by Mysti Parker
Frank chuckled as she licked her lips.
“Told you I’m just another hungry mouth to feed,” she said.
“I don’t know where you put it, unless your legs are hollow. But you still oughta give us a chance.”
“You’re a good man, you know. Jake thought you hung the moon.”
He held Portia’s gaze for a moment before waving the innkeeper’s wife over. He spent his last few coins on a big stack of hotcakes, bacon, and two cups of coffee. They didn’t speak at all until they had eaten every last crumb from their plates.
She had just placed her napkin on the empty plate when a black man entered the room. He wore gray checked trousers, a white buttoned shirt, and black vest. A black felt hat, faded and ragged around the rim, sat cockeyed on his head. He looked around as if searching for someone else, but the other couple had already gone, leaving Frank and Portia as the only candidates for attention. He flashed them a broad white smile.
“Good mornin, good mornin.” The man removed his hat and tucked it under his arm as he reached their table. Gray tinged his sideburns and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. “I’m Isaac Carter, and I’m lookin’ for a Portia McAllister.”
Portia wiped her mouth and stood. “I’m Portia. And this is my brother-in-law, Frank... but we were expecting—”
“Mr. Franklin,” Isaac said, nodding. “He had to run an errand here in town, so he asked me to come in and fetch you.”
Hand hovering near his belt, Frank stood too, eyeing the man like he might rob them at any moment. She cast him a glance he didn’t notice.
“Sorry if I spooked ya,” Isaac said, still smiling. “Good to meet ya, ma’am, and you too, sir.”
Portia liked him immediately. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Carter.”
She nudged Frank, who relaxed a little and dropped his hand to his side.
“I think you’s a bit younger than Mr. Beau expected, but that’s all right. Can I carry your bags for ya?”
“You can carry the chest,” Frank said.
“Yes, sir.”
The men carried Portia’s belongings outside to a black buggy hitched to two sleek horses that were so dark brown they were almost black. The closest thing to horses she and Jake had owned were mules, and they weren’t nearly as pleasant to look at. While Frank helped her up to the rear seat, Isaac took his place ahead of her in the driver’s seat. He took a rifle from the floorboard and set it on his lap.
Frank glanced at Isaac and motioned her to lean close so he could whisper in her ear. “I don’t like this, Po, you ridin’ off alone with this colored man and this Mr. Franklin fella.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Well, I don’t know them enough to trust them. I don’t know this Mr. Stanford, either, and you’ll be living in his house. Keep this nearby.”
He handed her his pistol. She started to protest that this would leave him without protection on the return journey to Brentwood, but his size alone was impressive enough to deter trouble. Besides, Frank knew she could shoot. He taught her himself.
She had just placed the gun into the carry bag at her feet when a white man with sandy brown hair and a brown leather vest came around the corner of the hotel. Jogging toward them, he waved with one hand, and had a paper-wrapped package tucked under the other arm. He was handsome in a Greek sort of way, his facial features prominent and symmetrical like the busts she’d seen once in a Nashville library. He ran up to Frank, extending one hand.
Frank simply stared at him until the stranger spoke.
“Harry Franklin. Sorry for the delay. You must be…”
“Frank McAllister.” He finally took Mr. Franklin’s outstretched hand and gave it a firm shake. “This is Portia, my sister-in-law.”
Mr. Franklin’s smile reminded Portia of a child who had looted a cookie jar — guilty and giddy at the same time. “Wonderful. Beau will definitely be, um, surprised. I think he expected a more grandmotherly type. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
With the look Frank gave him, Mr. Franklin’s boyish grin slid right off his face. “We’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
Isaac nodded, patting his rifle reassuringly as Mr. Franklin climbed in beside him.
“You better,” Frank said, and without looking her in the eye, he added, “Goodbye, Po.”
“Goodbye, Frank.” The words were just as difficult as she imagined.
The buggy lurched forward. Frank raised his hand in farewell, standing there in the dim lamp-lit shadows of early morning. Legs twitching, she had a sudden inclination to jump out and run after him. Maybe he was right to be worried, and maybe she was being unrealistic. Good Christian women didn’t leave home and hearth when life turned sour. The great Psalmist himself said, “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.”
They rounded a corner and she couldn’t see Frank anymore. She sat back in the padded seat and let out a sigh. Funny how Bible verses still lectured her when she had no faith left to back them. If she was anything, it wasn’t contrite. She had neither asked for nor wanted this life God had thrust upon her. He could go be nigh unto someone else and leave her be for all she cared.
“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” Isaac said loudly over his shoulder. “The road’s pretty smooth and well-traveled. I ain’t seen no trouble on it for a long time.”
She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her.
Mr. Franklin turned around partway in his seat. “Tell us if you need anything at all, Mrs. McAllister. It’s my job to carry out Beau’s orders, and he’s ordered me to bring his son a teacher. Dead or alive.”
Portia’s eyes widened, and Mr. Franklin laughed.
“I’m joking! Take a rest if you’d like. It’s fairly comfortable back there.”
