A chill slithered through Charity’s middle, but it wasn’t from Ivy’s cold hands.
Chapter 16
Charity couldn’t resist the urge to enfold Ivy in a hug. The woman widened her eyes in astonishment as Charity released her.
“Thank you so much, Ivy. You’ll never know how much this means to me.”
Ivy lowered her eyes. “I hope Essie get to see her boy again.”
A prick of wonderment held Charity in place for an extra moment. Had Ivy suffered a similar loss? Charity didn’t want to pry. Instead, she squeezed Ivy’s hand.
“I promise you, Ivy, I’m going to do everything I can to see that happen.”
When Ivy looked up at her, a small light sparked to life in the woman’s eyes. “I be prayin’ the good Lawd go wid you.”
Charity hurried down the alley between the hotel and the saloon, her feet pounding out the rhythm of the tinny piano music. She couldn’t wait until the workday was over to tell Dale her news.
She snatched both corners of her shawl as she set her course for the sawmill. Dale was certain to be as excited as—
Charity skidded to a halt. The same two men who had harassed her before stood near the entrance of the alley, their arms folded across their chests. She drew in a shaky breath and proceeded forward with sure strides.
The man on the right spoke first. “We want to talk to you, lady.”
“Well, I don’t have time to talk to you, right now, so if you’ll excuse me, please.”
The man on the left moved to block her path. “You don’t need to talk. All you gotta do is listen.”
Her heart galloped and moisture popped out on her brow despite the cool air. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than bully women?”
The first man scowled at her. “You didn’t listen too good the first time we talked, so we’re gonna make real sure you hear us this time.” He pulled out a pocket knife and toyed with it. “You been doin’ lots of talkin’ all over town, and we don’t like it. You think you’re so high and mighty, comin’ down here and writin’ for your fancy Yankee magazine, stirrin’ up the darkies with your questions.” He reached out and grabbed the corner of her shawl.
Charity’s breath caught and her throat strangled, as if the man gripped her by the neck. The sun glinted off the blade as he slit a six inch gash in her shawl. “If we don’t got your attention, Miss Galbraith, we got other ways to do it. So you best listen good, ‘cause this here is the last warnin’ you’re gonna get. We don’t like your kind around here. Whatever business you had in Georgia is finished. It’s time for you to go home.” He held up his knife, turning it first one way and then twisting it around.
The second man took a step closer to her, and the stench of liquor permeated him. A wave of nausea threatened to turn her stomach inside out, but her anger vanquished her fear. She yanked her shawl from the first man’s hand and pushed with all her might against his chest. He stumbled backward, whether from the force of her shove or the effect of the drink, it didn’t matter.
She barged past both the men and turned to face them once she reached the boardwalk. “Intimidation only makes me more determined than ever.”
She spun on her heel and marched across the street where she would be closer to the sheriff’s office if needed.
Her insides trembled with each footfall, but she breathed a prayer of thanks for God’s protection and kept walking toward the sawmill. She wanted to cast a glance over her shoulder to see if the pair followed, but she refused to allow them to think they’d succeeded. After weeks of searching for someone who could tell her something, anything, about Wylie, she wouldn’t let two drunken ruffians steal her joy. She could inform Miles Flint later about the confrontation.
She reached the bridge that crossed to the sawmill and paused, sending her glance scanning the lumberyard in search of Dale. The rhythmic clackety-clacking of the mill kept time with her pulse. Two men loaded lumber onto a wagon and two more worked at cutting what appeared to be fence posts, but none of them were Dale. She shaded her eyes and squinted across to the far side of the yard.
“Charity!”
She turned and saw Dale descending the stairs at the side of the mill. She tucked the damaged corner of her shawl into the thick folds and hurried toward him, but he raised his hand, indicating for her to wait. But she couldn’t wait. Her excitement spilled over with giddy enthusiasm.
