by Mysti Parker
The poor child trembled so much, young sycamore blossoms rained upon the ground below.
“Come on,” Isaac soothed. “Where’s your daddy?”
“I don’t know, sir. Mama says he musta run off.”
“Well, you get on back to your mama, you hear? Don’t come back here by yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, hanging from the safety of a sturdy limb then dropped to the ground; his bare feet hit the leafy carpet with a soft crunch. He took off through the trees, heading in the opposite direction of his enemies, much to Portia’s relief.
Isaac climbed back into the buggy while Portia settled against her seat. He turned to Mr. Franklin. “He said his daddy ran off. Where do you think he went?”
“Clarence? Hard to say. Maybe he’s just looking for work. Fannie ought to take Jim to Kentucky. Ain’t that where their people went?”
“I think so. Woman’s got a head harder than a chestnut. I’ll have Bessie talk to her.” Isaac removed his hat and swiped the sweat from his forehead. “Sorry, Mrs. McAllister. I’m afraid your tour’s not goin’ so well.”
“I’m fine,” she said, staring back toward town. No more troublemakers in sight. “I’m just glad no one was hurt.”
“You and me both.”
“Well, no sense sitting here all day.” Mr. Franklin gestured down the road. “Right down here, about half a mile, is the Stanford farm.”
They continued down the road until they turned onto a narrow dirt drive lined by white fences with chipped paint. Wild blackberries and poison ivy clogged sections of the fence. Portia recalled how fastidious Jake was with their fencerows before the war claimed his life.
The drive wound along pastures dotted with a few horses and cows. To their right, wintered crop fields waited to be plowed. Portia spotted a green roof in the distance, and as the carriage climbed one last hill, a house came into view. They pulled up to a large, two-story home with white siding and a porch that spanned the entire front of the house. The siding needed a fresh coat of paint, but it still presented an admirable first impression.
Isaac dismounted and grabbed Portia’s bag.
Mr. Franklin offered his hand and helped her down. “I’ll go tell Beau you’re here.”
Stiff-legged, she followed Isaac to the porch steps. She noticed movement at a window on the second floor. Someone of small stature peered down at her. She tried to get a better look at the child — surely it was her new charge — but he saw her looking and let the curtain fall. She wondered what he was thinking at that moment. Was he frightened, excited, or perhaps angry that another woman was here instead of his mother? She figured she’d know soon enough.
While Isaac removed her trunk and bags from the buggy and set them on the porch, she breathed in the unfamiliar scents — horses, wagon grease, and what might be fried chicken. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.
Isaac opened the door. “Ready?”
“Yes,” she answered, sounding more confident than she felt. “I’m ready.”
He removed his hat, stood to one side and gestured for her to pass over the threshold. Portia stared into the shadowed interior. This unfamiliar place and all the uncertainty within would be home. At least for a while. Ready? No, not by a long shot. But she reminded herself, it had to become her refuge. For sanity’s sake, she alone had to make it work.
She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Chapter Three
Beau Stanford had just placed his best saddle on the rack when Harry strode into the stable. He favored his bad leg again, though he tried to hide it. He’d be injecting his preferred remedy soon.
“Back already?” Beau rolled his aching shoulder to loosen the tension. Eyeing the brown paper package under his friend’s arm, he felt the throbbing temptation in his old wound. Numbing the pain would only be a temporary solution, he reminded himself.
“Obviously. And Mrs. McAllister’s here safe and sound as you instructed. But she might not be quite what you expected.”
“How so?”
“Why don’t you go meet her yourself?” He gestured toward the new filly, who gnawed the top of the stable door, leaving ugly ruts in the weathered wood. “How’d she ride?”
Beau slapped too much Neatsfoot on the seat and wiped the excess oil from the leather. He couldn’t afford to ruin his good saddle. Setting his supplies on the workbench, he pointed at their latest acquisition. “What do you think?”
The filly shifted her weight from one leg to the other and swung her head from side to side as if lost in her own little world.