After a mile or so, she discovered he was right. The wide hood surrounding her seat felt like a firm pillow when she rested her head on it. But before she shut her eyes, she pulled Jake’s old shirt from her bag, balled it up, and wedged it under her cheek. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep.
Portia awoke to her backside bumping about on the seat. Sunlight flashed on her face through the budding trees on the roadside. She sat up just as the world tipped violently, throwing her against the side of the carriage. Crying out in shock and the pain that followed, she dove for her bag, figuring she was dead already if robbers had struck. But she wasn’t about to go down without a fight. She needed Frank’s pistol and fumbled about until her fingers closed around the grip.
The gun hadn’t cleared the bag’s opening when an iron-strong hand clamped her wrist. She screamed.
Chapter Two
“It’s all right,” Mr. Franklin said, eyeing the pistol in Portia’s hand. “Just a broken wheel, darlin’, that’s all.”
Her heart pounded hard against her ribcage as though it might burst free any moment and run away. She closed her eyes, took a couple deep breaths, and looked up at him. Still gripping her forearm in his strong hand, he flicked his eyes between her face and the gun until she let it slide back onto the other belongings in her bag.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing the spot on her arm he had just released. Red marks the shape of his fingers formed on her skin. “I fell asleep. Where are we?”
“Just a mile or so from Lebanon.” He held out his hand. “Let me help you out of there so we can get this wheel changed.”
Her feet hit the ground. Up ahead, the horses shifted nervously. Issac held one of them by the bridle and patted its neck, speaking softly to calm the animal.
He hollered over his shoulder, “You all right, Mrs. McAllister?”
Thankfully her heart decided to retain its position and slowed a bit. “Yes, I’m fine. How long will we be stuck?”
“Won’t take long at all, ma’am. I’ll get that wheel changed lickety-split.”
Mr. Franklin led her off the side of the road where tall cedars shaded a large gray rock. He gestured for her to hav
e a seat. She brushed off dry evergreen needles and sat, but her sore backside made her regret that decision. Mr. Franklin smiled. With hardly a foot between them, she fought the urge to scoot away from him.
Isaac pulled out a homemade jack from under her seat. He placed it under the buggy’s rear axle, ratcheting the handle until the broken wheel spun freely about an inch off the ground.
She glanced at Mr. Franklin, wondering why he wasn’t helping with the effort. Instead, he opened a pocket knife and started whittling a small piece of cedar. The wood’s pleasant perfume overpowered the scents of damp earth and wagon grease. He kept staring at her as he worked. She could have sworn he scooted closer.
“So Mr. Franklin…” She abruptly stood, brushing stray needles off her skirt. “Are you kin to the Stanford family?”
His eyes lingered on her for a moment. Shrugging, he turned his attention to the wheel repair in progress. “Just a distant relation, but half of Wilson County could be considered distant relations. Me and Beau, see — we were neighbors, spent summers runnin’ around together. My folks had gone down to Chattanooga to look at some land down there and left me with the Stanfords. They were thinking of moving, and I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave Beau and Ezra — that’s his pa — behind. They were like second family to me. Anyway, we got word that they’d had an accident on their way back. The wagon rolled off a ledge. Killed ’em both.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
He let his whittling rest on his lap. “It’s all right. I was seven, maybe eight. Ezra raised me and Beau together after that, and I’ve been part of the family ever since. So what about your folks? Any of ’em still around?”
“Not really, no…”
“And your husband? What was his name?”
“Jake.”
“I don’t recall him, but Beau and I were on the Federal side.”
“Oh…” Her mouth went dry. She had assumed they were Confederate. Just a year ago, they were enemies — Jake’s enemies. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well, our affiliation didn’t earn us much fanfare when we returned. You always lived in Brentwood?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve not been through there since before Franklin got blown to hell. Oh, pardon my language, ma’am.”
“It’s all right.”
“Anyway, I reckon that was one awful fight. We were lucky enough to not be involved in that one. Beau and I were both wounded in Allatoona. We healed up enough to get transferred to Smith’s regiment for patrol duty along the Cumberland. Nothin’ but a muddy mess, but at least we didn’t get shot again. So, what happened to Jake?”
“He died in Nashville. I think he might have fought in Franklin, as well.”
“Might have took a shot at me a time or two. Who knows?” He grinned and winked, snapping the blade of his pocket knife against his thigh to close it.
“Please don’t make light of such matters, Mr. Franklin.” She paced away so he couldn’t see her chin quivering.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you.” His footsteps drew closer. She thought he might touch her. The thought made her cringe.
Isaac clapped twice and motioned for them to come along. “All done. Ready to go on?”
“Yes,” Portia answered and hurried to the now-fixed and level wagon.
Harry tossed his unfinished whittling creation to the ground. He helped her into the wagon, and she couldn’t help but notice the melancholy turn to his features.
With a numb bottom and stiff neck, Portia wondered how much longer it would be before they arrived. The sun had ascended toward its summit. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and took in her surroundings. Along the dusty road, the countryside told its sad story with overgrown fencerows, empty pastures, and abandoned plantations. Wind whistled past her ears, its tone so sorrowful it sounded as if the land itself wept from the wounds of man’s folly.
