Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  “Some folks didn’t want all the names engraved on the plaque, just those who fought for the Confederacy.”

  “Didn’t everyone from Georgia fight for the Confederacy?”

  “No.” Extraordinary sadness taxed Hannah’s voice. “It may come as a surprise to you, but there were plenty of Georgians who didn’t believe in slavery, and therefore didn’t support secession. Many of them fought for the Union. It caused some very hard feelings that some folks won’t ever forget.” Her eyes locked onto Charity’s. “You see, my dear, the war didn’t just divide the country. It divided communities, and”—the pitch of her voice rose unnaturally—“it even divided families.”

  Charity cringed inwardly, dreading to ask what she feared. “What do you mean?”

  Tears filled Hannah’s eyes. “While both my boys died in the war, Matthew fought for the Confederacy, but Edwin fought for the Union.”

  Charity couldn’t breathe. How long had she considered her plight—not knowing what became of her father—the worst effect the war could have on a person? She was wrong.

  Dale selected the straightest oak boards with the finest grain, meticulously sorting through the inventory. He stacked them carefully beside the maple already tucked onto the wagon bed. He glanced at the order again to confirm the correct number of board feet. Simon had called him aside this morning with instructions for Dale to work on this order alone. Dale didn’t ask questions but merely set to work.

  Despite trying to dismiss Simon’s words last week, they lingered in Dale’s memory. The opinion of a Yankee never mattered before. Why now? An element of gratification tickled his belly to know Simon had recognized how hard he worked.

  He ran his hand over a length of red oak, the intricate grain creating a mosaic pattern beneath his fingers. He hefted the board and inspected it for trueness before adding it to the rest of the boards on the wagon. Checking the last of the oak off the work order, Dale initialed the paper and limped across the lumberyard toward the office.

  Three men stood talking in the shadow of the mill. When Dale passed by, he caught snatches of their conversation.

  “…let that Yankee woman know she ain’t welcome.”

  Dale slowed his shuffling steps and listened. He identified the trio by their voices. Tate Ridley, Amos Burke, and Jude Farley exchanged comments in the cover of murky shadows between the mill and the pole barn.

  “What about all them questions she’s been askin’ around, ‘bout some darkie she’s lookin’ for?”

  “And what do you suppose she’s writin’ in those articles of hers? All she wants to do is throw more mud on us Southerners.”

  “We don’t need no Yankee, ‘specially a woman, stirrin’ up trouble. Bad enough the darkies are all uppity now.”

  “Someone needs to make an example out o’ her.”

  “Meybe someone will.”

  Harsh laughter reached Dale’s ears.

  “Listen now. The brotherhood is meetin’ this Saturday night. We’ll talk about what needs doin’.”

  Dale had heard enough. With his hitched gait, he stepped over to the men. “Couldn’t help overhearing you fellows. If you have any plans on harming, or even harassing Miss Galbraith, you’d do well to change them.”

  “What business is it of yours, Covington?”

  Dale turned to face Tate Ridley. “It’s my business when I hear what can be construed as making threats on a woman.”

  Ridley stepped up, inches from Dale’s face. “I told you before, a Yankee is a Yankee. You’re a traitor to your own people if you defend her.”

  Amos snorted. “Everyone in the county knows his brother-in-law was a bushwhacker durin’ the war.”

  Dale’s gut tightened. He and his sister, Auralie, had argued over Colton’s involvement with the Union army. Regret pinched Dale. With their parents both gone, he had no other family. Their differences drove a deep wedge of alienation between them. He saw them when they came to town, and they never missed church, yet he’d barely spoken with Auralie and Colton for almost five years. Something he needed to address.

  Tate sneered. “If you was a true gray-blooded Southerner, you’d be makin’ plans to come to that brotherhood meetin’ yourself, Covington.” He pulled a pocketknife from his back pocket. “But I’ll bet if I was to cut you, you’d bleed blue, wouldn’t you?”

  Dale pointed his clipboard at Tate and then swung it to include Amos and Jude. “Leave Miss Galbraith alone or I’ll have something to say about it.”

