by Hale Deborah
Before he could demand to know how they’d make a success of the mill without the grudging cooperation of the community, Caddie spoke again. “While you keep the children occupied fishing tomorrow, I plan to call on the rest of the neighbors and make sure they know what’s what. If they aren’t willing to help themselves, I’d sooner you brought in a crew of Yankees to run the mill than let Lon get his clutches on Sabbath Hollow.”
Verdant fire fairly crackled in her eyes—the most attractive show of defiance Manning had ever witnessed. He knew better than to gainsay her decision. Did he like her best soft and vulnerable, weeping in his arms, or proud and gallant, a tigress ready to battle the world on behalf of her cubs? Both, he decided at last.
Both. Far too much for his own good.
For all her bravado before Manning, Caddie drove down the Gordons’ lane with a sinking sensation in the pit of her belly. She prayed they would give her a more cordial reception than the one she’d received from Mrs. Pratt.
She had some hopes of it. Before the war, she’d been good friends with Mrs. Gordon, a genial lady who also hailed from South Carolina.
If her pride did take another mauling today, Caddie vowed not to seek sympathy in the arms of a Yankee this time. She cringed at the memory. Somehow those few chaste moments weeping on Manning’s shoulder felt more disloyal to Del than if she’d committed flagrant adultery while he was still alive.
As Caddie pulled up outside Gordon Hall, a slender girl hurried out to greet her. All Southern girls looked slender these days, Caddie reflected bitterly, remembering the withered wraith Ann Pratt had become. They no longer needed punishing corsets to achieve a fashionably tiny waist.
The thought of Ann made Caddie brace for a frosty welcome, but this young woman’s tone sounded much more agreeable—apologetic, even. “Mrs. Marsh, we heard you’d come back. It’s kind of you to call when you must have so much to do settling in again. I’m afraid Mama’s indisposed today and not up to receiving guests.”
“Dora?” Caddie could scarcely believe it. The last time she’d seen Dora Gordon, the girl had been scarcely old enough to put her hair up. “Why, you’re all grown up, dear.”
Grown up too fast, under harsh conditions. Like her own children. Caddie caught herself wishing damnation on all Yankees when she remembered Manning and her errand.
“I’m sorry to hear your ma’s feeling poorly.” Was it the truth, or just Mrs. Gordon’s polite excuse not to receive a woman of dubious reputation? “I reckon I’ve picked a bad time to call on folks. Mrs. Pratt wasn’t anxious to visit with me yesterday, either.”
This gentle rebuff hurt almost as much as the harsher one she’d received at Willowvale.
A slight flush brightened Dora’s pinched face. “You’ve been to the Pratts? You didn’t happen to see Jeff while you were there?”
Was Dora sweet on young Jeff Pratt? If Caddie recollected right, Jeff had been a boon companion of Dora’s brother, Monroe. For a fleeting moment the intervening years, with their blighted harvest of loss and defeat, seemed to evaporate. Caddie fancied herself the mistress of a thriving plantation with no weightier responsibilities than matchmaking among the young folks of the neighborhood.
“I only spied Jeff from a distance—at least I think it might have been him.” Necessity forced Caddie back to the present, much as she resented it “If you’re talking to Jeff, would you mention that we’re fixing up the old mill at Sabbath Hollow and looking for men to work? We’ll pay wages in cash, plus cut lumber if he needs any for fixing up Willowvale.”
What ailed Dora? Every word Caddie spoke seemed to bite into the girl. By the time she finished, Caddie could have sworn she saw a mist of tears in Dora’s gray eyes.
“I... don’t believe he’d be interested, Mrs. Marsh.”
After what she’d seen at Willowvale the previous day, Dora’s stiff words riled Caddie. Did Master Jeff consider himself too good to work for the likes of Manning and her?
“My name is Mrs. Forbes now, in case you haven’t heard. And if Jefferson Pratt would rather sit idle while Willowvale rots to pieces than soil his hands to earn an honest dollar, that’s his business, I’m sure.”
Dora flinched again, then recovered her composure and shot Caddie a defiant glare. “I don’t imagine he wants to sit idle, Mrs. Forbes.”