Harry draped an elbow over an empty stall door. “She’ll be fine in a few days, Beau. Turn her out and let her graze for a while.”
“You bring me a half-crazed horse that can’t trot to save her life, and you think she’ll be fine? I wouldn’t trust her under Scout. How the hell do you expect us not to lose money on her?”
Harry shook his head. “Nonsense! She’ll make a stage horse or a mail runner. She gallops fine. We can take her to market in a few weeks.”
“We need brood mares, not mail runners.” Beau pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear; I gave you one job, one goddamned job…”
“Beau, look,” Harry said, flicking his thumb across a bridle hanging nearby. His voice turned somber. “It’s gonna take time to get the business going again. You know that. We need money now, and don’t forget we sold those two saddle horses within a month.”
“Fine,” Beau conceded, “but they barely brought in enough to buy this crazy thing.”
Beau flipped the saddle around on the rack and oiled the other side, wishing Harry still took things seriously like he did before that bullet took a chunk out of his leg and before morphine addled his mind. The man could whittle down the most tight-fisted farmers and bring back some fine stock. Being neither brother nor kin, Harry really had no vested interest in the business besides loyalty. Yet he had put his all into it, even more so than Beau, to be honest. Now they were lucky if he did a half-assed job at anything. Beau could only imagine Harry’s acquiring process, which likely involved him buying the horse sight unseen and gallivanting around at the nearest saloon the rest of the day.
“There’s a filly over in Lockport I’m going to look at on Monday,” Harry said in that soothing tone he employed when trying to win people over. “A thoroughbred. She’ll be a good one if we’re lucky.”
“I doubt it.”
“Goddamn it, Beau, I can’t up and shit a brood mare!”
“No, but you can sure talk shit.”
Harry balled up his fist and punched the stall door. The filly reared and whinnied.
Beau’s pa, Ezra, hollered from the stable entrance, “What’s goin’ on in here?”
“Nothin’,” Harry grumbled and hurried out in angry retreat.
Ezra stared after him. “What was that all about?”
“See what he brought us?” Beau angled his head toward the new filly.
Ezra sidled up to the stall. The filly ceased her door-chewing and belched. It smelled like rotten hay.
“Good Lord above,” he said, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Her teeth are worn down to near nubs.” He rubbed her nose, and she tried to nip him. Luckily the old man’s reflexes were still quick, so his fingers remained unscathed. “She’d be a waste of a bullet. What was that boy thinking?”
“He doesn’t think. That’s the problem.” Beau looked down the long corridor of the stable at all the vacant stalls. General Reynolds had raided Wilson County and had taken most of their horses while he and Harry were off fighting. “If you and Isaac hadn’t hid Scout and the mules, we wouldn’t have had any stock left. But Scout can’t make foals by himself. We need some good brood mares. Some sane ones.”
“I’ll put her out to graze. She might bring us somethin’ after she calms down a bit.”
Beau removed his hat and wiped sweat from his brow. Grateful as Beau was for Pa and Isaac’s perseverance, the current problem remained, demanding atten
tion like a botfly on a cow’s ass.
Ezra flipped through mail he had tucked under his arm. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“It’s a bill,” he grumbled. “Taxes overdue.”
Beau wasn’t surprised. “Let me see.”
Ezra handed him the bill, and his eyes fell on the dollar figure.
“Shit.”
“Watch your language, Beauregard. Can’t have you and Harry cursing every other breath with a new lady living here.”
Wincing at the number of digits in the Amount Due section, Beau crammed the bill in his vest pocket.
“What else we got?”
Ezra opened another envelope. “It’s a letter from Claire’s uncle.”
“Oliver?”
The old man took his glasses from his shirt pocket, put them on his nose, and held the letter at arm’s length. “Looks like he’s heading back from Philadelphia in a couple of weeks. He’s bringing Lydia.”
“She was always a sweet little girl.” Beau recalled some of the letters he’d received from her since Claire’s death. My dearest Beau… not a day passes that does not carry with it the memories I have of you…
“She ain’t so little no more,” he said with a smile. “She’s a young woman now. And you ain’t so old yourself.”
