The Rain Sparrow

by Debbie Macomber

  Oscar cocked his head and groused. “Sign clearly says we ain’t taking any more grain this week.”

  Thad’s nostrils flared in irritation. Not everyone could read. “Haul Mrs. Beacon’s sacks over to her farm, and I’ll see what our visitor wants.”

  “I ain’t no delivery boy.”

  “She’s an old woman, Oscar, a widow. A man’s Christian duty is to take care of widows and orphans.”

  Oscar huffed. “Then send me over to Elizabeth Cower’s farm. I’d be mighty pleased to take care of that particular widow and add a star in my heavenly crown at the same time.” A sly grin slid up his cheeks. “Yes, sir. I believe the Lord is calling me to Miz Cower’s place.”

  Thad frowned. The young, pretty Mrs. Cower had been left with three children and not much else. She didn’t need Oscar’s wandering eye to point in her direction. “Deliver to Mrs. Beacon, Oscar, and leave the other women alone.”

  The burly man spun on his boot heel and tromped down the stairs, showing his displeasure in every heavy step.

  The tall double doors that made up the entrance of the mill stood open to let in the breeze blowing over the falls, a relief from the heat. There in the dust-mote sunlight stood a very black man.

  He stepped forward, peering upward. “Mr. Thaddeus? Is that you, sir?”

  “Abram?” Thad’s displeasure dissipated. He hurried down the remaining steps. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “No, sir, I ’spect not.”

  “Did you find your family in Chattanooga?”

  The young man’s face saddened. “No, sir. They’d moved on after the emancipation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What brings you to Honey Ridge?”

  “You do, Mr. Thad. I remembered what you told me about the mill and how you’d be working here. Sure is glad to find you.” He stood with faded black hat in hand, shiny with sweat. “I knowed this here watch was important to you after what you told me about your woman.”

  Abram reached into his pocket and extracted a pocket watch. Thad gazed, stunned, at the silver timepiece. It was his, all right. He’d recognize Amelia’s gift anywhere. “Where did you find this?”

  Footsteps on the stairs turned their attention to a smirking Oscar. “He probably stole it.”

  “No, sir.” Abram’s expression darkened. His eyes flickered to Oscar, then to Thad and to the ground.

  Irritation rose on the back of Thad’s neck. He shot Oscar a sharp look.

  “I believe you, Abram. Why else would you come all this way to return it?”

  Oscar harrumphed and pushed around the freedman, whispering something crude as he jostled the ex-slave’s arm and stomped out into the sunlight.

  Thad glared at the departing man. Some days were better than others with Oscar Pitts, but today he’d been on a tear since his arrival at dawn.

  Abram kept his eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped in subservience. The notion that he expected to be ill-treated cramped in Thad’s gut worse than a gallon of wild berries.

  “You must have dropped your timepiece when you was getting off the train, Mr. Thad, sir. I didn’t see it ’til the train started up again and it was too late to holler at you.”

  Thad took the beloved watch into hands dusty white with meal flour. He turned it over to read the inscription on back, and his heart turned over with it. Sweet words. Loving words. He ran his rough fingertips over the fine engraving.

  Forever and always, I will love you.

  “I thought I’d lost her again,” he murmured softly, throat thick with emotion.

  Except for the trickle and rush of water over the falls, the mill was silent, resting up for farmers who would come later in the day to pick up or drop off their corn for processing.

  Thad’s heart beat against his chest, a reminder that he lived on, the only legacy of a good woman and a beautiful child. He was as adrift as Abram, but at least he had the mill and honest work.

  “Did you walk all the way from Chattanooga?”

  Abram lifted his head with a slight, wry smile. “Yes, sir.”

  A silent understanding passed between them. Of course he had.

  “Then you’re weary. Hungry, too. I was about to go to the farm for dinner. Can you walk another half mile?”

  Abram glanced down at his dusty, worn boots. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Thad. I’m obliged.”

