[The History Mystery 01.0] Time and Again

by Deborah Heal

  Three men rode cautiously out of the timber and reined their dusty horses behind Jonathan Miles’ barn. Billy Reynolds reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. “This is the place.” He took a long swig and then laughed. “Now we’ll have us some fun, boys.”

  “You sure no one’s around, Reynolds?” the man on the roan said, staring nervously at the house.

  “I happen to know Colonel Miles is way off in Kentucky chasin’ Rebs,” Reynolds said. “Though in a way, I wish he was here.” His lips turned up in a sneer. “We’d do to ’im like my grandpappy and his friends did to that nigger-lovin’ Lovejoy.” He took another swig and laughed. “Nigger-lovin’ Loveyjoy. That’s kinda poetic, ain’t it?”

  “Well, hurry up, will you?” said the man on the bay horse. “We ought to try to be in Missouri by sundown.”

  “All right. You boys stay behind the barn out of sight and I’ll go in first.” Reynolds spat on his palms and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “When I give the signal, you can sneak in the back door there.”

  “What makes you think you can handle her by yourself?”

  “And why do we have to wait out here?”

  “Because she don’t know you.” Reynolds laughed. “She trusts me.”

  “Just don’t you forget to give the signal, Reynolds.”

  He peeked in the kitchen window and then, seeing no one, eased through the back door.

  After five minutes had passed, the two men behind the barn began to fidget.

  “He’s keeping the girlie for himself.”

  “I should’ve knowed it! Let’s go.”

  After looking carefully around, the two men stepped from behind the barn. When they had gone only a couple of steps, a gunshot rang out behind them. Not stopping to ask questions, they turned and ran to their horses. At the same time, Reynolds bolted out of the back door and ran for the barn, stuffing a handful of jewelry into his pocket.

  “Do you get it now?” Abby searched Merrideth’s red, puffy eyes, hoping to see understanding. Instead, all she saw was an angry glint.

  “Sure. Billy Reynolds and his friends were going to hurt Charlotte.”

  “But, why didn’t they?”

  “Because they heard the gun and ran.”

  “Take it a step further. Why did the gun go off?”

  The anger left Merrideth’s eyes and she slumped again in her chair. “I’m tired, Abby. Do we have to play Twenty Questions? I just want to go back to bed.”

  “In a minute, kiddo. I don’t know why God let Charlotte get hurt. All I know is that our world is totally messed up by sin. But when you think about all we saw, time after time, God brought good out of the bad and blessed his people.”

  “Yeah, well he must not have blessed Colonel Miles very good, because—

  “Blessed them well.”

  “Well. Because everything he built rotted away, and now here we are in this dump.”

  “God’s thoughts are so far above ours we’ll never understand—at least in this life. But he has a plan. Because Colonel Miles worked so hard to get the railroad, a lot of soldiers and supplies were transported and helped win the war. Sure, maybe he didn’t have enough time for his daughter sometimes. But because Charlotte worked so hard and was forced to take on so much responsibility when she was young, she continued to thrive while he was away. She helped keep the mill going, and the flour and cornmeal from it went to feed the Union Army. And she was courageous enough to help who knows how many slaves make it safely through Miles Station.

  “And even Jonathan Miles’ legal mess with the railroad company was part of the plan. It brought Lincoln into their lives, and he might very well have been the influence that made Charlotte so determined to help the slaves in the first place.

  “And, speaking of Lincoln. We were sad that he lost the Senate election, but what he said during that failed campaign won him an even better job—the one he was born to do—lead America through the Civil War and end slavery.”

  Abby decided it was time for her to shut up. She stroked Merrideth’s hair and let the silence draw out. Thunder rumbled again, closer, and a sprinkling of raindrops hit the window.

  “The fair.” Merrideth sat up and looked at her. “Charlotte was so mad her father wouldn’t let her go to the fair. But that guy was a creep.”

  “That’s right. If Charlotte’s father had let her go off with Billy Reynolds, she might never have met James McGuire, who just happened to stop in that very day.”