The girl’s tone reminded Caddie of someone else. An instant’s reflection told it was her own voice when she’d defended Manning to Mrs. Pratt. “But Jeff doesn’t have much choice about it, seeing as he’s been blind since Sharpesburg!”
This time Caddie flinched. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dora. I hadn’t heard. No wonder Mrs. Pratt sent me away with a flea in my ear yesterday. What about Willie and Josh?” Staring at the ground, the girl shook her head in reply. So Mrs. Pratt had lost two of her boys. Caddie hardly dared ask, “Monroe?”
The tremor in Dora’s shoulders told her more than she wanted to know. It reminded her of the old Bible story about the Lord striking down the firstborn of every Egyptian family. The prosperous people of Egypt hadn’t been anxious to part with their slaves, either. Was it possible that Del, Monroe, the Pratt boys had fought and sacrificed their lives in to unrighteous cause?
Caddie expelled the treasonous notion from her mind. Just because she’d married a Yankee didn’t mean she had to think like one.
“I’m sorry for your family’s loss, Dora. I’ll come back tomorrow with some game broth and egg custard for your ma. In the meantime, tell her I was asking after her, will you?”
She had barely climbed back onto her wagon when a man rode up the lane on a horse that looked to have seen better days. Not recognizing the rider, Caddie swung the buckboard around and waved goodbye to Dora.
If she didn’t know him, the horseman appeared to know her. “Caddie,” he called, “Lon said you’d come home. Claims you married some Yankee carpetbagger who ran him off Sabbath Hollow.”
At last Caddie recognized the voice. “Dr. Mercer?”
It hardly seemed possible this could be the same man who had delivered Templeton. Dr. Mercer had always been quite stout. Now his clothes billowed over a shrunken frame and the once-ample flesh of his face hung in folds like a hound dog’s.
“So you do remember me, missy?” The doctor cracked a sour grin as he dismounted. “Living on weevily hardtack for four years helped me regain my girlish figure. Might as well get used to it—I won’t be waxing fat off my practice anytime soon.”
Doc Mercer had always been something of a wag, yet Caddie didn’t feel much like laughing at his caustic quip. Fortunately, he turned his attention to Dora, inquiring about her mother.
“She’s much the same, sir. Still pining for Pa and Monroe. Maybe if we had better food to give her, but she just turns up her nose at what we’ve got.”
So Mrs. Gordon’s indisposition hadn’t only been an excuse to keep from seeing her. The thought comforted Caddie a little. Then, hearing the frustration and fear in Dora’s voice, she told herself to quit being so selfish. Better to have May Belle Gordon snubbing her in good health than wasting away of a broken heart, and fretting her daughters like this.
“There, there, child,” Doc Mercer patted Dora’s hand. “You and the girls have been doing the best you can for her under the circumstances. I’ve brought a tonic, if we can coax her to take it. I’ll see if I can rile her up some. Folks need fight in them to stay alive during hard times.”
Dora replied with a vigorous nod. “She was ever so much better the other day. After you told her she mustn’t give the Yankees the satisfaction of having killed off another Gordon.”
“Cheap medicine.” The doctor shrugged. “All I can afford to dispense these days.” He turned on Caddie, as if his troubles and those of his patients were all on account of her.
“Don’t waste your time calling on me if that fancy Yankee husband of yours gets you in the family way, missy, for I won’t attend you. I don’t imagine the pair of you will last long here. Lon’s made sure folks know what’s wh
at. They’ll eat their wood before they bring it to your mill and they’ll starve before they work to make another carpetbagger rich.”
Unsettled by the thought of Manning getting her with child, Caddie shrank before Doc Mercer’s anger. But hearing Lon’s name kindled her own. “You’re a fine one to go on about Mrs. Gordon pining away on account of the Yankees, sir. If folks around here don’t work to make a decent future for their families, won’t that be just as much a victory for the Yankees? I’ll tell you what I told Mrs. Pratt—my husband is a good man and he means well even if he is a Yankee. Lon’s just stirring up trouble to get rid of us. Then he can get his hands on Sabbath Hollow.”
