by Caryl McAdoo
Lockets & Lace, Book 3, 1867
A sweet romance collection with nine authors / ten titles
Praying my story gives God glory!
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.
2018 by Caryl McAdoo
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever- except short passages for reviews – without express permission. For information, address Post Office Box 622, Clarksville, Texas, 75426.
First Edition January 23, 2018
Printed and bound in the United States of America
AISN:
ISBN-13 : 978-1982029203
ISBN-10 : 198202920X
For contact with the author or speaking engagements, please visit www.CarylMcAdoo.com
or write Post Office Box 622, Clarksville, Texas 75426
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Heather Blanton’s Sneak Peek
Lockets & Lace Collection
Caryl’s Previous Novels
Coming Soon Titles
Reach Out to the Author
Author Reaching Out to You
Chapter One
Z
eke stroked her cheek. “Please, Mama, don't die. Who'll pray for me?”
She opened her eyes, one corner of her lips turned up the slightest bit. “I've got to go, Son. It's my time.” She looked toward the ceiling and held her hand upwards, fingers stretched out. “Mike. My love. I've missed you so.”
Tears threatened, but Zeke blinked them away, searching the tin tile ceiling for his father's face. “Mama! Don't go. Not yet. I need your help, and who am I going to talk to . . . if . . . you die?”
“Love will loosen your tongue, Son. You'll find someone, my darling boy.” She closed her eyes, gasped once, then melted lifeless into the feather mattress with the sweetest smile on her face.
“Oh, Mama.” His forehead fell onto the bed beside her, and he wept. Before he wanted, soft hands squeezed his shoulders then helped him to his feet.
“Have you talked to the undertaker, Mister Sheffield?”
No. Why would he have? He shook his head.
“Want me to speak with him for you?”
Again he shook his head. He took the lady's hand from his shoulder and turned, holding it. He didn't want to let it go, but the undertaker needed to be notified, and the job fell to him. He mouthed “thank you” to the proprietor.
“You're welcome, sir.”
Many memories ran through his mind on the two-mile walk from his mother's deathbed to the house of gloom with its master who befriended those passed on. In a predictable black suit, the grim man opened the door and greeted him with a nod.
The man almost looked as though he'd been expecting the visit. Zeke retrieved his tablet and pencil from his coat pocket and wrote his mother's full name and the address of the boarding house where she'd spent her last days.
The undertaker touched his ear, brows raised, questioning.
With no reason to smile, Zeke nodded.
“I'll take care of everything, sir. For a fee, of course. Basic pine box will be ten dollars. Diggers get a dollar each, and if you want to hire a preacher to say a few words, that's another two bucks. And my fee, of course. Total's twenty.”
Pulling a double eagle from his vest pocket, Zeke handed it to the man. “Tomorrow,” he wrote, followed by a question mark.
“Yes, sir. We'll come for Mis'ess Sheffield right away. Have her in her resting place tomorrow morning before dinner.”
Straightaway after the two-dollar preacher said his peace at her graveside, Zeke set the mules' noses south. Tears about gone—getting his mother in the ground helped some, knowing she was in Heaven helped more—he still had trouble understanding why she took sick on the trail.
It about sunk his prairie schooner. No never mind all his plans had included her, but still . . . He'd given his word.
What else did he have with her gone?
He'd sold everything to buy the wagon and mules—well, almost everything.
That night and the next three, the tears returned while waiting for sleep as though a child. They shamed him. But in the moonless darkness of the fifth, he forced his thoughts to the school.
His future.
Hopefully, his uncle would honor his word to his sister and give him the old home place. She’d so looked forward to living in the home she had as a child. Without the property—and the promise of a stipend—Zeke would need to find a job.
The next morning, he mustered enough joy to break out in song. It always tickled his mother that he could sing without stuttering, but only when the Lord moved him. Why had she named him after the mute prophet?
Sound of hooves pounding the earth caught his ear. He looked back. Two riders approached, coming on at a goodly lope. He reined his mules to a stop and set the brake. Wouldn't do for them to catch the hurry and run themselves into a ditch—or worse.
The bigger of the two pulled ahead then came to a hard stop right in front of his animals. “Hey now, pilgrim. Where you bound?”
Zeke retrieved his slate board and chalked out “DeKalb, Texas.” Then held it out.
The other man joined his companion. “What do it say, Dusty?”
“DeKalb, Texas. Can't you even recognize a town, you idiot?”
“Some, so this one here is deef and dumb?”
“Appears he can't talk none, but he heard me, didn't he? So he ain't deef.”
Also heard them coming and stopped his mules. Idiots indeed. These men were not worth the trouble of writing more, especially with the second man being illiterate.
“Where you coming from? You a Yankee carpetbagger?” The one called Dusty spoke louder as though his extra volume made it easier for Zeke to understand.
He wrote out “Missouri”.
