Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  To his surprise, Miss Locke gave a short nod. A tiny flame of hope flickered to life within him. Clearing his name and restoring his honor stretched out before him like an arduous journey of a thousand miles, but Miss Locke’s nod represented the first step forward.

  “A small town lies two, maybe three days travel from here.” Wren pointed up the trail in the direction they’d been traveling. “I will take you.”

  “But Mr. Danfield said the trail was impassable.” Miss Locke’s puzzlement showed in her expression.

  “For a wagon, yes.” He looked to Wren for confirmation. “I was told this was a miner’s road.”

  Wren nodded. “The men who dig for gold, they travel this way sometimes. They ride horses. Lead mules. They do not drive wagons.”

  Self-incrimination accused him for not obtaining more accurate information, but he shoved it away. He had a more important job on which to focus, and he didn’t need the hindrance of carrying another load of guilt.

  “You rest now.” Wren repeated her instructions with an edge of insistence.

  “All right.” He pointed at Miss Locke. “But you have to promise you won’t do any more mountain climbing. As soon as I’m able, I’ll go and see what I can recover.”

  Another surprise. She agreed.

  Waves of relief washed over Abby. His head obviously pained him, but seeing him awake and speaking eased the constrictions around her heart despite their situation. Her realization carried with it an element of confusion. Her relief at Mr. Danfield’s recovery outweighed her concern of their dilemma. A week ago she didn’t care a fig about Mr. Danfield, though admitting as much stirred shame in her middle. The Moravian Sisters who ran the Salem Female Academy had taught her to demonstrate God’s love and benevolence to all people. Guilt smote her to think she’d so quickly accepted her father’s judgment of Mr. Danfield without seeking evidence of his character for herself.

  Lying on the ground instead of in the wagon last night resulted in little sleep, affording her ample opportunity to relive the fight with the outlaws. In her mind’s eye, she repeatedly pictured Mr. Danfield shoving her aside and throwing himself between her and the outlaw’s gun. It wasn’t her imagination. He truly had saved her life. The full understanding of what he’d done deepened her regret over the way she’d treated him for the past week. Somehow she must find a way to thank him, because simply speaking the words fell far short.

  She hiked up her mud-stained skirt and walked over to the edge of the ravine. Leaning against the rough bark of a pine, she pulled her braid around to the front of her shoulder and unwound her thick hair. Running her fingers through the tangles, she wondered for the thousandth time if her mother’s hair had been as dark and thick as hers. She smoothed the strands the best she could without her hairbrush and rebraided the tresses. Her ivory hairbrush—her mother’s hairbrush—lay at the bottom of the ravine in one of her trunks.

  The broken saplings and crushed underbrush defined the path the wagon had taken, carrying all their belongings with it. Despite the few items they’d found, her heart longed for those precious things that belonged to her mother. A hairbrush, a lace collar, an embroidered handkerchief, and a cameo brooch. Such a pitiful collection of keepsakes to connect her with a woman she couldn’t even remember.

  She ambled back to the fire and sat near Florrie, who listened as Mr. Danfield answered her questions about yesterday’s skirmish with the bandits.

  “I noticed that one of them carried a revolver and the other had a flintlock pistol. When we started fighting, once the pistol discharged, I knew it was useless. He didn’t have time to reload it. The one who climbed into the wagon worried me the most. He had one of those new Colt revolvers. A few of the officers I knew carried them. When they are fully loaded, they can fire five times without reloading.”

  In the frantic tension of the struggle, Abby hadn’t noticed the details. She knew two things: both men had guns, and they planned to steal the few mementos she had of her mother’s. Mr. Danfield’s description sounded like a chess match.

  “I was amazed he didn’t see my rifle under the wagon seat.” He cast a rueful glance in the direction of the ravine. “Of course, it went down the hill with the wagon.” A scowl creased his brow, and Abby couldn’t tell if he was planning to recover his gun or if he was in pain.

  “Do you need more willow bark tea?”

  He blinked. Mild surprise revealed itself on his face. “Uh, no, thank you.” He lifted his hand and touched his bandage. “Perhaps later, though. It did seem to help.” His eyes lingered on her for an extra moment, and she ducked her head as telltale warmth stole into her cheeks. A quick change of topic seemed to be in order. She turned to the Cherokee woman sitting beside her.

