Vivianna watched him go, smiling. When Willy was well out of sight, she looked to Johnny. His eyes were smoldering with some emotion she couldn’t quite discern. Yet his smile was bright and cheerful.
Quickly, she leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” she said, “for helpin’ the boys with their silly frogs and pollywogs.”
His smoldering gaze caused her breath to catch—caused a warm shiver of delight to travel up her spine.
“I-I should probably quit kissin’ ya every time I wanna thank ya for somethin’,” she said. She felt her cheeks pink with a bashful blush. She’d spoken the words out loud, though she’d only intended to think them.
“Why?” he asked.
Vivianna held her breath. The manner in which his rather predatory gaze lingered on her and the mischievous grin on his enticing mouth caused her to tremble. The manner in which he slowly leaned toward her—the way his gaze was suddenly transfixed to her lips—caused her mouth to begin to water. She wanted him to kiss her—wanted him to kiss her the way he had earlier, beneath the honeysuckle vine.
“My letter!” she gasped as the sudden realization Justin’s letter was still in her skirt pocket rushed into her mind. Plunging her hand into her pocket, she removed the beloved pages. They were damp but not soaking. “Oh, it’s ruined!”
She heard Johnny sigh as he reached over and took the letter from her. She watched as his brow puckered with curiosity. “It’ll survive…but I’m not too certain it will travel on to wherever you were plannin’ on sendin’ it.” She watched as Johnny unfolded the letter, his frown deepening as he studied it.
“Oh…uh…I wasn’t plannin’ on sendin’ it. It was written to me,” she said.
“One of Justin’s?” he asked, handing the moist pages back to her.
“Yes. It’s…it’s special…one of my favorites.”
Johnny’s frown intensified into a scowl. “Then ya better get it back to the house and put a warm iron to it,” he grumbled.
He stood, offering her his hand. His flirtatious manner had disappeared. And though Vivianna was disappointed in this, she knew she should expect no different.
“You run on back to the house. I’ll clean up with the rain barrel out by the barn,” he said. His teasing disposition was gone—his playfulness.
“All right,” Vivianna said. She started to walk away from him but paused.
“Truly…thank you, Johnny,” she said. “I know savin’ those silly pollywogs and frogs meant everything to Nate and Willy.”
Vivianna gasped as he reached out, slipped a muddy hand to the back of her neck, and pulled her against him.
“You’re welcome,” he growled a moment before his mouth crushed to hers.
Johnny’s mouth was hot and moist. It was a teasingly short kiss, but it caused Vivianna’s knees to buckle slightly all the same.
He held her neck as he studied her face a moment, and Vivianna nearly threw her arms around him—nearly begged him to kiss her once more.
Instead, she said, “I swear, Johnny Tabor…I swear I think you could lead me astray if I had a mind to let ya.”
He released her then—and grinned.
“If I had a mind to lead ya astray, Vivi…your mind couldn’t stop me,” he said.
He turned then, striding in the direction of the barn.
CHAPTER TEN
Vivianna turned the small flame wheel of the lantern. The flame heightened, the darkness lessened, and she sighed. Reading by starlight and low lamplight had caused her eyes to grow weary, yet she wanted to finish reading Justin’s letters. Carefully she drew the last letter from the box—the last letter she’d received from Justin before he’d ceased in writing to her, before he and Johnny had been captured and taken to Andersonville.
As she withdrew the letter from its tattered envelope, she felt a tear trickle over one cheek. This would be the last time she would read Justin’s beloved letters. Vivianna had determined that Justin was right. He had changed since he’d written the letters, and so had she. If she were to love him, she must fall in love with the man he had become, not the man he had been. Still, thick anxiety rose in her as a vision of Johnny Tabor entered her mind—as a thrill traveled through her at the memory of what he’d said to her before leaving her by the pond.
If I had a mind to lead ya astray, Vivi, he’d said, your mind couldn’t stop me.
Vivianna shook her head, tried to scatter her thoughts of Johnny, and returned her attention to Justin’s letters. The conversation she’d shared with Justin that day—his explanation that he needed more time to heal and that she needed time too—had liberated her in many ways. Yet until she could put aside Justin’s letters—until she could let go of the man he had been before Andersonville—she would never be entirely free. Thus, she lingered on the arbor swing beneath the starlit sky and honeysuckle vine, reading Justin’s letters by lantern shine.
She’d read each one—bathed in the beauty of their words and promises one last time. Even she’d read the now ironed and newly folded favorite she’d kept in her pocket for more than a year. There had been no need to read it, in truth, for she knew every word by heart. Still, she’d read it aloud, determined to read them all. Finally, the letter now in her hand was the last. She would read it as well—relish it as she had the others—and then she would take the box and place it somewhere other than her wardrobe. She would remove the letters from her wardrobe—from her room—from the house. She was not yet sure where she would put them, for she was not ready to give them up wholly and burn them, but she would put them away from her own easy reach. As she unfolded the pages of Justin’s final letter, a contemplation entered her mind. She would take the small box containing Justin’s letters to her family home in Florence. Yes! She would take the letters there and place them in one of the trunks in the attic. There they would be safe. There they could rest until Vivianna could read them again without knowing pain and heartache for the change in the man who’d written them.
She nodded. It was a good plan. She would carry it out on the morrow. In the morning, she would walk to Florence, visit her once joyous, now empty family home, and bury Justin’s letters in the warm, safe belly of an attic trunk.
Brushing another tear from her cheek, she began to read Justin’s last letter.
“My darling Vivi,” she whispered aloud.