“I was going to ask if something was wrong, but you look too happy for that,” Dale shouted over the racket of the machinery. He nudged her back the way she came. “Let’s go across the bridge and talk where it’s quieter.”
He placed his hand on her back and gently guided her toward a cluster of pines near the edge of Juniper Creek. The thick foliage muted the noise from the sawmill.
“Charity, I don’t think it’s safe for you to be out alone at this end of town. Miles hasn’t found Tate yet, so I’d feel much better if you’d stay closer to the middle of town where there are more people.”
She bit her lip. Telling him that the same two men who’d accosted her before had confronted her again would only cause him undue concern. Sticking closer to town wouldn’t guarantee safety. The hotel was right in the middle of town. Granted, they’d cornered her in the alley where no one could see them, but calling their bluff rendered their threats hollow.
Dale cupped both her forearms, and his eyes bore deeply into hers. “I wish you wouldn’t go out alone, even in the daytime. Not until Miles can track down Tate.”
His concern sent warmth spiraling through her, but the urge to share her news with him took priority over his admonition for caution. “Dale, I have something to tell you, and I couldn’t wait. I spoke with a woman this morning.” She clutched his sleeves. “She remembers Essie and Wylie.”
Genuine happiness lit his eyes. “That’s wonderful. Who is she? Where did you meet her?” Every bit of the mutual enthusiasm she hoped she’d see and hear in his response was there.
“She works at the hotel. Her name is Ivy, and she’s a former slave.” She interlaced her fingers to restrain them from flapping with glee. “She was at Talbot Plantation with Essie and remembers when Wylie was born.”
Dale took his chin between his thumb and forefinger and his eyebrows dipped in concentration. “Talbot? I served with a Colonel Jerome Talbot in sixty-four. I recall he sometimes kept two or three slaves at some of the encampments. I remember a woman named Ivy. Small, thin. She did laundry and mending for several of the officers.”
Charity could barely keep from jumping up and down. “That must be her. She works as a laundress.”
Dale pointed to his forehead. “Did she have a little scar right here?”
“Yes, she did.” She clasped her hands over her chest. Her heart tripped wildly within her rib cage.
Dale nodded. “Yes, I remember her. She was with the encampment at Ringold Gap and came with us when we moved south to Resaca. Then in May, the colonel sent her and the others to the rear when the fighting took place at New Hope Church and Pickett’s Mill. After Kennesaw, we—”
The rest of Dale’s words were lost in a fog of shock. Paralysis gripped her, and she forgot how to breathe. A shudder rattled through her, and she began trembling uncontrollably. A rush of heat filled her face and then drained away into the pit of her stomach.
“Charity? What is it? Are you ill? You’re as pale a ghost.” Dale reached for her, but every nerve ending in her body suddenly found life, and she backed away.
She willed her lips to move. “Pickett’s Mill?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
“I can’t hear you.” He moved closer and took her arm. Alarm crept into his voice. “Charity, you look like you’re about to faint. Let me help you sit—”
She yanked her arm away. “Pickett’s Mill?” The impact of realization that nearly knocked her off her feet moments ago rolled through her again and took root deep in the recesses of her being, growing and heightening until a wave of rage crashed over her. “Pickett�
��s Mill?” Her emotions became a runaway locomotive. “You fought at Pickett’s Mill?”
Dale’s pallor took on the color of a Confederate uniform. His jaw muscles twitched and his chest rose and fell as if he’d just come from the battlefield. “Yes. I was at Pickett’s Mill.”
She took another step backward, and then another. “You…why didn’t you…my father…Pickett’s Mill was where he…”
“Charity—”
He reached for her again, and the very motion of his outstretched hand sparked the tinderbox of emotion combusting within her. All the tears and agony she’d bottled up for six years came spewing forth unrestrained.
“How could you? You…you didn’t tell me anything…all the times I talked about searching for some scrap of information about my father, and you…All this time, you knew.” A storm of rage boiled within her. Every dark, private corner of her heart emptied in a rush of accusation. “You killed him.”