  Merrideth thought again. “I guess if she could sit with us at the monitor and see her whole life the way we did, she wouldn’t be angry with her father.”

  “And not her heavenly Father either, kiddo. And do you understand what happened to Charlotte in the woods?”

  “If she hadn’t been out hunting for squirrels, those men would have hurt her. And if she hadn’t dropped the gun…if the gun hadn’t gone off…”

  “Exactly. Time and again, God was working and—”

  “And caring,” Merrideth added.

  They didn’t say anything else, just sat staring at the dust settling on a bright sunny afternoon in 1862 in Miles Station. A loud clap of thunder brought them back to their own time and place.

  “Okay, now I’ve really got to shut this thing down,” Abby said.

  “I get it,” Merrideth said quietly.

  “No, I’ll shut it down. Why don’t you start closing the windows?”

  "No, I mean, I get it." She hurried to the door and was gone.

  Abby breathed a prayer of thanks.

  Chapter 20

  In spite of the late night, Abby woke early the next morning when she heard noises coming from overhead. A glance at her clock through puffy eyes confirmed that it was six-thirty—A.M. The noises came again. Someone was in the attic? If it had been midnight instead of morning, the thump would have sounded like a dead body falling to the floor and the scraping sound as if someone were dragging it away. At least there were no rattling chains or ghostly wails.

  She dragged her carcass out of bed and into the hall. The door to the spare room stood open and so did the door to the attic. Yellow light fell weakly on the stairs.

  When she got to the top of the stairs, Merrideth looked up from where she knelt by an old wooden trunk riffling through its contents.

  “What on earth are you doing, Merrideth?”

  “Oh, sorry. But, look, Abby. I found Charlotte’s trunk. It was under a stack of newspapers.”

  Abby lowered the lid and ran her hand over its scarred surface. “Well, what do you know? Can’t you just picture Charlotte sitting on it writing away? Anything interesting in it?”

  Merrideth sighed. “No, just old clothes.”

  “Cool,”

  “Not that kind of old. Just dorky jeans and T-shirts. I was hoping Charlotte’s book would still be up here.” She stuffed the clothes back inside and closed the lid.

  Abby grinned. “And if this were a true Nancy Drew summer, we would have found Charlotte’s journal in the attic. But I’ve got the next best thing. I was so tired last night I completely forgot to show you.”

  As soon as they got to the computer room, Abby clicked on the PDF document she had downloaded the night before. An image of an old book popped up on the screen. The title embossed on the leather cover was Following the North Star: True Stories, as Told by Former Slaves.

  “So she got it published?”

  “Yep. It’s out of print, but I did a web search and found it on the State Archive website. That’s got to mean it’s important. Click on it and the pages will turn.”

  Merrideth clicked and the book opened to the title page. The author’s name jumped out at them: Charlotte Miles McGuire.

  “Do you want to read it?” Abby asked.

  “Maybe later. But shouldn’t we go get ready for church?”

  Abby enjoyed the church service much more than she had the previous week when she had been so distracted by John. Although they sat next to him, this time it
was Merrideth who occupied her thoughts. Abby spent the whole time seeing the service through her eyes, wondering what Merrideth thought of the pastor’s words, praying for God’s blessing on her young friend.

  Merrideth seemed thoughtful, although she didn’t say anything afterwards.

  John walked with them out to the parking lot. “I thought I might come see you this afternoon, if that’s all right.”

  Before Abby could get her tongue untangled, Merrideth piped up, “Sure. Come on by. You can help us with our surprise.”

  “I love surprises,” John said.

  Abby frowned. “What surprise?”

  “You know. The rose thingies. You said we should put them back on the porch. We need to hurry before Mom gets home tonight. She’s going to love it.”

  “Sweetie, I don’t know how we’d ever get those trellises down from the loft. They’re so heavy.”

  “That’s where he comes in,” Merrideth said, pointing to John.

  John grinned. “I’m glad to know I’m good for something.”