Her late mother would have been scandalized to hear Caddie talking back to one of her elders. Mammy Dulcie would have washed her mouth out with soap.
“Now see here, young lady—” growled the doctor.
Thirty years of soft-spoken propriety threatened to gag Caddie, but she fought against it. “No. You see here. Other folks can starve if they choose, and let their plantations fall to rack and ruin before they’ll have dealings with a Yankee. I might, too, if I didn’t have children to provide for. But I won’t make Tem and Varina pay for troubles that aren’t of their making. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I plan to call on everyone in the neighborhood and tell them what I’ve just told you.”
As the doctor glared at her and looked like he was fixing to explode, Caddie addressed Dora. “I can use a good, willing chore gal if you or Charlotte or Alice would like the job. I’ll pay cash, too, so you can buy the kind of vittles that might tempt your ma’s appetite.”
“I—I’ll think about it.” Dora didn’t look like she meant to give the idea very serious consideration.
“Good. You know where to find me.” With a curt nod of parting, Caddie clicked her tongue at the horse and jogged the reins. As she drove down the twisty lane, she could almost feel the eyes of Dora Gordon and Dr. Mercer boring into her back.
Let them look. Let them talk. Let the whole neighborhood talk. If they wanted to cling to the past and allow the war’s old wounds to fester, they could go right ahead. They’d better not expect to pull her and her children down with them, though.
The afternoon had almost ebbed away by the time Caddie turned the buckboard toward Sabbath Hollow again. A light drizzle had begun to fall, cooling her temper and dampening her zeal. At least a few folks had given her a fair hearing. Some had nodded grudgingly when she urged them to put the past behind them and move on with their lives.
The sounds of laughter, barking and splashing drew her gaze toward the creek and made her smile in spite of herself. She’d struck a devil’s bargain with Manning Forbes. One that didn’t include restoring Tem and Varina’s lost childhood. She’d had nothing worth bartering for so precious a boon.
Instead he’d made them a gift of it.
Her conscience smarted at the thought of every unkind word she’d ever spoken to the man. How sincere was she about looking ahead to the future, it demanded, instead of always back over her shoulder?
Chapter Eight
“MANNING?” CADDIE GLANCED up suddenly from her last few bites of supper and caught him squarely in her sights. “I’ve been thinking about the mill.”
The sound of his given name on her lips for the first time made a queer hot shiver run through him, as though she’d touched him in some intimate place.
“What about it?” He scowled and dropped his gaze to his plate, hoping she wouldn’t notice the fierce blush spreading up from his too-tight collar.
Instantly, he felt ashamed of himself for snapping at Caddie. After all, it wasn’t her fault he’d been gaping at her like some calf-eyed adolescent.
Manning gentled his voice, though he still couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. “Whatever you said to the neighbors last week must have worked. I’ve managed to hire a decent crew to work the mill since then, and we have a couple of contracts for wood in hand.”
“That’s good.”
From outside came the sounds of the children and the dog at play. Though Manning had savored this compound of noises for the past three weeks, it hadn’t lost its power to tickle him. If he lived to be a hundred, their jolly afternoon of fishing would stand out as one of the happiest of his life.
Caddie took a deep breath and continued. “It wasn’t only Lon’s troublemaking that kept folks away, you know.”
“Oh?” Jolted from his pleasant thoughts, he braced for her to point out something he’d done wrong.
“There just aren’t many able-bodied men left around these parts who can work at a sawmill or cut lumber.” Caddie shook her head, and wistful sorrow infused her voice. “Jeff Pratt’s blind. Bobbie Stevens lost both legs at Antietam. Mrs. Gordon only has her three girls left.”
Every shot he’d ever fired in battle seemed to ricochet back on Manning, riddling his heart. What could be wrong with him? Other men who’d fought in the war didn’t seem to take personal responsibility for the destruction their armies had wrought.
Why must he?
If Caddie expected him to reply, she gave no sign of it—almost as though she was thinking aloud. “When I took the Gordons some fish cakes this afternoon, I asked Dora again about coming to help me around the house. I know she wants to, if she can just find the gumption to stand up to her ma.”