  “Wren, you were going to show me how you make your poultices.”

  The woman’s piercing black eyes twinkled. “First I go check the snare. Maybe we have rabbit for dinner.” She stood and motioned toward Abby. “You want to learn to skin rabbit?”

  A stifled, grunting sound reached Abby. She jerked her head to see Mr. Danfield press both lips tightly together and pin his gaze on the ground beside him. A flare of indignation propelled her to stand and join Wren.

  “Sounds fascinating. And I’d love to learn more about the leaves and roots you use to make medicines.” She raised her chin a notch and followed Wren up the slope.

  Keeping Mr. Danfield down for two days was a three-woman job. Abby considered his impatience a good sign, for no healthy man wished to stay put doing nothing.

  Mr. Danfield examined the braided rope Abby had created—with Wren’s guidance—from the vines that climbed the trees and spread throughout the underbrush. “It’s good and strong. It should work fine.” His appreciation warmed Abby’s face.

  Florrie pointed to the contraption Wren and Mr. Danfield had been working on. “What do you call that thing again?”

  “Travois,” Wren told her. “It is small. You have no horse to pull it.”

  Mr. Danfield held Abby’s vine rope over his arm. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to salvage, but without horses we won’t be able to carry a lot.”

  Anxiety tightened Abby’s stomach. What she wanted most was in her smaller trunk. Mr. Danfield said he’d try his best, and she’d already done more than her share of complaining on this trip. She opted to keep her mouth closed, a decision she was sure would please Mr. Danfield.

  He tied one end of the rope around his waist. With all three women gripping the braided vine and easing it around the smooth bark of the beech tree, Mr. Danfield gingerly picked his way down the steep slope. Within minutes, Abby lost sight of him through the trees and underbrush, but the tension on the rope testified to his continued slow descent.

  “I found some of the bedding,” he yelled. “I’m going to tie the rope around the bundle.”

  For the better part of three hours, they worked together to haul up as many items as Mr. Danfield could find. At last, he came climbing hand over hand on the rope to where the women waited. Abby’s worst fears were realized. He had no trunks with him. Mr. Danfield had no way of knowing her cherished keepsakes were in one of her trunks, and she didn’t intend to tell him. She couldn’t bear it if he scoffed at their importance.

  They had two quilts, a few foodstuffs, some cooking implements, and Mr. Danfield’s canvas valise.

  “My trunks. Where are my trunks?” Abby wrung her hands.

  Mr. Danfield shook his head. “I’m sorry, but they fell too far. I couldn’t reach them.”

  She curled both hands into fists. The distress that sliced her heart evidenced itself in her voice. “But I must have my trunks.”

  Mr. Danfield gave her an incredulous look. “You’ll have to do without your fancy trinkets. I suggest you be grateful to be alive.” The sharp gruffness in his voice sliced as deeply as an army saber. She winced under his implication.

  After fighting outlaws, nearly being shot, almost losing Mr. Danfield, being left stranded in the middle of n
owhere, and struggling with nature to survive, she had now lost her last connection with her mother. Her fortitude crumbled. Tears burned her eyes, and she couldn’t hold them back another minute. She picked up her skirt and stalked down the trail to find some solitude where she might have a private cry.

  Chapter 5

  Shafts of remorse arrowed through Nathaniel. He never could stand to see a woman weep. By the time he’d climbed back up the ravine, his head throbbed and weariness saturated his muscles. Her pouting over the lost trunks seemed petty in comparison to what they’d been through, but he hadn’t intended to make her cry. Nathaniel kicked at the layers of matted leaves that lined the trail.

  The gratification he’d felt at salvaging a few more things diminished with the memory of Miss Locke’s tears. She remained quiet all the next day as they hiked, sometimes single file in spots where the trail narrowed barely wide enough for him to drag the small travois. Once he caught a glimpse of her face and read great sorrow written there. Women sure could get peevish about their personal things.

  “How far do you think we’ve come?” Mrs. Cobb walked side by side with him.

