CHAPTER NINETEEN
We are all ready to be savage in some cause. The difference between a good man and a bad one is the choice of the cause.
—William James
1867
FOR MANY DAYS after what Thad came to think of as the incident at the creek, Josie was different. She no longer seethed with anger, but she didn’t sparkle, either. Thad had come to like when Josie got all stirred up and sparkled.
She’d stopped coming to the mill, too.
He shouldn’t have let her see the scars. Tired, and mulling the confrontation with Oscar Pitts, he’d been distracted.
Will and Charlotte had stood firmly behind his decision to fire the cheating mill worker. He was thankful for that, but he worried about repercussions. The Yankee miller had yet to find acceptance in Honey Ridge, and this would only deepen the rift.
So far, business continued as usual. Farmers had little choice if they wanted their meal ground. If customers weren’t particularly friendly, they never had been. At church on the Sabbath, he’d received some sly glances and snide comments and figured word had circulated. Hopefully, he’d seen the last of Oscar Pitts and the rest would blow over in time.
As Thursday wound down, sweat seeped from his pores like water from a spring, and even the breeze off the waterwheel didn’t provide relief from the heat generated by the spinning stones and the constant, cloying fog of meal dust. Abram worked the bolting cloths upstairs, sifting the cornmeal from the grits with Tabby and the kittens alert for mice.
They would require more hands when the heavy harvest began later in the fall, though Will assured him the family was up to the task. They’d been doing it for years. Thad thought of Josie at the sheller with yellow corn bits stuck in her bright red hair.
He wished he’d not frightened her away with his grief and damaged flesh.
He took out his pocket watch and rubbed his fingers over the inscription. Forever and always had ended too soon. Even now, he struggled to remember the faces of his family. Their voices had long since disappeared from memory, no matter how he strained to hear them. How deeply he longed to hear Grace’s childish giggle and Amelia’s sweet melody as she hummed in the kitchen.
Starting over in a new place had provided distance, but no number of miles erased the dark emptiness inside his chest.
He realized then that Josie, as well as hard labor at the mill, had proved a distraction from his heartache. Now, as he held Amelia’s gift, he felt vaguely sinful as if enjoying another woman’s company was disloyal to Amelia. His wife was worth grieving over, worth clinging to, worth loving forever and always as they’d promised.
With a sigh, he replaced the watch, grateful again to the man who had walked across less-than-friendly territory to return it. A man he’d come to consider a friend.
He strode to the water bucket and drank deeply and then went into the office to go over Logan’s figures for the day. Logan was a fine bookkeeper, but the incident with Oscar had taught Thad to keep an eye on everything.
So engrossed was he in the ledgers that he only vaguely heard footsteps tap against the hardwood. Accounting the sounds to Abram, he continued his perusal of the names and amounts until a voice said, “I thought you should know.”
Josie stood in the doorway, her cheeks rosy and green eyes glistening beneath a plain straw hat tied with emerald-green ribbons.
A bolt of energy shot through his weary body. He pushed back from the desk and stood. “Well, look what the wind blew in.”
She made a derisive noise and fanned a hand in front of her face. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s hardly a breath of air stirring.”
A grin tickled his chest. She was here...and in a prickly mood.
He came around the mercifully silent potbellied stove to where the redhead gripped the doorjamb of the tiny office and stood close enough to see the rise and fall of her buttoned bodice.
“Got a bee in your bonnet?”
She sniffed. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”
“I’ve been busy. Hannah Ogden had twins and not a stitch to put on them.” Which clearly made her furious. She tossed her head, eyes flashing lightning. “Federals stole everything they had.”
Ah, the hated Federals. Again. “Never figured you for a midwife.”
“Don’t be foolish. I wouldn’t know how to deliver so much as a kitten. But I know how to sew.”
Realization turned over in his chest. “You sewed for her babies?”
“Gowns and flannels. Patience knits the booties and caps.” A tenderness he’d not noticed before softened her sharp edges. “The darlings looked precious, and poor Hannah cried. I don’t know why she did such a thing.” She waved a dismissing hand. “Over a few leftover scraps of cloth.”
Thad stood dumbstruck. He’d thought she sewed only for her own vanity. The truth caught on the jagged edges of his mind, and he left it hanging. Something to ponder later, this new layer of Miss Josie Portland.
“So what brings you to the mill? Miss my company?”
Green eyes rolled upward. “Don’t flatter yourself. I relish the fragrance of enterprise.”
At that, he laughed, and she joined him.
Abram tromped down the steps covered in fine white powder, a black ghost. “Mr. Swartz is here for his order.”
“Jim Swartz?” Josie swiveled in the direction of the mill road.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Go ahead and load his wagon, Abram,” Thad said. “I’ll write out his bill.”
Abram headed around the staircase toward the side of the mill where processed grain was stamped and stored until retrieved by its owner or sold to paying customers. From there, a double door led out to the loading porch.
“Jim Swartz,” Josie said softly as she stared with interest toward the dock. “Why, I haven’t seen him in a month of Sundays.”