  Abby felt her face heat. “Merrideth, we can’t just expect—”

  “I’ll be right over as soon as I change clothes.”

  “I’ll make sandwiches,” Merrideth said. “Which do you like better, peanut butter or tuna?”

  “Definitely peanut butter,” John said.

  They were making the sandwiches when the doorbell rang.

  “Oh, no! I hope she’s not home early,” Merrideth wailed.

  Fortunately, it was just Michael, who wanted to know if anyone wanted to play in his clubhouse in the loft.

  “We would like that,” Merrideth said, pulling him into the kitchen. “But Michael would you—I mean, if we think of a way—would you let us take the trellises? It would look so pretty if we put them back on the porch.”

  “We’ll help you build another clubhouse,” Abby said.

  He looked up at Merrideth, his brown eyes worried. “But will you still play with me? After, I mean.”

  “After what?”

  “After you get the trellises.”

  “Of course I will, Michael,” she answered softly. “I’m your friend.”

  They took their sandwiches up to Michael’s clubhouse and sat companionably on straw bales to wait for John. Michael seemed happy that membership in his club had increased by 200 percent. Having his permission to recover the trellises was the first step, but Abby wondered how on earth they would get them through the small opening of the loft and down the rickety stairs.

  But Michael showed them the fifteen-foot loft doors farmers had used to bring in their bales of hay and straw. He stepped onto an upturned bucket to wrestle with the latch. He gave a heroic shove, and the doors swung open and clattered against the side of the barn. Abby didn’t even want to think about what exploits he must have had in the loft before they arrived.

  She and Merrideth gasped in horror when he leaned out to call to a cat in the yard far below.

  “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Come see.”

  They cautiously stepped closer to the open door and found a whole new perspective of Miles Station.

  “Wow!” Abby said. “You get the big picture up here.”

  It was frightening to stand that close to a drop-off of twenty feet, but it was easy from their vantage point to see the remaining traces of what had been Miles Station. There was the old schoolhouse and the foundations of what had been thriving businesses. Where graceful homes had once lined the streets of Miles Station, humble mobile homes now stood.

  Mrs. Richardson, appearing Lilliputian, stepped outside the little brown house that had once been the Miles Station depot, and Merrideth cried out, “See, Michael, there’s your mom!” The shining tracks of the Chicago & Alton line ran parallel to their lane, disappearing from view beyond the stand of oaks at the edge of the village.

  And straight ahead, rich Illinois farmland stretched to the horizon—a patchwork quilt of corn, beans, and wheat. Behind the last field and the farthest line of trees, a steeple from one of Brighton’s churches reached for the sky.

  They saw a blue car winding its way from the west on Miles Station Road and watched as it came closer and then turned into their lane.

  “It’s John,” Abby said, brushing some dust off her jeans. She smoothed her hair back from her face and turned to Merrideth. “Quick, how do I look?”

  “Not as good as when we finished our beauty seminar,” she began. “But pretty good…considering you’ve been playing in the barn.”

  This time Abby rolled her eyes. “Thanks, I’m underwhelmed with your praise.” She stuck her head out the loft door and called, “You’re just in time.”

  John smiled up at them, and Abby felt the power of it smack her in the head from all the way up in the loft.

  “Come on up and see Michael’s clubhouse,” Merrideth called.

  “We got sandwiches,” Michael said.

  “Soon as I get a few things.” Laughing, John went to the trunk of his car and gathered the supplies he had brought.

  When he got to the top of the ladder, he handed up a coiled rope to Michael. “Here you go, buddy. Take this. We’ve got man work to do.”

  Smiling proudly, Michael took the rope and “helped” John tie it to the trellis so they could lower it to the ground. Then he supervised as John used his power drill to reattach the trellises to the front porch.

  “Thanks, John and Michael. That looks great,” Abby said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Just the way it’s supposed to look,” Merrideth said. “Except for the roses.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Arnold will have something,” Abby said. “Come on, John, you’ve got to meet the first lady of Miles Station.”