  He cast a look at the sky to gauge the location of the sun. Figuring the rocky trail, the ascent, and stopping for short rests, they’d gone perhaps two miles every hour. “Maybe six miles since this morning.” He cut his eyes to the widow. She hadn’t complained, but weariness etched its mark in the slump of her shoulders. “Why don’t we rest here awhile. We might be able to make another couple of miles or so before dark.”

  Ahead of him, Wren paused and waited. He set the poles of the travois aside, glad to be relieved of his load. Wren turned back to join the other women while Nathaniel retrieved the canteen from the cargo and handed it to Mrs. Cobb. After all three women had quenched their thirst Nathaniel made his way down a gully to a small stream and refilled the canteen.

  The gurgling water invited him to dip his hands and cup the refreshing coolness to his face. He returned to the ladies and stretched out on the ground. An ever-changing patchwork of light and shadow skittered with the wind, and the cushion of fallen leaves and pine needles offered comfort. A rest would do all of them some good.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift. As it had several times in the past few days, his memory recalled snippets of the encounter with the outlaws. Nathaniel couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity of one of the men. Both had their faces covered and hats pulled low, but something…something about one of them nagged at him. His subconscious groped for something firm to grasp.

  Let it go, Danfield. The more you chase it the farther away it slips.

  He tucked his hands behind his head and turned his gaze to the tree branches overhead dancing in the breeze. Puffy clouds scuttled across the cornflower-blue sky. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, and his eyes lazed closed again.

  After several minutes he shook himself. It wouldn’t do to get too comfortable. They still needed to cover more ground before they—

  “Bivouac.” Nathaniel jerked to a sitting position.

  “Nathaniel?” Mrs. Cobb leaned forward. The wrinkles lining her forehead defined her concern.

  “One of the outlaws—the one wearing the vest—used the word bivouac. Only a military man would use a word like that.” Nathaniel got to his feet.

  Mrs. Cobb shrugged. “What’s bivouac?”

  “I know what that means.” Miss Locke met Nathaniel’s gaze. “It means to make camp, right?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Did either of you ladies recognize him? Might you remember seeing him at the fort?”

  The two women exchanged glances and shook their heads. Miss Locke stood. “Do you remember him?”

  Nathaniel squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know. I think so, but my brain is still muddled.” He rubbed one hand over his forehead. “His voice…I’ve heard that voice before.”

  Miss Locke touched his arm. “Don’t worry.” Her soft voice stroked his frustration. “It will come back to you.”

  Her touch sent a tingling sensation of delight all the way to his shoulder, and when she removed her hand, he felt a sense of loss. Her brief word of gentle encouragement revitalized him better than a two-hour nap.

  His eyes fastened to hers for a long moment, and something unspoken exchanged between them. He couldn’t allow hope to bud. Not after the way Felicia betrayed him.

  Impatience niggled at Nathaniel as the travelers prepared to move ahead on the morning of their third day of walking. He itched to push on to the town of which Wren had told them, but in consideration for the ladies, especially Mrs. Cobb, he disciplined his restlessness.

  Despite Miss Locke’s soothing words, Nathaniel pressed his mind to remember, but no further revelations clarified the identification of either outlaw. As he pulled the travois up the trail, he asked God to impart wisdom and remove the veil from the shadowed images in his mind. Nathaniel blew out a stiff breath. If God willed it, it would happen.

  Thick gray clouds gathered on the western horizon behind them. Nathaniel glanced back at them from time to time, calculating their nearness. Thus far, they’d been fortunate to enjoy decent weather since they’d been left without the wagon. He wanted the women safely sheltered before bad weather endangered them.

  “Wren?”

  The Indian woman paused and allowed Nathaniel to come abreast with her.

  “Looks like there is some rain coming. How much farther is this town?”

  Wren sent a cursory glance at the clouded sky. “Not far. We reach there before sun is high.”

  Despite the sun being hidden, Nathaniel understood Wren’s meaning. Perhaps another hour or two. He gave Wren a nod, and they continued up the trail.