A former beau, perhaps?
Suddenly disgruntled, Thad hitched his chin. “Then, by all means, you must pay your respects to the man. I’ll be there in a minute.”
After she left, he realized she’d never told him why she’d come.
With a shrug, he figured up Jim Swartz’s account, all the while wondering at Josie’s connection with the man, and then wondering why he was wondering.
Shaking his head, he tossed the stub of pencil on the desk and started toward the loading dock.
As he stepped out into the sunshine, tension simmered in the air thicker than lima bean soup.
Thad slowed his steps, taking in the situation as he gazed from the two farmers to Abram. He recognized the short, stocky man with the slick mustache as Jim Swartz from the day he’d brought in his corn. The other, tall and lanky with pocked scars, was a stranger. Both glared at Abram.
“Everything all right out here, gentlemen?”
“No, sir.” Swartz propped a boot on the sack at Abram’s feet. “It’s not.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Him.” Chest thrust out, Swartz poked a stubby finger toward Abram. “Must not have been Oscar Pitts doing the cheating around here. This here—” he curled his lips as if something stank “—gentleman stole from me. Or tried to. George saw him do it, saw him hide this bag of cornmeal when he thought we wasn’t paying attention.”
Thad drew in a weary breath. As much as he trusted Abram, a man never knew for sure. “That true, George?”
George’s face was red as fresh beets. He flicked a nervous glance toward Abram. “Yep.”
“Abram, did you short this man?”
Abram’s arms hung limply at his sides, shoulders stooped. A black man arguing with a white one could get him beaten or worse.
“The truth, Abram.”
In a w
hisper, eyes on the ground, the freedman said, “No, sir.”
Thad let out a slow, thoughtful breath. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. Trouble was bad for the mill, and taking sides with a black man over a white was nothing but trouble. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that Abram was telling the truth. Something about the two men didn’t ring true.
“Abram’s been an honest employee, Mr. Swartz. Perhaps a mistake was made. These things happen from time to time, and as we want to keep our customers happy, how about we deduct the price of grinding this bag from your account and call it square?”
“It weren’t no mistake, Eriksson. He stole from me sure as I’m standing here, and I want him fired. Horsewhipped, too.” He stabbed the air again, face mottled. “I found my sack, marked with my name, right over there behind that barrel where he hid it.”
“Because you put it there, Jim.”
All heads swiveled toward Josie. In the commotion, he’d barely noticed her below the dock near the millpond.
She came up the steps toward the gathered men, green eyes troubled, her skirts swishing softly in the sudden silence that followed her declaration.
“What are you talking about, Josie? You standing up for the likes of them?” Swartz seemed incredulous. “Over Tom’s best friend?”
Something painful flashed across Josie’s face, and Thad watched her struggle, but she stood her ground.
Chin tilted up, she said, “This is my family’s mill. If Abram had stolen from us, I would fire him myself. You know I would, but he didn’t. I saw what happened.” Some of her composure slipped. “Please, don’t do this, Jim.”
When her lip trembled, Thad figured he’d heard enough. “Mr. Swartz, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Should have thought of that when you fired Pitts.” Expression venomous, Jim glared at Abram. “He told us how you accused him when he hadn’t done anything wrong so you could hire...him.”
Thad held up a hand. He could argue all day, but neither this man nor any other friend of Oscar Pitts would hear the truth.
“You have your order. Take what’s yours and go. The next time you need a miller’s services, take your business elsewhere.”
Swartz pulled back as if struck. “Nearest mill is fifty miles!”
Thad crossed his arms. “You should have considered that before bringing false witness against an innocent man.”
Hate-filled eyes first raked over Abram and then Thaddeus. “You’re getting in over your head around here, Union boy. Better watch out.”
The other farmer, who had looked nothing but miserable throughout the confrontation, jerked a hand toward the loaded wagon. “Come on, Jim—it’s getting late.”
“Yeah, and the air around here stinks.” Jim pointed a finger at Josie. “I wonder what Tom would think about you right now, girl.”
Josie sucked in a gasp, her hands going to her midsection as if the man had punched her.
Thad clenched his fists. From the corner of his eye, he saw Abram tense.
He stepped forward, but the two farmers had done their damage and stomped down the steps to the waiting wagon. Jim shot one last simmering glare toward Abram, then slapped the reins and drove away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It has been said, “time heals all wounds.” I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
—Rose Kennedy
Present
BRODY DRAGGED HIS backpack across the front porch, reluctant to go inside the house, but the old man had told him to come straight home from school.
He hoped he wasn’t in trouble again. Maybe the old man had heard about the lunch he’d had with Hayden. Maybe he was mad about that, thinking Brody had shamed him again by letting the rich writer pay for his meal. That’s what the old man said, his face twisted and red. He’d called Hayden a bad word and said Hayden was a rich man looking down on a bunch of hillbillies.
A terrible thought made his knees quake. Had the old man found out about the things Brody told Hayden?