Dale’s features hardened into a frightful mask of mortal, stunned fury. His fingers curled into tight fists and then stiffened out straight, each appendage taking on the appearance of a weapon. He paled for several long moments. Then the blood surged back into his countenance.
When Dale finally spoke, his voice was a strained hiss. “I was at Pickett’s Mill. Many men died there. Some of them from my hands.” His chest heaved, and his eyes darkened with aversion. “You don’t have any idea…the horror, the nightmares—” He grabbed his head in both hands and a guttural groan emerged from his twisted lips. “The screams of dying men, their pleas for someone to come and end their misery. The blur of wishing I would die and at the same time wanting to live. I had to live. Days of pain and fever wondering if I’d survive to see…”
He bent forward and his knees buckled, as though some unseen force crushed him. “The letter. She sent a letter. I read it over and over. ‘Dear Dale, You have a son.’” An excruciating sob wrenched from his throat. “My son…my newborn son. All I wanted was to go home so I could see my son.”
He raised his head. His eyes flamed with a pain so brutal, it loomed into a tangible thing between them. Charity held her breath, dreading the words she knew were coming.
“Yankee scavengers didn’t just burn my house. They killed my wife and son.” The sobs moaned from him like his very lifeblood oozing away. “My son. I never even got to hold him.”
The comprehension of the war’s evils ravaged the deepest part of Charity’s spirit, and her grieving heart splintered and shattered. Each shard bore the name of a loved one who died—some woman’s husband, some daughter’s father, some father’s son. How many arms ached with the longing to hold that one who now lay in a cold, silent grave? A dawning of understanding slowly emerged in her consciousness. Dale’s infant son never wore a gray uniform or a blue uniform.
Hot tears coursed down Charity’s face, and her feet moved of their own volition. One step, then another. Refuge, was there refuge to hide her from the evil? Faster, faster. With no destination or purpose, she simply ran. Through the woods and the hills, she ran. Underbrush reached out long tentacles to snag her skirt and trip her steps, but she pushed forward, not knowing or caring where she went. Was there a place anywhere on this earth where sorrow and pain didn’t exist?
Sweat mingled with tears stinging her eyes and leaving salty moisture on her lips. With her heart screaming within her, she kept running. Her lungs nearly burst with the exertion, but as long as the tears flowed, she allowed her feet to carry her.
“God, please hide me under the shadow of Your wings.”
Reaching out in front of her, she grasped rocks and saplings, straining to pull herself to the crest of an overlook. Below, the town of Juniper Springs nestled into the valley in idyllic serenity. The tiny houses and miniature structures looked so tranquil and undisturbed from where she stood. Her energy spent, she collapsed onto a bed of fallen leaves and soaked them with her tears, while the presence of God and the music of the wind through the pines whispered peace to her soul.
Dale stumbled through his tasks the rest of the afternoon until Simon finally planted his hands on his hips and glared at him.
“What’s got into you, boy? You’re acting like you’re in love or something.”
The idea had occurred to Dale, but hearing someone else say it drove the ramifications home. Yes, I love her, but she thinks I killed her father.
Dale mumbled to Simon that he’d see him in the morning and headed across the bridge. The boardinghouse loomed ahead of him. After Charity ran off, he assumed she’d go back to the boardinghouse. What if she was packing to leave? He couldn’t let her do that without talking to her again. His raw outburst had nothing to do with her, and there was no way of ever knowing if it was his minié ball that struck down her father.
Somehow giving expression to his deepest, hidden pain was reminiscent of the surgery that repaired his wounds—painful, but cleansing. The festering infection of bitterness released from its prison. Now the healing could begin.
But only if Charity stayed.
Just as Dale reached the boardinghouse, Miles Flint hailed him. The sheriff strode toward him with a grim expression.
“Dale, I just got word that those white-hooded thugs who think it’s their duty to rid the South of anyone they consider undesirable are plannin’ another get-together tonight.” Disgust laced his tone. “I’m gonna ride out to Crow Town and warn everyone to stay inside and bar their doors. You think you could come with me?”