  “Ooh, ain’t ya skeered, boys?” Amos guffawed. “This here crippled man’s gonna have somethin’ to say.”

  Dale jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the mill. “There’s three more orders in there that need to be filled today. If you boys are finished taking your break, I’d appreciate some help.” He turned and gimped toward the stairs that led to the office. Anger impeded his steps as laughter followed him.

  Simon Pembroke sat at his desk and looked up when Dale entered. “You’re finished with that order already?”

  Dale handed his boss the clipboard. “I picked through every piece of oak and maple to find the straightest boards, and there’s not a knot in one of them.”

  Simon bobbed his head. “That’s fine. This order is going to Lucas Adair, and you know how persnickety he is.”

  Had Dale not been so incensed by the three men in the lumberyard, he might have smiled at Simon’s accurate portrayal of the cabinetmaker. “It’s loaded and ready to go.”

  Simon pulled himself around in his chair. “Sit down, Dale.” He gestured to the place next to the desk. “I want to show you something.”

  Dale sat and watched as Simon unrolled a map and anchored the corners down. He pointed to a section Dale knew well. “I understand you once helped survey this acreage.”

  Dale examined the map. “Yes, I did. It was before the war, though. Ten years ago. My father attempted to purchase this”—he ran his finger across the map between two points already marked—“this is the boundary line to my brother-in-law’s land, and this tract is prime timber.”

  “I know. I bought it last week.” He rolled up the map and stuck it in a drawer. “It’s going to mean I’ll be away from here two or three days a week for a while, and I’m going to need a foreman to oversee the mill operation.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’re my first and only choice.”

  The unexpected offer raised Dale’s eyebrows. “You want me to be your foreman?”

  “It shouldn’t surprise you. I’ve watched the way you work, the diligence you put into everything you do. You certainly aren’t lazy.” Simon reached into one of the desk’s cubbyholes and extracted a key. He laid it in front of Dale. “And I believe I can trust you.”

  “But you’re—I’m—”

  Simon smiled, something Dale had never seen him do.

  “I’m blue and you’re gray?” Simon shook his head. “Not anymore.” He extended his hand.

  Dale hesitated. He’d managed to put aside his animosity working for this man with the New England accent and do his job. Simon had always dealt fairly with him. He picked up the key and shook Simon’s hand.

  Strange. At one time he would have looked down his nose at someone like Simon Pembroke. Not long ago he’d have considered the man’s offer an insult. As he descended the stairs and hitch-stepped across the yard, he took a moment for introspection.

  Hard work, perseverance, and dependability had reaped him a reward, and it felt good.

  Chapter 7

  The general store, while small in size, supplied everything on Charity’s list. The balding storekeeper and his wife—did he call her Sweet Pea?—served her with gracious smiles, unlike some of the receptions she’d received from a few other folks.

  Since she’d decided to extend her stay and the evenings were growing cooler, she purchased a heavier shawl, a sturdier bonnet, and a pair of warmer stockings. As she browsed the store, she added a package of hairpins, a bar of Castile soap, a new nib for her pen, and a box of en
velopes to the collection of goods in her arms.

  As she walked toward the counter, trays of stationery caught her eye. The supply she’d brought with her was dwindling. Just as she picked up a box of paper, the door to her left opened and a man entered carrying two crates, one stacked atop the other. The door swung against her arms, sending sheets of stationery fluttering like autumn leaves in their descent to earth. In her effort to snatch her other purchases before they scattered across the floor, Charity bent and reached out at the same instant the man with the crates did. The top crate crashed to the floor, spilling its contents of ribbons and sewing supplies. In the space of a heartbeat, Charity recognized Dale Covington at the very moment their heads collided with a thunk.

  Bumped off balance, she plunked down on her backside, holding one hand to her head.

  Mr. Covington grabbed for the elusive papers as they sailed in the breeze from the open door. His boot landed on Charity’s bar of soap and slid out from under him, sprawling his legs in opposite directions. Unable to regain his balance, he joined Charity in an ungainly position on the floor.