But how could he have? Hayden promised not to tell a soul.
Unless Hayden lied.
Belly heavy as a lead pipe, he pushed silently through the door and tiptoed toward his room.
“Brody! That you, boy?”
Brody froze in midstep. He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Get in here.”
He left the backpack where it fell and, head down, trudged toward the kitchen, where his dad sat at the table. He didn’t know why the old man was off work today, and he didn’t dare ask.
What his father did was no business of a stupid, useless kid.
From the doorway, he murmured, “Yes, sir?”
“Come over here. I got something for you.” His father didn’t sound drunk. He sounded...pleased.
Brody’s head popped up.
He didn’t look drunk, either. He wasn’t swaying or glassy-eyed. He had a box in front of him on the table.
Brody eased closer. “What’s that?”
“Go on. Open it.” The old man pushed the box toward him, his eyes gleaming with a strange light. A good kind of light that Brody only saw when his father had sobered up after being drunk and crazy and breaking stuff. Like this past weekend. “Go on now.”
The excitement of a rare gift was too much for Brody. He tore into the box and when he saw the Nintendo 3DS, a small gaming system, his heart leaped.
“Dad,” he breathed, looking into his father’s face.
“You like it?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.” He held the little plastic box reverently. Several boys at school had them, but he’d barely dreamed of owning one. “Today’s not my birthday.”
His father hooked an elbow around his neck and squeezed, but for once the squeeze was light and didn’t hurt. His dad wasn’t mad at him.
“Can’t a man buy his kid something if he wants to?”
“I guess so.” But Brody wondered. Would the old man throw the gift in his face later or break it on a drunken tear?
Clint scrubbed his knuckles across the top of Brody’s head with enough pressure to let him know he meant business. “So what do you say?”
“Thank you, sir. I love it.” The pleasure felt hollow and insecure, like an empty stomach.
“Comes with a few games, too.” Clint scratched himself. “I was thinking. That library woman, Carrie Riley.”
Brody tensed but didn’t say a word.
“She invited you to a cookout with her nephew. You know him?”
“Yes, sir. Landon. He’s in sixth.”
“He a troublemaker?”
“Landon’s pretty nice. He lets fifth graders play soccer on his team at recess.” Landon was Mr. Popular. All the girls liked him, and he wore cool clothes and shoes, but he didn’t act snotty about it like some boys did.
“Well, you go to that cookout, then. Being around class won’t hurt you none.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He was afraid to show too much enthusiasm. If he really wanted to do something, his dad would change his mind.
“All right, then.” Clint ran a hand through greasy hair. “We’re okay? Everything’s square?”
He understood his father’s meaning. Not that he’d ever tell anyone else but Hayden that his father screamed and cussed and broke stuff when he got drunk. That he scared Brody so much he didn’t sleep all night.
Hayden had promised not to tell, and he believed him. He didn’t know why but the rich man from New York seemed to understand. Probably because he was a writer and writers knew stuff.
Brody had known a kid once who went to foster care and never came back. He didn’t want to go there. That was what he’d told Hayden. He could always hide i
n the woods now that he had his own place. Or maybe go visit Hayden at the inn. Hayden liked him.
“Yes, sir. All square.”
“You hungry, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, then—let’s go out and celebrate. Me and you, father and son.”
Brody didn’t know what they were celebrating, but a cautious hope sprouted in his chest. A Nintendo and supper? Maybe his dad didn’t hate him as much as he thought...
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep.
—E. W. Howe
CARRIE EASED A glance at the man seated behind the steering wheel of a huge gray Chrysler. His long legs stretched out, hands relaxed on the wheel, confident and easy in his own skin.
Hayden turned his head toward her and smiled.
Something in her chest turned over.
Since the afternoon at the mill, her head buzzed with thoughts of Hayden Winters. Impossible thoughts. Ridiculous thoughts.
He’d almost kissed her, but then he’d backed away. Since then he’d been very careful to keep a friendly distance.
Friendly. But guy friendly. The kind of friendly that opened doors and rested his hand at the small of her back. The kind of friendly that looked at her too long and had her pulse clattering and her brain winging off into fantasyland.
He was here to write a book, not have a fling with the local librarian.
Because of Brody’s and Hayden’s keen use of her library, she saw him nearly every day.
Some days he researched through books or pecked away at his laptop. Notes and photos, quotes and reference links. Several times she’d noticed articles on agoraphobia.
He’d ask her a question, and she’d settle into a chair across from him to answer, though rarely did they talk about anything remotely related to a killer thriller. He asked about the town, the quirky good ol’ boys, Brody and the Riley family. He told of her his apartment in New York, which sounded so glamorous, though the idea of living with strangers mere inches away through a wall gave her hives. He told of escaping to Central Park for quiet moments amid nature. He asked about her family, and she talked until she was sure he must be bored, but he wasn’t. He seemed to lap up the funny memories, the holidays, pressing for more.
The Rain Sparrow Page 32