“Not that again.” With his thumb, Beau instinctively touched the golden band on his left ring finger.
“They’ve got money and lots of it.”
Here we go. Gold sparkled in Ezra’s eyes, or was that the thrill of matchmaking? Either way, Beau didn’t like it. He frowned and plopped his hat back on his head.
“Now don’t give me that look, son. It’s been two years. You need to find somebody. Give Jonathan a mama.”
“He had a mama. And we’re fine.” He hated the way his voice broke every time someone forced him to talk about Claire, so he made his retreat into Scout’s stall. The sixteen-year-old stallion was the most level-headed Morgan he’d ever owned. He nuzzled his master as soon as he saw the brush in Beau’s hand.
Ezra followed, thumbs tucked behind his overall straps. “You’re not fine, Beauregard. You need a lady to run things around here. Harry and Isaac are back with the new teacher, right?”
“I reckon so.” He brushed Scout’s neck with soft, gentle strokes.
“Portia, wasn’t it? Portia McAllister?”
“You’d know better than me. I didn’t want to hire her in the first place. It’s bad enough she’s a Rebel’s widow, but Harry says she’s not what we expected. Is she blind or deaf or missing a leg or what?”
“Heck if I know, son. I ain’t met her yet, either. All I’ve seen is her letter.”
“And according to that letter, her husband worked as an overseer.”
“Part-time assistant to an overseer.”
“Same difference.”
“Don’t matter what he was. She’s a former schoolteacher. And you know Claire wanted this for Jonny until he’s old enough for the university. I ain’t gonna be responsible for her coming back to haunt us for not abiding by her wishes.”
“Yeah, well when Claire was here, we had the money for such things. Now, it’s all we can do to keep food on the table and the few farm hands we got. With the measly pensions me and Harry get, it’s a wonder we can even do that. And now some Rebel woman who may or may not have some sort of deformity will be teaching my son and running my house. What are we supposed to pay her with? Praise?”
“I can’t help it if she’s the only one who replied.”
Beau huffed as he picked prickly burrs from Scout’s mane. “Does she know Jonny’s mute?”
“He’s not mute. He’ll come around with the right encouragement.”
“Still doesn’t solve the problem of how we’re gonna pay her.”
“If she’s so desperate that she’s not got any kin or neighbors to stay with, she’ll probably be grateful for the room and board alone. Let’s give her a chance, at least. We’ve got room, and we’ll still be hospitable, no matter how bare our cupboards are.”
“I swear, if this is another one of your matchmaking schemes…”
“It’s not, so shut your trap.”
Beau heaved a long, tired sigh. “Guess I better head to the house and welcome the crippled up gal like a good host should.”
Ezra shook a finger at him, but a spark of amusement flickered in the old man’s eye. “You be civil, Beauregard. I can still turn you over my knee if I have to.”
Beau chuckled. Despite their arguments, he was thankful Pa was still around. He couldn’t imagine life without him.
Ezra smacked Beau’s good shoulder. “I’ll take the filly out in a little while. Just don’t scare the poor widow off.”
After Ezra left, the filly pranced around her stall like she stood on burning coals. Beau shook his head and rubbed Scout’s velvety nose. Gray hair grew around the old horse’s muzzle, reminding Beau of his own silver-specked sideburns.
“I guess that makes two of us,” he said.
Thirty-four. Not so old and not so young. By no means beyond marrying age, but every time he even courted the idea, his throat constricted and made breathing a chore. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone. It was just easier that way. With no wife, he had less to lose.
Scout loved a good belly brushing, so Beau flipped over a pail and sat. In the stillness of musty air and horse breath, and with each gentle brush stroke, his thoughts drifted to Claire and the last time they rode Scout together. God, she had felt good against him in the saddle.