  The storekeeper came rushing over. “Well, land o’ Goshen, boy, what in tarnation’s goin’ on here?”

  Heat rushed into Charity’s face, and her head smarted. She risked a glance at Mr. Covington seated a few feet from her. A stricken expression of mortification surfaced across his face. A giggle bubbled up from her stomach. She tried to hold it back, fearing her display of humor might offend him. But the mirth refused containment and came puffing out her pursed lips. Once escaped, the laughter mocked her effort to suppress it by building into uncontrolled gales.

  “I’m sorry—” It was no use. The words came out in a sputter, and she surrendered to a torrent of giggles.

  Finally, a deep-throated chortle joined her in a hilarious duet. She caught her breath, wiped her eyes, and looked over at Mr. Covington. The moment their gazes connected, the laughter started anew. After watching his dark, brooding expression since she’d arrived in town, she didn’t think the man knew how to laugh, but she was wrong. The sound rippled through her like a symphony.

  The storekeeper stood with his hands on his hips. “Well, I declare, if you two ain’t a sight. I don’t reckon either of you is hurt, judging by the cacklin’ goin’ on.” He shook his head. “Well, don’t just set there, boy, help the lady to her feet.”

  Weak from the expression of unbridled humor, Mr. Covington held onto the doorframe to steady himself. He reached down and cupped her elbow, supported her forearm, and lifted her. Remnants of a smile lingered on his face.

  “Are you quite all right, Miss Galbraith?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Covington, but under the circumstances”—she gestured to the scattered merchandise—“I don’t think it would be improper for you to call me Charity.”

  “I do apologize…Charity.”

  “Please don’t. I haven’t laughed so hard in years.”

  A tiny, lopsided grin tipped one side of his mouth. “Me either.” He stooped and began picking up the sheets of paper, stacking them in a neat bundle.

  “Mr. Covington, I—”

  “Dale.” A momentary glitter in his eye made her catch her breath.

  Butterflies danced in her stomach. “Dale.” She took the collected stationery he handed her. “I fear the last time we talked I may have come across as a bit abrasive. Please know that wasn’t my intention.”

  He scooped up her package of hairpins and bar of soap. “No offense taken.”

  She blew out a short sigh of relief and snatched up the pair of stockings while he gathered the ribbons and sewing supplies that had fallen from the crate. As he did so, she noticed he barely limped at all.

  “Dale, would you have time to talk?”

  He straightened and shook his head. “As soon as I get these things put out, I have deliveries to make.”

  “I see.” She watched as he retrieved the remaining articles from the floor. “I’ve come to realize I’ve been looking at the war from only one side. Being here has opened my eyes, and there is much more research needed before I can write unbiased articles.”

  He handed her the box of envelopes. “Glad to hear it.”

  Hope sprang up in her chest. “Does that mean you’re willing to talk with me at another time?”

  He hesitated and withdrew a bit into the Dale Covington she encountered on her first day there. Regret tugged at her. The glimpse of Dale she caught when he laughed was much more desirable.

  She hugged her purchases to her. “Sunday afternoon?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose.” He stacked the two crates again and lifted them. “Sunday afternoon, then.”

  An odd thread of anticipation tiptoed through her. Three more days.

  The sound of the congregation singing lifted Charity’s heart as she took her place beside Hannah Sunday morning. “All hail the power of Jesus’ name, let angels prostrate fall. Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all.” The praise made her spirit soar.

  She settled in with her Bible on her lap and flipped the pages to the text Pastor Shuford announced, Luke chapter fifteen. As he began to speak about the parable of the lost son, Charity’s heart pinched. She pictured Essie, standing and watching for her son the way the father in the parable did.

  Lord, please be with me as I search, and lead me to Wylie.

  Her silent prayer brought Dale to her mind. Even if he couldn’t remember Wylie, perhaps he could suggest somewhere to look. The expression that had come over him and darkened his eyes the first time she’d inquired still haunted her. What if there was something more ominous behind that look? Dare she bring up the subject again?