And humble her pride if she had any left, Manning thought. For a young lady brought up with wealth and privilege, stooping to domestic service would be a bitter pill to swallow.
Perhaps the same notion had occurred to Caddie. Her brow furrowed. “I wish we could start some kind of business that would make it possible for women and wounded men to earn a dollar. They’re the ones struggling to support families these days.”
Her words anointed his wounds with healing balm.
“Caddie, you’re a genius!” In the grip of his idea, Manning scarcely noticed that he’d called his wife by her first name.
Before be could stop himself, he reached across the table and enfolded her hand in both of his. “We can take some of the lumber we mill and start a sideline building furniture—plain, serviceable chairs and tables.”
With his own background in woodworking, the plan immediately felt right to him. “Most of the finish work could be done by women. I’ll bet that fellow who lost his legs can still operate a lathe or drive a team. As for Jeff Pratt...” Manning shrugged. “There’s got to be something he could do. Learn to weave rattan cane or sea grass for chair seats, maybe?”
“That would be perfect!” Her face lit in a way Manning had never seen it, Caddie brought her free hand up to squeeze his.
Perhaps it was only wishful thinking, but he suspected if the table had not formed a barrier between them, she might have thrown her arms around his neck. It scared him almost nauseous to realize how much he yearned for one fleeting, impulsive embrace. That weak moment when he’d taken Caddie in his arms had whetted his appetite for forbidden fruit.
Determined to resist his growing attraction, he pulled his hands away from hers with such force that he knocked over a glass tumbler—one of a precious few that had survived the war. One look at Caddie’s face told him he’d done something inexcusable.
Pushing back his chair, he cursed under his breath. “We shouldn’t be using these for everyday. They ought to be locked up for special occasions!”
Before Caddie could summon any words of rebuke, he stalked off to the sawmill, where he worked feverishly on some final repairs. The chores occupied his hands and part of his mind.
Not all of it, though.
He was doing what he needed to do—what he’d promised to do. Manning had hoped that might buy him a little peace, and it had. But only a little. Something else gnawed at him now.
He’d lied to himself by pretending marriage to Caddie Marsh was the only way to repay his debt. He could have found a less personal means, if he’d given it some hard, honest thought.
Instead, he’d surrendered to his bone-deep longing for a fami
ly, using the Marshes’ desperate situation to foist himself upon them. In the days since, Templeton and Varina had burrowed their way into his guarded, empty heart. Somehow, they had tapped a wellspring of spontaneous affection and fatherly intuition Manning had never suspected in his nature. With a swiftness that terrified him, the children were becoming as essential to his existence as water and air.
If he should ever lose them... Manning pictured a fish writhing on the creek bank, its gills straining against the dry air that could not sustain its life.
As he tightened the mill’s belts for the third time, Manning’s renegade thoughts turned to Caddie. From one minute to the next, his feelings for her reeled between intense wariness and equally intense attraction. Like the lethal push and pull of a jagged saw blade. There were times like tonight, when she’d clutched his hands across the narrow table, that he feared it would cut him in two.
For his own peace of mind, he must go one way or the other, and the only reasonable course was to fight the relentless pull she exercised upon him. He had no right to her, after all. Besides, she was so dangerously inquisitive with her subtle but persistent questions about his past. If she ever guessed his true motive for coming to Sabbath Hollow—and there were times Manning was convinced she must know—she would turn him out, depriving him of the only real family he might ever have.
One that grew more precious to him by the hour.
With the familiar, comforting aromas of old timber and fresh sawdust filling his nostrils, Manning made a vow to keep his bride at arm’s length or farther, and to fight the powerful grip she’d begun to exert upon him.
Already he felt like an exhausted trout trying to swim up the millrace.
Several days later, Caddie glanced out at the laundry she’d hung to dry and bit back a cuss word.
May had blown in like the lion that belonged to early March. The children loved this windy weather, for Manning had helped them build kites out of brown paper and slender bits of strapping from the mill.