Just the day before in Nashville, he and Harry had enlisted. With their departure looming over them like some nightmarish bogeyman, Beau had wanted to treat Claire and Jonny to a picnic. Just a normal day down at Barton Creek with promises of ham and biscuits and a little trout fishing. Jonny had ridden beside them on his pony, chatting happily about something — Beau couldn’t remember what exactly — he had been too busy studying the sweet innocence of his son’s face. He had those big bright eyes and long lashes, framed by that coppery-blond hair. So much like his mama.
Claire’s laughter had tinkled all around them as they skipped rocks. She had masked her worry well enough for Jonny, but Beau had seen it clearly in every long look and lingering touch as they ate lunch on the bank. She contained her emotions like the good Southern lady she was trained to be until they were safe behind their bedroom door.
He had held her as she cried.
“Don’t go, please.”
“Somebody’s gotta look after Harry. He’ll get himself killed.”
“But what about you? Who will look after you?”
“I’ll be fine. The war can’t last much longer. I’ll be home before you miss me.”
“I’m so afraid, Beau.”
“Then let me love you tonight like only a husband can love his wife. Let’s forget there’s a war. Let’s forget there’s anyone but us for a while.”
It was the last time they’d shared their bed. He promised her he’d be back, and he kept his promise. He just never thought it would be Claire instead of him. Had two years really passed already?
Two mockingbirds interrupted the silence with annoying squawks, sparring to win a mate outside the window of the stall. Beau led Scout outside and headed toward the paddock. He glanced at the chicken coop where their only rooster mounted a hen. A strange tomcat slunk across the drive on the prowl for female barn cats. Spring had sprung, and life was heeding nature’s call.
Once the rooster had done the deed, he flew to the top of the coop to resume his nonstop crowing. Awfully proud of yourself, huh? Beau let Scout loose in the paddock, picked up a rock, and hurled it at the coop. It banged off the roof, sending the rooster flying into a squawking, feather-shedding fit.
“Better.” He climbed the hill toward the house and the new teacher. How he would manage to pay the woman and keep the farm going, he had no idea. Sniffing the air, he caught the scent of beef stew and cornbread — the one saving grace of the day.
He topped the hill and stopped. There she was, ten yards away, walking across the porch and into the house with Isaac. He caught a glimpse of smooth white skin, brown hair, a slim figure. Not a damn thing wrong with her as far as he could tell. Young, pretty, and single — the perfect candidate for a new wife.
“Damn it, Pa.”
Chapter Four
“Welcome to the Stanford house, Mrs. McAllister,” Isaac said, sweeping his hat in front of them.
Portia’s footsteps sounded hollow on the polished wood floor. Gazing up at the high ceiling framed with white-painted trim, she felt like Jack venturing into the giant’s lair. More furnishings filled the entry hall itself than she had in her entire home. Yet there were bare spaces here and there, indicated by dark rectangles on the floor and plastered walls. Things sold for much-needed cash or chopped up for firewood, perhaps. A portrait of a light-haired woman, a dark-haired man, and a small boy hung on the wall to her left. She shivered, feeling like an intruder trespassing on sacred ground.
A black woman stepped out of an adjoining room. “I suppose you’re Mrs. McAllister.”
The coolness in her dark eyes matched the tone of her voice and sent goose pimples across Portia’s skin. “Yes, and you are…?”
The woman didn’t answer. She just stood there, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Her head was wrapped in a red kerchief, and she wore a necklace made with colorful beads of varying shapes. A pale, diagonal scar ran from her brow, skipped her eye, and came to an end on her cheek. She swept a disapproving gaze over Portia and tucked her arms behind her back.
“Bessie,” Isaac said. “This is my wife, Bessie.”
Below her faded calico housedress, Bessie’s bare, brown feet stepped closer.
Portia offered the warmest smile she could muster. “It’s… a pleasure to meet you.”
“Mm-hmm.”
This woman obviously didn’t want her here, and no wonder — how could a freed black woman welcome a Confederate’s widow? Would it help to explain that she and Jake never owned any slaves? She guessed not from the way Bessie regarded her like an annoying piece of meat between her teeth that needed to be removed.