  She hadn’t seen him before the service started. She turned her head as far as she dared without people sending her disapproving frowns. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of him sitting near the back. She pulled her focus back to the preacher, but Dale’s presence a few rows behind her proved quite distracting.

  After the closing hymn and prayer, Charity looked up and found Dale standing beside her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Sparrow. Charity.”

  A warm flush filled Charity’s cheeks. Did he notice? She turned to her landlady who had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Hannah, would it be all right with you if Dale came to the boardinghouse later this afternoon? I have a few more questions I’d like to ask him.”

  The corners of Hannah’s lips twitched, and she reached for Dale’s arm. “Why don’t you come for Sunday dinner, Dale? We’d love to have you.”

  Charity hiccuped. What did Hannah think she was doing? Playing matchmaker?

  Dale raised his hand in protest. “Oh no, I don’t want to put you out.”

  “You’d do nothing of the kind. I have a pot roast simmering, and there is plenty to go around.” She patted his arm. “You come right on. I made an applesauce cake for dessert.”

  A rush of warmth pervaded Charity’s middle. Her other meetings with Dale had been more businesslike. Well, except the unplanned meeting they had in the general store. But sitting next to him at dinner? Wouldn’t that be considered too…friendly? Of course, dinner at the boardinghouse with eight other people around the table wouldn’t exactly be an intimate tête-à-tête. She smiled.

  “You can’t say no to Hannah’s pot roast and applesauce cake.”

  A boyish grin tipped his mouth. “It’s been a long time since I had a Sunday dinner like that. I’d be happy to accept.”

  Why was her stomach doing flips? Charity reprimanded herself, but her heart still rat-tat-tatted like a dizzy woodpecker.

  “That was the best meal I’ve had in years, Hannah.” Dale still stumbled over calling the woman by her first name, but she’d insisted. He held up his hand at her offer of another piece of applesauce cake. “I couldn’t eat another morsel.” He grinned. “But I wish I could.”

  When Charity began picking up plates and serving bowls, Hannah flapped her hands. “I’ll do that. You young folks go on. Why don’
t you sit out on the back porch? It’s nice and sunny out there, and you won’t be disturbed.” She spoke the last part of her statement rather pointedly.

  Dale slid a sideways glance at Margaret Ferguson. The woman had blatantly aimed all her attention at him during dinner, much to Dale’s chagrin. A childish pout poked her bottom lip out, and she marched from the dining room with a huff.

  “Well then, I suppose we should go out to the porch.” The pitch of Charity’s voice rose a notch, along with his own level of apprehension. Such nonsense. He’d spoken with her before. They’d even banged heads and laughed about it together while sitting on the floor. Why was this different?

  She picked up her notebook and preceded him through the kitchen. He held the back door for her while they stepped out to the porch. He glanced from one end of the porch to the other. No chairs. The only place to sit was a swing just wide enough for two. He could have sworn Mrs. Sparrow kept a couple of wicker chairs out here. Didn’t he remember seeing them when he came to deliver her groceries? He tossed a look over his shoulder at the back door that stood ajar. Inside, Hannah hummed as she bustled about the kitchen. The woman was a sweet, loving person, but she was sly!

  Dale held the chain of the swing until Charity sat. Uneasiness flooded the space between them, so thick it felt like a tangible thing. She opened her notebook and turned to a blank page.

  “Do you mind talking about the war? I’d like to hear your story.”

  A lightning bolt ripped through him. The only person he’d really talked with about his experiences in the war was Pastor Shuford, and the preacher’s words came rushing back to him.

  “I fear the bullet that injured your leg did less damage than the resentment and animosity you nurture. Don’t you see, son? Your old wound has been trying to heal for six years, but your bitterness is making you a cripple.”

  He stiffened and looked away. If he’d known this conversation would turn personal, he’d have turned down the invitation. He expected general questions about politics and Georgia’s readmission to the Union. He curled his fingers into fists. Talking about his private pain he’d worked so hard to bury wasn’t something he was ready to do. Was that true? Had he tried to bury it, or had he done what Pastor Shuford had said? Nurturing the bitterness took more ongoing effort than burying it.