  Quiet conversation between the ladies had fallen silent for most of the morning. Fatigue wore on all of them. Nathaniel could have sworn the travois was heavier. His muscles complained after three days of pulling the conveyance up the trail. He looked forward to finding a place of rest where he could be done with hauling the burden. Guilt smote him, however, for having to leave the women’s trunks at the bottom of the ravine, and once again the memory of Miss Locke’s tears made him wince for having spoken so sharply to her.

  Ridiculous. Being tough was the only way to survive. Here he was, letting a woman’s tears make him soft. He stiff-armed the mental picture he had of the moisture in her eyes and the despair in her voice. He’d not allow such silliness to affect him.

  “Who am I trying to convince?” he muttered. He shook his head and gripped the travois poles a little tighter. Resolve stiffened his jaw. He’d do whatever was necessary to prevent tears from filling her eyes again.

  At that moment, Wren stopped and turned to face him. She pointed farther up the trail. “There. You see many pines close together. Town hides in trees.”

  Miss Locke stepped up to Wren. “Aren’t you going with us?”

  Something akin to alarm skittered through Wren’s eyes. “No. Not safe.” She sent Nathaniel a pointed look.

  He gave her a nod. “How can we thank you for all you’ve done, Wren?”

  She shook her head. “We thank you.”

  With that, she slipped past him and returned down the trail the way they’d come. The inclination to go after her and ask what she meant by her response almost moved his feet in that direction. But the gray skies coaxed him to escort the ladies forward and find the town that Wren indicated was beyond the thick stand of pines.

  Sure enough, about a quarter mile farther, they came to a crude sign secured to a tall stump. TUCKER’S GAP. FOUNDED 1827.

  He turned to the women. “Welcome to Tucker’s Gap, ladies.”

  Minutes later, Nathaniel’s joy over having finally arrived at the town dwindled. The entire community could be seen in one sweeping circle. Nowhere within the range of his sight was there a tavern, an inn, or boardinghouse. The general store, a whitewashed, clapboard building, sat in the center of the tiny village and bore a hand-painted sign: TUCKER’S GENERAL STORE AND
TRADING POST. Groves of hardwoods and pines hugged a few other buildings. A feed and seed and a harness maker’s shop, both constructed of unpainted boards, flanked the general store. A rhythmic clackety-clack sounded from a large building that sat farther back at the edge of the woods next to the swiftly running creek. The sign posted on the front of the building declared it to be WISE’S SAWMILL, SAM WISE, PROPRIETOR.

  Beyond a shady grove of trees in the middle of town, Nathaniel spotted a man working at the livery. As good a place as any to inquire.

  “You ladies rest here. I’ll go and speak with the blacksmith and see if he knows of any place I can secure lodging for you.” He left the travois and strode toward the livery. The mountain of a man working at the forge wore a leather apron and faded chambray shirt, rolled up at the sleeves to expose glistening, muscular arms. He swung a ten-pound hammer like it was a child’s toy.

  “Good day, sir. Might I trouble you for some information?”

  The blacksmith looked him over, and Nathaniel watched as the man’s eyes took in his military blouse devoid of stripes and epaulets. Nathaniel sucked in a quiet breath, ready for the sneer of disdain that was sure to come.

  Abby watched Nathaniel approach the livery. His earlier anxiousness had dissolved when they saw the size of the town. There was a fenced area beside the livery. Behind the structure, a narrow path led to a small house nearly hidden among the trees.

  She scanned the rest of the town. A small church sat tucked away in a grove of maples and sweet gums. She imagined the beautiful picture it would make in the fall with the tiny chapel surrounded with gold and scarlet. Just across the road, Tucker’s General Store waited to be explored.

  Florrie stood and brushed off her skirt. “I’m going into the store and ask about mail delivery.”

  “All right. I’ll wait here.” Abby leaned against a tree trunk and watched Florrie climb the steps to the store.

  The sound of children’s laughter caused her to turn. A little girl, perhaps six or seven years old, with honey-brown pigtails chased a younger boy in and out of the trees in a crazy game of follow-the-leader. Beyond them, a woman with a market basket over one arm struggled to catch up with the two. As they drew closer, Abby watched the boy climb a tree as nimbly as a squirrel.