  No, Thad thought. He was obliged. Regardless of the problems at the mill, the troublesome hired man or the animosity from Josie, having the watch returned was a balm to a sore soul. He owed Abram.

  * * *

  JOSIE GLANCED IN the cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom and then out the window to the long lane of magnolias planted years ago for her great-grandmother Hattie Portland, a Georgia native who was also responsible for the peach orchard. Both, she was said to claim, reminded her of home.

  After living off the peaches and peas for most of a year until new crops could be produced and livestock recovered and fattened, Josie appreciated her ancestor’s efforts more than before the war.

  From the fields to the right of the lane, she saw Thaddeus and another man walking toward the house. A charge, like soft lightning that jumped from cloud to cloud, flickered through her. Not that she found the man attractive—that would be disloyal to Tom—but Thaddeus was a change in her dull routine. He annoyed her no end. That was a fact. Annoyed her enough that she spent long moments at her sewing table pondering ways to upset his applecart. Vexing each other was the game they played, this Yankee and her, and though she despised a Yankee, Josie had always loved games.

  From her sewing basket, she extracted a length of bonny blue ribbon. Eventually, the ribbon would adorn a shawl for Henrietta Baskin, but today Josie threaded it into her hair and went downstairs to help get supper on the table.

  Lizzy was there, bossing everyone around, and Josie took her orders in stride. The uppity maid, now a free woman, had always been a favorite of Charlotte’s and these days she ran the household and took her pay in room, board and a share of the farm profits. Charlotte also paid two Yankee leftovers, as Josie called them, as well as Hob, an arthritic old man who wasn’t good for much other than tending the chickens and fishing with Benjamin. Everyone loved old Hob. Even her.

  “Where’s Charlotte?” she asked, noting the missing sister-in-law.

  Patience slid a pan of corn bread out of the oven. The smell of catfish, fresh from the river and crispy fried with cornmeal, saturated the kitchen. “She and Ben went to the cemetery. Will went to call them for dinner.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte paid regular respects to her late husband and their lost babies, as well as the handful of Yankee soldiers who’d died in this house. Josie shivered at the memories. So much grief and blood. Even now, blood stained the parlor floor and the smell lingered and clung, especially in summer when the air was thick and hot. She hoped the freed slaves appreciated all who’d died on their behalf.

  Plates clattered. Silverware, saved from the Yankees by Lizzy and Hob, who had buried it beneath the slave cabins, gleamed from a fresh polish.

  Will, Charlotte and Benjamin came inside. Eleven-year-old Ben was quiet as always after visiting his father’s grave. In pity and affection, Josie touched his pale cowlick as she passed by carrying the plate of catfish. A bag of marbles given to him by the captain hung from her nephew’s waist. The boy was rarely without them, though he was without the best friend with whom he’d played the game. Tandy was gone, sold. One of many sins on Josie’s account.

  So many regrets. So many sins laid to her charge. She’d likely never get to heaven. But if Yankees strolled the streets of gold, perhaps she didn’t want to go anyway. Not that she would express those thoughts to Charlotte or Patience, both of whom feared the wrath of God. Josie feared nothing. Not one single thing. Never again.

&
nbsp; From the parlor, the thump-tap of Logan’s walking sticks announced that the other men had come inside the house. Yankees, every one of them. Legless Logan and blind Johnny, a pitiful pair, remained at Peach Orchard Farm and showed absolutely no intent of ever leaving. The other wounded soldier, Brinks, had healed and returned to the North after Will’s arrival.

  That she might respect Captain Gadsden’s ex-soldiers who’d stayed to help the women of Peach Orchard Farm in their time of need allowed her to remain civil. She would not, however, betray her beloved Tom or his Confederacy by liking any of them. They were a boil on the back of the South, an ever-present reminder of the ultimate price too many had paid.

  As the table was laid and diners tromped in, hair slicked and wet and faces shiny damp from the well, Thaddeus and another man entered. The room fell silent as all eyes stared. The dark stranger dropped his head as if trying to disappear. Thad clapped him on the back, treating him as an equal, which she grudgingly supposed he was in a twisted sort of way. She had yet to fully understand the new rules of emancipation.

