You’re worried that if we were to marry, Cullen might have a relapse.”
Brynne sighed heavily. That he’d considered his brother in the mix—while she’d focused on her own selfish needs—proved how wrong she was for him. “You deserve someone better than me,” she admitted huskily. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Clay laughed. “Better than you? Darlin’, there’s no one on this earth more suited for me.” He gathered her close and whispered into her hair. “You saved me, Brynne. Like the old song says, ‘I once was lost, but now I’m found’…because of you. God used you so that I could learn to forgive…without you I would never have been able to forgive Cullen for what I thought was his weakness. Without the love I feel for you, I would still be nursing my anger at the Yankees. Your love has helped me to forgive.
You’re my miracle, Brynne, and I thank God for sending you to me.”
Someday, she believed he would realize how wrong he was being. Until then, Brynne had to be strong enough to say no to his proposal. As much as it broke her heart, she couldn’t marry him.
“You haven’t had much to say since Thanksgiving,” Cullen said a month later, on Christmas Eve. “What’s wrong—cat got your tongue?”
Clay good-naturedly elbowed his brother. “Look who’s talking.” He laughed.
“It’s Brynne, isn’t it? She’s the reason you’re so sad.”
The older brother did not respond.
“If I were you, I’d find her, right now. Tell her how you feel. If she knew how miserable you’ve been, she’d marry you just to put a smile on your face!”
Clay said nothing.
Cullen frowned. “At least my silence had a good reason.”
That brought Clay’s head up. “What?”
The boy shrugged. “‘It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord…let him sit alone in silence…that there may yet be hope.’ ”
Cullen had quoted the book of Lamentations, Clay acknowledged. “I don’t get it.”
“Ma and Pa went on down to Petersburg in the middle of a war to do church business, leaving us here to fend for ourselves. And you just home with a terrible wound! God couldn’t have been pleased with them. I thought He might even be a little angry with them. So I decided to keep quiet, till I was sure He’d forgiven them. Turned out it was me that needed to forgive them though. I was so angry with them—but once I’d forgiven them, then I knew that God would have forgiven them long ago. Way back when Jesus died on the cross, I guess. Nothing I could do could ever earn the forgiveness they needed for their prideful sin, because Jesus had already taken care of it. When you started taking me to church with you, that’s when I figured it all out. And then I could begin to talk again.”
“Prideful sin? Our parents? Cullen, you’re not making sense.”
“Yes I am. They always took risks, without ever making provisions to protect themselves. If the body is His temple, He expects us to take care of it. Besides,” Cullen continued, his voice hard-edged with anger, “we didn’t need a new pastor right then. And even if we did, why couldn’t someone else go and fetch him? Someone with no family obligations? They enjoyed the praises they got when they did good works. It wasn’t faith that made them believe they could make that trip safely, it was pride.”
“And stubbornness,” Clay said dully.
Cullen gave his brother a slight shove. “You inherited it.”
Clay frowned. “Which? Stubbornness, or pride?”
“Both.”
He read the teasing glint in Cullen’s eyes, and smiled. “Why, I oughta tan your hide, you ornery…”
“Sticks and stones will break my bones,” the boy taunted, fists up as he hopped like a boxer, “but proposals will never harm me.”
Just as he’d suspected, Clay found her at the top of Kismet Hill, bundled up like an Eskimo as she leaned into the biting wind. “What’re you doing here in this miserable weather?” he shouted into the howling air currents.
Brynne pointed to the garden spade that lay at her feet. “I wanted to dig up the pine,” she said, peeking out from under her fur-trimmed hood. “It would make a lovely Christmas tree, and afterward, we could plant it in the yard, as a memorial to my father.”
“But…it’s growing from a bed of rock.”
“I thought I could hack away at it, bit by bit, until I freed the roots, and…”
Her voice floated away on a powerful gust as Clay looked at the boulder. She’d whittled away a considerable chunk of the rock. “Let me see your hands, Brynne,” he said, taking a step closer.
She held them out. Gently, he slid off her gloves, and grimaced at the red, watery blisters that covered her palms. He wrapped her in a fierce hug. Rubbing her upper arms to warm her, Clay said, “Let’s go back to the house and get the tools we need to do the job right.”
“It’s nearly noon. Do we have time?”
Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her long and hard. “We’re on Kismet Hill, remember…the place where miracles happen!”
They’d been hard at it for hours, Clay hefting the sledgehammer, Brynne holding the chisel steady, when the last bit of stubborn rock finally gave way, exposing the tree’s gnarled roots.
Clay was amazed at the way the roots had burrowed into a hollow in the boulder. Over time, he surmised, the constant winds must have blown dust and dirt and leaves into the crevice, and the debris had nestled there, as though waiting for the little seed to float into its nourishing bed.