Pulling her locket from under her collar, she rubbed the tarnished silver between thumb and forefinger. Her thoughts drifted back to the day Jake presented it to her. That February afternoon had been one of the happiest days of her life.
“It’s beautiful, Jake!”
The silver plated locket was oval-shaped, engraved with the initial M for McAllister. The chain was long and delicate. Not expensive, yet she knew Jake would have had to sacrifice something to buy it. They’d barely made any money from the previous harvest. Soybean and corn prices had bottomed out since the start of the war, and what was left had been taken by the army.
“Open it,” Jake had said with the same sideways smile he’d had since they were children.
She’d done as he said, and found a miniature portrait from the photo they had taken on their wedding day. “You sold your daddy’s musket, didn’t you?”
Jake had nodded. “I traded it to Mrs. Overton. Besides, that old gun don’t matter. All that matters is you and my sweet baby girl.”
He’d leaned over and kissed their newborn on the forehead. Abigail had entered the world only a few hours before — a wriggly, pink bundle now swaddled in a soft knitted blanket and sleeping peacefully. Little brown ringlets of hair covered her head. Jake had whipped out his pocket knife and Portia had yanked up the baby, holding her tight to her breast.
“Calm down, mama.” Jake had chuckled. “There’s just one thing missing from your gift.”
He’d uncovered Abigail’s head and, very carefully, cut off one of the longest ringlets on the nape of her neck. Portia had smiled and nuzzled her daughter’s sweet-smelling head as she watched Jake’s rugged fingers tie a tiny piece of narrow pink ribbon around the silky lock of hair. He placed Abby’s hair inside the locket and closed it. Portia had held her long hair out of the way, while he fastened the clasp behind her neck.
Jake had draped an arm around her and rubbed their daughter’s angelic soft cheek.
“Thank you, Jake. I love you,” she’d whispered as she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Love you too, Po. You, me, and our baby girl — we’re a family now! How about that?”
She’d spied a glimmer of tears in his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. How her heart had swelled as she witnessed her tough-as-nails husband soften up like warm butter. She’d handed Abby to him, and he’d looked scared to death, like she might break.
“You still all right back there?” Mr. Franklin asked, pulling her from the beautiful memory and back to the uncertainty of her present circumstances.
She hoped he hadn’t heard her sniffing. “Yes, I’m fine. How much farther?”
“Not long now.” He draped his elbow over the seat and smiled. “We’re nearing the town up ahead. You been to Lebanon before?”
“No.”
“It’s a real fine town, prettier before the war, but there’s still some nice architecture to admire.”
She took the hint and sat up in her seat. They were traveling along a tree-lined street. On her left, a stately white mansion with tall, wide columns came into view.
“That’s the Caruthers house,” Mr. Franklin said. “He was one of the founders of Cumberland University and governor of Tennessee for a while until the war ended.”
“Where is the university?”
“It was over there off Spring Street. Got burned up in the war. It’s where Beau’s father-in-law taught law until he died. Claire — that’s Beau’s late wife — wanted their son to go there when he got old enough. I think they’re still having classes around here somewhere.”
They entered the town square — a busy, spacious place with people moving in all directions on horseback, in wagons, and on foot. Two men unloaded large panes of glass at a store with boarded up windows. Scaffolds holding painters and carpenters crisscrossed other storefronts. Saws chewed through wood and hammers pounded nails. The song of reconstruction, Portia concluded, had become the nation’s bitter anthem.
“We’re taking you the long way around,” he said, “so you can see more of the town. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.”
She shifted her weight to ease her aching backside.
Mr. Franklin pointed to one landmark after another. “There’s the Presbyterian Church over there, and that’s Odd Fellows Hall, where the Yanks cornered John Hunt Morgan’s cavalry.”
“Almost got him too,” Isaac added with a chuckle, “but he got away just in the knick.”
“So, you were freed and hired after the war?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. We’ve always been free. Mr. Stanford’s grandfather saw to that.”
Isaac slowed the horses and turned onto another street. Children’s laughter cut across the road. Smiling, Portia sat up straight to see them at play. A little black boy sprinted in front of the horses, with three white boys in hot pursuit.
Isaac yanked the reins and yelled, “Whoa!” and managed to stop the horses before they trampled the children.
The black boy skirted up a tall sycamore, and the others ran up against the tree trunk, whacking it with sticks, and laughing while they chanted, “The greatest old Nigger that ever I did see, Looked like a sick monkey up a sour apple tree.”
Portia stood and started to climb out of the buggy. Those boys needed their ears twisted plumb off; no child deserved such teasing, but Mr. Franklin extended his arm in front of her and said, “Wait.”
Isaac jumped out and ran right at them, waving his rifle, but pointed it toward the sky.
“Get out of here, now. I said, get!” The pursuers started to scatter, but Isaac did get in a kick to the last one’s backside before he could vanish, squealing in terror, back into town with his friends.
“Come on down, Jim,” Isaac said. “They’re gone. They ain’t gonna bother you no more today.”