  “I’d like you to meet Abram,” Thaddeus said. “We met on the train where I lost my pocket watch. He found it and walked all the way from Chattanooga to return it to me.”

  Will, from his place at the head of the table, stood. “We’re obliged to you, Abram.”

  “He’s had a long trip and is hungry and tired. I invited him to supper.”

  Josie stared, aghast.

  Charlotte’s hands rested at her waist, her usually serene face disturbed. Even she saw the predicament. Surely even barbaric Northerners did not sit at the table with their servants?

  Lizzy placed a plate of sliced corn bread on the table. She flashed obsidian eyes at the discomfited stranger. “Abram will be wanting to wash up and rest a spell, I suspect. I’ll show him to the kitchen.”

  An inaudible sigh worked its way around the dining room. Abram nodded, hat in hand, and followed Lizzy.

  Chairs scraping, the family settled in to eat. Josie peeked at Thaddeus while Will said grace. Yankees had strange ways.

  When the prayer ended, Josie took a slice of golden corn bread and reached for the butter.

  “Could I see your pocket watch, Mr. Thad?” Ben’s eager face proved irresistible.

  Thad pulled the timepiece from his pocket and passed it across the table to the boy, who studied the silver case with curiosity. “There’s writing on the back.”

  “The watch was a gift,” Thad said. “I am fortunate to have it returned.”

  “A pocket watch is valuable,” Charlotte said in her soft, reasonable voice. “Abram could have sold it and saved himself the walk.”

  Thad nodded. “And had money in his pocket.”

  “An honest man is hard to find.” Will forked a crispy catfish fillet and passed the dish to his cousin.

  William nodded and reached for the butter. “We’re agreeable. There’s plenty to do, if he’s inclined to work.”

  “I figure he is. He’s searching for his family, but a man’s got to rest and eat.”

  “It’s settled, then. You’ll speak to him?”

  “I will.”

  Josie stared at her plate, her appetite diminished and replaced by remorse.

  Abram searched for his family, separated by the bonds of slavery. Lincoln could declare the slaves free, but who would put their families back together? Was Lizzy searching for her son even as Abram searched for his family? Would Tandy try to find his way home again? Would the child know how?

  And if he never returned, would she ever stop feeling guilty?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Present

  SATURDAY MORNING, CARRIE finished her work at Interfaith Partnership and loaded two boxes of kid-friendly nonperishables in the small trunk of her car, stopping at Kroger for milk, eggs and bread before heading to Brody’s house.

  Her sister Bailey, who also volunteered at the charity, had offered to ride along, but this was something Carrie wanted to do on her own. She was a little nervous, but a meeting with Clint Thomson was in order, if nothing else to introduce herself and allay the worries about Brody’s environment.

  After the Sweat twins’ bizarre conversation at the café, her curiosity and her concern were elevated to red alert.

  Hayden had taken the twins seriously, gnawing over the conversation like a dog with a new bone.

  Bones. Burial in the backyard. Such things were too grizzly for a librarian.

  Yet there was a child to consider.

  Mr. Thomson’s car, an older-model white sedan, was parked in the driveway, so she marched up to the door and knocked with one hand while juggling a box in the other.

  Though she avoided looking toward the backyard, a shiver tingled her spine.

  The Sweats and their wild imaginations.

  Inside the house, the television blared.

  She knocked again, and the door opened. Scowling out at her was a shirtless Clint Thomson, his torso pale white and hairy.

  Carrie was careful to keep her focus on his face. “Mr. Thomson, I’m Carrie Riley. I work at the library.”

  Did you bury your wife in the backyard?

  His squint raked up and down her. He leaned a bare arm on the doorjamb. “I know who you are.”

  Well, that was certainly friendly. She swallowed, hiked her chin. She might be a mouse, but this was broad daylight in Honey Ridge.

  “Brody comes to the library often.”