“You fight for the North, boy?”
Why was it so important to the man? He shook his head.
“Well, now.” The second man jumped off his horse. “Seems to me usin's best relieve this Yankee of his kit and caboodle.”
Perfect. Thieves. Perhaps that plan of his was not in the will of God. If it was, then why would such terrible troubles plague him so? He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. As the Lord taught, he didn't resist—until they found his mother's jewelry pouch.
Wasn't that akin to defending her?
Even though he knew better, the mere thought of the two scoundrels having her prized possessions sent him into a rage. He jumped from the wagon onto the second man, driving him to the ground.
Two, three blows landed before everything went black.
Melody stroked her niece's cheek.
The four-year-old pushed her finger away.
“Sor—reee, little missy.” She used her sing-songy voice and again traced the precious sleepyhead's pudgy softness. That time, the girl grabbed her finger and kissed its tip, begging with her eyes for more slumber.
Laughing, she scooped the joy of her life up and carried her all the way down the stairs to the kitchen, midst snuggles, giggles, and kisses.
Still at the stove, the baby's mother grinned, grabbing a bowl from the cup
board. “You spoil her, Sister.”
“You think so?” She took her seat, smiling back at Lucy, though not agreeing one bit that the child could be loved too much. “Good morning, Servilia.”
Hopefully, the touch of sarcasm hadn't tainted the greeting. She never intended it to be too evident. A fight that early of a morning with the middle sister wouldn't do, especially not with the odious task that lay ahead.
“Uhhhn.” The baby stuck her hand out toward the bowl.
Her mother cocked her head, lifted one brow, and shot the little girl what Melody called 'the look.' A warning, but of love and disdain mixed with a tinge of mirth.
The four-year-old rocked her head side to side, lifted her chin a smidgen, and crossed her arms over her chest with a mischievous grin. Oh, how she loved that sparkle in Harmony's sky blue eyes.
The baby moved one hand enough to pat over her heart.
“That's better.” Her mother spooned on honey, stirred it in, then poured a little cream over the porridge. “And now you may have your breakfast.” Lucy slid the steaming bowl of oatmeal across the table then glanced toward Melody. “So, you really think sending her to that school might be worth the money?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. Of course I do.”
“Well, I don't see how in the world you could ever justify it.” The sourpuss at the far end of the table always had to put her two negative cents in.
Then again, being such a cheapskate, Vili always held a penny back, making almost anything she said quite worthless.
“What bothers me is that Harmony's only four years old. That just seems much too young to be shipping her off to a school of strangers.” The eldest busied herself filling more bowls from the pot.
“I couldn't bring myself to do it. What would she think? Why, you'd be abandoning her! I say it's simply out of the question.”
Melody glared at the sister closest in age then faced her oldest sibling. “The baby might be confused at first—a little, but just think! Teaching her sign language! It would be so wonderful for her to be able to communicate.
“Preacher said the man coming has a great reputation, and he's got family here, so you couldn't count him a total stranger.”
“Old man Simpson has had one foot in the grave for years and most days can't even remember his own name. How could you consider any kinship to that man a calling card for approval? What good is that old geezer? He's dangerous if you ask me.”
“Why, Servilia! That is unkind! You do not know that. What basis do you have to say such a mean thing? You've been keeping company with those gossips again, haven't you?”
“If it's true, it isn't gossip. Besides, someone in this family needs to stay abreast of the goings on here about. Just because Lucinda covers her eyes and you cover your ears doesn't mean the world is beautiful all the time.
“Evil abounds, little sister, but you'd rather sweep it under the rug and play like it doesn't exist.”
“That's enough, you two.” Lucy placed two more steaming bowls on the table then fetched hers and took their father's place at the head of the table. “We can pray about it. Preacher said the man isn't due until later in the week, so there's time enough to beseech the Lord.”
“Well, I already have, and I'll not be changing my mind. I vote we send her.”
Lucy looked to Servilia.
“I can pray well enough, but you said it. Harmony Joy is much too young to be handing her off to some man we don't even know all day every day. I vote no, not until she's at least older. If then!
“Prayer isn't likely to alter my opinion either. Not to mention the cost of such a hair-brained idea. We barely have a nest-egg at all, and school is certainly not what we've all been saving for.”
For the thousandth time, another family decision came down to the determination of the only mother Melody had ever known.
Though she cherished the one picture of the woman who'd borne her—at the cost of her own life—she loved Lucy with all her heart and hated that she carried so much. If not for her oldest sister, would she even be around—or alive?
“I plan on praying more, that He confirms His Will as I know it. And it isn't that much money.” Melody looked toward the firstborn for support. “God has provided amply enough for us since the accident, and you have to admit, tutoring will surely change our sweet Harmony's life for the better.”
“I don't have to admit anything.”
“I wasn't speaking to you, Servilia.”