He stood and faced the valley, flexing his aching hands as Brynne led the horse and buggy as close as the rocky surface would allow. “Praise God that’s over,” he said, working the kinks from his neck. “I thought we’d need to blast it out, and I’m plum out of dyna…”
His voice faded away. The expression on his face made Brynne race to his side. “What is it? What do you see?”
Clay pointed to a form below them, half a mile or so away.
It was a man, walking alone, leaning heavily on a cane and dragging one foot behind him. His step-slide-clomp, step-slide-clomp echoed quietly over the rocks and floated to them on blasts of wintry wind. When he stopped and looked up at them, the blood froze in Brynne’s veins.
Clay slid a protective arm around her waist and pulled her close. “My rifle is in the wagon,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’d hate to have to use it on Christmas Eve.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears as the distant stranger made an eerie eye contact with her. Something about him seemed familiar. But what? Brynne held her breath, watching, waiting.
The man raised his left arm, made a fist of the hand, and thrust his forefinger into the air. Only one man had ever waved that way.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Clay’s gaze swung to Brynne’s dazzled face. “Are you sure?”
In place of an answer, she scuttled down the rocks and ran full-out until she stood no more than ten feet from him. Her joyous cry reverberated from every nook and cranny around them as she flung herself into his arms.
8:00 P.M., Christmas Eve, 1865
Richard was surprised that not one of the messages he’d sent by way of returning soldiers had reached his family. When their jubilant welcoming hugs and kisses subsided, he explained that in the seven months since President Johnson issued amnesty to those who’d taken part in the “rebellion,” Richard had recuperated in the home of an elderly Yankee widow.
“We can harbor the Northerners no ill will,” he warned, “because for every dastardly deed one of them did, another of them did a kindness.”
The woman’s son, Richard said, had been killed at Gettysburg, yet she’d risked the ire of friends and family to tend Richard’s wounds, wash his clothes, feed him healthy meals. When he was able, he left her humble abode, hitching rides with returning Confederate soldiers, pausing in his journey only long enough for meals and rest.
After downing bowls of thick vegetable stew, the family set about decorating the pitiful little Christmas tree, each acknowledging, as they hung the ornaments, what they were thankful for.
Cullen gave thanks that not only could he speak again, but that anger and bitterness and grief no longer filled his heart.
Edward and Julia praised God for the child He’d bring them in the spring, a brother or sister for little Richie.
“I’m thankful for the miracle of having my husband back,” Amelia said.
“And I’m thankful to be back,” came Richard’s reply.
His wife snuggled into the crook of his arm. “I always knew you’d come home.”
“Believing in your faith and loyalty was my miracle.” He focused on Clay. “What about you, boy? What are you thankful for?”
Clay’s gaze sought out Brynne’s. “There’s so much, I don’t know where to begin. Let’s just say I’m grateful
to have your daughter in my life. She is my miracle.” He strode purposefully toward her, and took her hands in his. “If she’d consent to be my wife, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.”
She met his eyes, and for the moment, they were alone in the universe. Except, she thought, for “God also bearing them witness, both with signs and wonders, and with divers miracles…according to his own will.”
She glanced at her mother, whose faith in the miracle of her father’s return had never wavered. At her father, who admitted that belief in that faith is what gave him the strength to take each painful step home. At Cullen, who’d finally broken free from his prison of silence. At Clay, who’d called her his miracle. She took a deep breath, and she felt the burden of fear and guilt that she had carried slip off her back.
In the glow of the fire’s light, Brynne’s eyes misted. “I think we should start the year off right and be married on January first.”
Epilogue
June 1866
When they reached the summit, Clay covered her eyes with his neckerchief. “You’re sure you can’t see anything, now?”
“Positive,” Brynne said. “Now, what’s all the secrecy about?”
He led her to the highest point on Kismet Hill and helped her sit on the boulder where the little pine had grown. The tree had brightened their Christmas and now thrived on the Carter lawn, where Amelia could see it each time she peered through the parlor’s French doors.
“Ready for your surprise?”
Grinning with exasperation, Brynne sighed. “Clay, really. Stop teasing, or I’ll…”
He whipped off her blindfold and directed her attention to the hole they’d carved from the big rock.
Clasping both hands under her chin, Brynne gasped. “I don’t believe it. How do you explain a thing like this?”
He sat beside her and hugged her to him. “There’s only one way to explain it.” Gently, he touched the tiny sprig of green that would one day grow into a scrub pine. “It’s a miracle.” Pulling her into his lap, he said, “I love you, Mrs. Clay Adams.”