  The man’s expression darkened. “He’s not bothering you, is he? If that boy makes a nuisance of himself, I’ll tear his hide up.”

  “No, sir. Not at all. Brody’s a nice boy, and I’m happy to have him at the library anytime. In fact, I have a nephew his age and wondered if Brody might come over sometime and play.”

  The idea had appeared out of thin air, but her family had a cookout planned for Dad’s upcoming birthday, so why not?

  Clint Thomson’s scowl deepened. “You sure he’s not a pest? He can be a sneaky little troublemaker if you don’t watch him. I never know what he’s up to next.”

  The snide reference from the child’s own father sent anger shooting up Carrie’s backbone. She bit down on her back teeth to remain civil.

  “I assure you—that is not the case. We’d be delighted to have his company.”

  The man scratched at the side of his head. “I guess that would be okay, then. He don’t hang around here much anyway.”

  Was it any wonder?

  “Excellent.” This was going better than she’d expected. Breathing a sigh of relief, she held out the box of food. “I also volunteer at Interfaith Partnership and thought you and Brody might find a use for these items.”

  He took the box and glanced inside. His body stiffened.

  “Charity?” He looked up at her, his color going dark red. “You think I’m some kind of charity case?”

  “No, sir, not at all. I only wanted to help—”

  “That stupid boy say something to you? Did he say I don’t feed him? ’Cause that’s a lie!” A vein popped out on his forehead. He spun his head toward the interior of the house. “Brody! Get out here right now!”

  Brody’s white face appeared behind his father. His pale blue eyes stared at Carrie in fear and dismay, but he said not a word.

  Carrie reached for the man’s arm. “Mr. Thomson, please. This was my idea. Brody didn’t say anything. He had nothing to do with this.”

  Thomson turned back toward her, bulging eyes taking in her fingers on his skin. “No? You sure about that?”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely, and if I have offended you, I apologize.” Oh, what had she done? Her heart stuttered wildly.

  He shoo
k her off. “I don’t need some highbrow librarian looking down on me and my kid. I take care of my own.”

  “Completely understood. No one is making judgments, Mr. Thomson.” But she had. So had Hayden. “I wanted to be friendly in case—”

  He shoved the box toward her. “Take your charity to someone else.”

  “But, sir, I—”

  He slammed the door in her face.

  * * *

  WITH A CREEPING sense of déjà vu, Hayden stared at the shadow box of keepsakes hanging above a mahogany credenza in the foyer of Peach Orchard Inn. All the items, according to the caption, had been found during the refurbishing of the antebellum inn and dated back before 1900.

  A silver spoon. A faded leather-bound journal next to a book of sheet music. Buttons and coins and a brooch with a missing jewel. A medicine bottle with stopper intact. But it was the pocket watch that gave Hayden pause, that stirred the hair on the back of his neck and that seemed eerily familiar.

  He squinted to read the inscription, a fine, flowing script engraved on aged silver.

  Bingo, the blue merle shepherd, wandered in, sniffed Hayden’s shoes and collapsed with a sigh on the heart pine flooring. Hayden bent down to scratch the patient ears.

  He’d had a dog once long ago, a slick black stray that had followed him everywhere and loved him unconditionally. He’d stolen to feed that dog.

  Hayden rubbed a weary hand over his face. Dora Lee had called again last night. The voice mail still lingered on his phone, unanswered, haunting him, a reminder that he was a liar and a fraud and a worthless excuse for a son.

  He normally didn’t think about those things, about the past he’d left behind or the life he’d fabricated. He blamed the inn and the crazy dreams, the stubborn book proposal and the surrounding woods and creeks and mountains that reminded him too much of home.

  Perhaps he’d made a mistake in coming to rural Tennessee to write. He’d been off balance since the night he’d arrived.

  The very truth of his existence required he remain aloof from places and people, but this place and these people wouldn’t let him. It scared him. Though he’d learned to sustain fear like an old friend, this fear was different. Honey Ridge was different. It both soothed and unsettled.