Dale sent a glance in the direction of the boardinghouse. “I have to check on Charity, Miles.” He studied the toes of his boots and sucked in a deep breath. “I just want to make sure she came back to the boardinghouse. Once I know she’s with Miss Hannah, I’ll come with you.”
Miles nodded. “I’ll be back here in ten minutes with a horse saddled for you.”
Dale climbed the front steps of the boardinghouse, and Hannah opened the door to his knock.
“Dale, come in.” Tiny lines creased her brow. “Charity isn’t here. I was hoping you’d seen her.”
Dale’s stomach clenched. “How long has she been gone?”
“Since this morning.” Hannah picked up the corner of her apron and fidgeted with it. “I told her about the woman who does the laundry at the hotel, and Charity went over there to talk to her, but that was hours ago. I’m beginning to get worried.”
Worry wasn’t a broad enough term to describe the turmoil in Dale’s gut. “If she comes back, you keep her here. I’m going looking for her.”
Chapter 17
Dale stuffed extra ammunition into his coat pocket. He filled the reservoir of the lantern with coal oil and patted his shirt pocket to confirm he had a few lucifers tucked there. He picked up his rifle and headed out the door.
Good sense told him the best place to start looking was the spot where he and Charity had spoken earlier that day—the place where she’d accused him of killing her father and where he’d finally relinquished his grip on the pain that had held him captive for six years.
Dale turned the corner and strode toward the boardinghouse where Miles Flint waited.
“You ready to go?”
Dale shook his head. “Charity is missing. We…had words earlier, and she ran off into the woods.”
“Somethin’ upset her today?”
Dale shrugged into his coat. “That’s one way of putting it. I’m sorry I can’t go with you, but I have to find Charity.”
Miles mounted his horse. “Ned Caldwell said he’d go with me. What direction you goin’?”
Dale pointed up the wooded slope. “She ran toward the mountain that way, but there’s no telling where she is now.”
The sheriff shaded his eyes and looked out across the mountains to the west. “It’ll be gettin’ dark in another hour. I don’t know where those hooligans are goin’ either, so you take care.” He reined his horse around and headed east toward Crow Town.
Dale leaned the rifle against his shoulder. He returned to the spot
where he and Charity had talked earlier and found the place where she’d fled away in tears. As long as he had a bit of daylight, he followed her trail where the underbrush and fallen leaves had been disturbed.
Judging by her direction, she was headed for some wild country. Dale squinted into the glare of the descending sun. Charity had no idea of the danger that lurked on the mountainside, especially after dark. He paused to study her trail. Dismay filled him as he realized she was headed farther away from town. Dale whispered a prayer for her safety and trudged up the steep incline.
Since he didn’t know for sure if the “brotherhood” was indeed headed to Crow Town or lurking in the vicinity, he didn’t take the chance on calling out Charity’s name as he searched.
Shadows gathered like a shroud, cloaking the countryside in veiled mystery. Twilight’s brush painted the sky lavender and gold. Casting a wide look across the ridge through the trees revealed no sign of Charity. Dale knew these hills as well as he knew his own name. Charity didn’t, and the waning light would disappear all together in another twenty minutes.
He stopped beside a rock outcropping and set the lantern down. He fished a lucifer from his shirt pocket and lit the lantern. It spilled friendly light in a halo around him, but it also marked his location to anyone else roaming about.
Fading light created spooky silhouettes of the bare trees. The promise of frost hung in the air. He looked up into the darkening sky. No clouds hid the stars. He pressed on, lowering the lantern from time to time searching for evidence of Charity’s trail.
A rustling noise just ahead stopped him in his tracks. He held the lantern aloft.
“Charity?” His hushed voice echoed like a battle cry through the trees. He flinched and cast a glance around him. “Charity? It’s Dale.”
Brides of Georgia Page 45