“Humph. So then may I assume we now have enough cash to buy me that ready-made dress I've been drooling over at the mercantile?”
A dozen retorts fought to make it past Melody's lips.
Store-bought dresses. Ha!
Much too much of an extravagant expenditure, no matter how many dollars filled Papa's cigar box. If only he were there. Then she and Lucy wouldn't have to deal with the naysayer's constant hatefulness.
“Servilia! Papa would turn over in his grave if we spent our money on ready-made clothes, and you know it.”
“That's just it. He's in the grave, his persuasions are moot. But if he could roll over, he'd for sure be against us paying to school a deaf and dumb mute.”
Of its own accord, Melody's fist balled as she stood. “Don't call her that! She is not dumb!” She raised her hand level with her chin, then looked toward the other end of the table.
“If she says that again . . .” Her eyes returned to the meanest person in the world and bore into the devil incarnate's. “If you ever say it again, I'll whip you good.”
Servilia jumped to her feet, leaning toward her, lifting her chin. “In your dreams, little sister.”
Oh, it would feel so good to pop her in the jaw. Who could be so wicked as to say such a thing about a cherished child?
“Behave, the both of you. We have too much work for you two to be tussling.”
Still fuming at the slight on the most precious one, Melody sat back down, never taking her eyes off the monster. She hated chopping cotton and would need every ounce of strength she could muster to get though the coming day.
She faced the sister she loved. “Yes, ma'am. Please pass the honey.”
Chopping cotton couldn't be akin to stoking a ship's boiler, but had to be close. Melody finished her row, threw the baby a grin, then went after the next.
Could Sunday come soon enough?
Or even better, seeing the last bit of lint offloaded at the gin! She hated everything about their cash crop except the cash.
The garden tending or caring for the stock offered daily rewards, but cotton! So many work days from planting to picking! And even then, she saw so little of the money.
Except last year she had bought a new bolt of cloth to make her and her niece matching dresses and bonnets. Visions of a secret future with a man who would put all her storybook heroes to shame filled her mind's eye as she toiled.
Then miracles upon blessings, Sunday morning arrived. A whole day off, other than for all the necessaries. Animals, like people, needed to eat every day. Cow needed milking and eggs, gathering.
Once she took her usual seat mid-pew, and the two old biddies in front of her sat themselves down, her eyes landed onto about the most handsome man either side of the Mason Dixon line.
Who was he?
Sitting right up there on the deacon's bench next to Preacher, back straight, examining the ceiling, he caused her heart to literally skip a beat . . . or four.
The usual announcements only peaked her curiosity. Why they moved the fish fry back a week, she didn't hear exactly.
And who had time to quilt anyway?
Her interest lie only in knowing the stranger's identity. She tore her eyes from the newcomer long enough to get into the second and third hymns sung, but once Preacher stood, she couldn't keep from staring at the man.
Didn't even try.
Their spiritual leader stood and took the podium from the song leader. “Folks, the young man I've been telling you about has arrived, and we're proud to
have him here with us today. Without further ado, I present to you Reverend Ezekiel Sheffield.”
The teacher! He stood, shook Preacher's hand, then smiled right at Harmony. Melody glanced at her niece who grinned so big her face might split.
“S, s, s, s, sorry. Bu, bu, bu, bu.” He lowered his chin and swallowed hard. “I, I, I . . . stu, stu, stu, stu, d, d, d, d, d, . . .” The man pulled a card from his pocket, stepped away from the platform, and handed it to Roland Jenkins in the aisle seat on the second pew.
Mister Jenkins stared at the piece of thick paper then stood. “Says here, I stutter so bad, most of the time, I don't even try to speak. That's the reason I learned sign language. Now, if you will direct your attention to the blackboard up front.” He handed the card back and took his seat.
Back up on the platform, Mister Sheffield picked up a piece of chalk and wrote a big ‘A’ then drew a closed fist.
While he worked on the next three letters, Melody feasted her eyes on the man himself. What would it be like to have a husband who couldn't talk? Did it matter? If he looked like Ezekiel Sheffield, she could handle it.
Melody Joy Sheffield. She liked the sound of it. Had a nice ring.
A little hand touched her shoulder, and she looked over. Her namesake mimicked with her hand what he'd drawn on the board.
Bless God! The baby girl was just as smart as she always figured.
Surely no one would deny her now.
School was a must.
Chapter Two
S
tanding at the door next to the pastor of the First Methodist, Zeke met the man's flock, family by family. With each introduction, he shook hands and smiled, nodding at the congregants filing past.
His paw protested with each squeeze, but he wasn't about to show any weakness. Hopefully, they'd forgive him his tied-tongue, but a man who couldn't return a greeting . . . not much of a fella.
No never mind he'd been beat and left for dead only three weeks before. Of course, the faithful had no idea. The faded bruises hardly showed.