  Chapter 21

  They found her busily picking green beans, but she seemed glad to stop for a rest. “It’s gettin’ hot as a firecracker around here,” she said, fanning her face with her apron.

  “Mrs. Arnold,” Abby said, “this is John Roberts. He helped us put the trellises back up on the Colonel’s house.”

  “I’m right pleased to meet you, John Roberts. And pleased as punch you put them back where they belong. Come along, and I’ll show you what you need to finish the job. Michael, run to the shed and bring me my shovel. Mind you get the good, sharp one.”

  Michael was there with the shovel when Mrs. Arnold stopped and pointed at a flowering vine twining up the side of her garden shed.

  “You can dig up some of my honeysuckle,” she said.

  “It smells wonderful,” Abby said.

  “Roses would be prettier, but it’s the wrong time of the year to transplant them. Nothin’ can kill honeysuckle.”

  John took the shovel and went to work digging. Michael stood nearby lending his moral support.

  “No sense in all of us standing out in the heat. Let’s go sit in the shade.” Mrs. Arnold led Abby and Merrideth to her back porch and they sat on an assortment of chairs and watched John work.

  “Maybe we can find some roses like the ones Charlotte used to have,” Merrideth said to Abby.

  “Yes, you should still be able to get Queen Victoria roses,” Mrs. Arnold said. “They’ll look pretty with the honeysuckle.”

  “How did you know what kind of roses?” Merrideth asked.

  Mrs. Arnold put her hand to her mouth. “Probably Ruth told me.”

  “You said that before, but you know that’s not right,” Abby said softly, but firmly. “Please tell us. How did you know about the roses and the trellises?”

  “And the jellybeans?” Merrideth added.

  Mrs. Arnold turned to look at Merrideth. “Toward the end, your Aunt Ruth took to dreaming—dreaming ‘bout the old days.” She reached up to pat Merrideth’s hair. “And she wasn’t shy about telling anybody that came to see her all about it either. The hospice nurse said she was crazy on pain medicine. Shoot, I thought she was too—at first. But she could tell it so clear, just like she was seeing it all happen. And I’d sit there by her bed a
nd hold her hand when the pain got bad and listen to all the stories. And then one day I saw it too. I know it sounds crazy, and I wouldn’t blame you for not believing a word—”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Abby said. “I don’t know how it happened, but I believe you.”

  Merrideth nodded her head in agreement.

  “Well, don’t say nothin’ to my grandson. He’s always hintin’ it’s about time I went to live in a an old folks home. That’d be bad enough, but a crazy hospital would be a lot worse.”

  “We won’t,” Abby said.

  “Anyway, she was a brave woman, your Aunt Ruth. I expect you are too, child,” she said, patting Merrideth’s hand. “After all, you come from good stock, yes indeed you do. Just think how brave she was to sit upstairs in that attic listening to story after story of meanness and inhumanity while her stomach roiled and her heart broke.”

  “Charlotte? You saw Charlotte?” Merrideth asked.

  “Why she was as heroic as any soldier in the war.”

  Abby and Merrideth looked at each other and then back at Mrs. Arnold.

  “Are you saying Great Aunt Ruth was related to Charlotte Miles?” Merrideth asked.

  “Why, yes. Didn’t you know?”

  “No…I didn’t.”

  Abby gave Merrideth a hug. “How about that. You and Charlotte.”

  “I don’t feel very brave,” Merrideth said.

  “You’ll see. And God’s got a purpose for your life too, child. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Michael came skipping up. “Me and John got it digged up.”

  Mrs. Arnold chuckled and pulled the boy in for a hug. “Even this little scalawag. Who knows? God might decide to make him president someday.”

  Mrs. Arnold told John where to get burlap sacks to “tote” the plants home in. She agreed with Abby that a red geranium would be just right for the blue bowl and insisted on digging one for them herself. She gave them another plate of sugar cookies, this time in the shape of flags, even though the Fourth of July was still two weeks off.