Can it be true? Do you really love me? At this moment, I am sitting and listening to the warm Georgia rain beat against the tent, knowing the rain will make the battle tomorrow more miserable. And yet all I can think of…all I can do is wonder at the miracle of owning your love and admit I know doubt. How can you love me? Me…a man so thoroughly undeserving of your love? Still, I read your letters—again and again I read them—and I’m comforted. Your written words to me speak such soothing to my soul. The letter I received from you this evening renewed my certainty in owning your heart. “It is your letters that have won my heart,” you wrote to me, Vivi. “For it is through them that I have come to justly know your true mind and heart…to see into your soul. It is for the sake of your letters that you own me, Justin, and I ponder that it seems I never truly knew you before…for your letters have revealed you completely—your mind, heart and spirit—and I love you for them all.” Thus, your words comfort me, Vivi, and I know it is truly me you love…and not another. Perhaps you do not yet love me as deeply, as desperately as I love you, but you do love me, and it is enough for now.
The fighting is brutal. True that it has always been brutal. But this march with Savannah as our goal, it is so thoroughly destructive to the people of Georgia, to her cities, her very landscape. At times, it seems as if death and fire and destruction are all I will ever know. But then I dream of you, and in those dreams you promise me that the war will end. In my dreams, you place your pretty mouth to mine, kiss me, and whisper that all will be well. That war is not forever but that the love you and I have come to know is forever. Our hearts are entwined…and that is forever. In
my dreams you promise you will always belong to me, that only I own your heart. In my dreams I can hold you, kiss you, and feel your hand in mine. It is I wonder if, perhaps, you would rather I write more of our success in battle, of the goings-on in camp. Yet as I sit here writing to you, I find I do not wish to tell of such things. I wish only to think on you—of the life we will have together when at last I can march to Florence instead of Savannah. When I come to you, and General Sherman’s campaign will surely hurry the war to an end, that I may come to you and lay my claim, Vivi…then no one will have you but I!
I should not go on so. You will think madness has taken me if I do not write of something besides my love for you. Thus, I will tell you of Lowell. Lowell is a boy we are caring for here. I found him last week. The battle had ended for the day, and we—victorious yet overweary—were riding back to camp. I felt something hit me in the head and for an instant thought I had been wounded. I placed a hand to the place where my head was aching to find there was no injury there…no blood. I turned to look behind me, and that is when I saw him—Lowell. He is aged eight years, with flaming red hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. He’d been orphaned days before after his mother had taken ill and died. It seems his father fought and died for the Union, and he was afraid to return to town, afraid the townsfolk who knew his father had not fought to defend Georgia’s soil would harm him. Thus, he had been wandering the countryside alone and frightened for several days. All this I discovered when I dismounted and asked him if he were lost. I could not leave him there, so I picked him up, sat him astride my horse, and took him back to camp with me. He has been with us ever since, for we have not yet found a family to leave him off with.
I do not know why I have written of Lowell. His is not a happy story at present. Perhaps it is because I know you will own greater empathy for him than anyone else, for your losses in this war have been far more akin to his than anyone else’s. I worry in constant for him. He should not be with us, for he is not safe in the company of soldiers who are daily in battle. Yet he seems to find a measure of joy in our company. I think he feels safe with us, which of course is not at all an accuracy. Lingering with soldiers fighting for the Union on Southern soil is certainly not the safest place for a boy. Still, we protect him as best we can and in constant hope we may find him a safer place to linger soon. I have made certain that Lowell has put to memory instructions on how to find you and my family if something should happen and we are separated. I know a boy aged eight could not find his way safely all the way from Georgia to you, but it gives me a small measure of comfort. So, Vivi, if one day you are out lingering near the road and a small boy with hair as orange as a pumpkin arrives, please do look after him. He has captured my heart, and I worry for him now. I have told Lowell of you, Vivi. I have spent perhaps hours in telling this small boy of your goodness. He knows you would care for him if he and I were separated. And though I know it is impossible, I imagine he could find his way to you. Writing of Lowell may seem a strange thing to you. Still, I cannot spend all these pages in simply professing my love. Thus, I have told you of Lowell.
I will close, Vivi. I will close in knowing this letter is not the best I have written. The day was long, and my eyes are weary. I hope you will forgive me for such a lacking letter. No doubt the condition of my penmanship, weary as I am, will attest to the condition of my mind and body. Yet know that if my heart were the instrument by which I penned my letters to you, you would find no end to the pages I would send. I love you, Vivi. Oh, how I love you! Wait for me to come to you, for I will come to you. And when I do come to you—when I am able, at last, to hold you in my arms—I promise you these things: I will kiss you, and you will not be able to put me from your mind for one moment beyond our kisses. I will marry you, even if I must bind your arms and legs and carry you to the church in making it so. And I will own such a life of love, children, and happiness with you as to rival anything heaven itself could endeavor to arrange.
May God keep you safe, my love…my one true reason for living.
Vivianna folded the tender pages and brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She was angry for a moment—angry with Justin. Why had he changed? Why hadn’t he endeavored to fulfill his promises of love? How her heart ached in that moment, longed for the man Justin had been. How she wished that the sight of Justin caused her heart to leap; how she wished it were Justin’s kiss she longed for. Yet it wasn’t—not now—not anymore. Furthermore, it was Justin’s fault her heart did not beat so madly in his presence as it once had. After all, wasn’t it Justin who brought Johnny Tabor to Florence? It was Justin’s fault—all of it! Yet in an instant, Vivianna humbled herself once more. It was not Justin’s fault, nor was it Johnny’s fault. Johnny could not change the truth of his being so handsome, so thoroughgoing in his rank of attractiveness. Perhaps he might change his behavior if he wished, mask the pure magnetism of his manner. Yet Vivianna would not wish him to alter. No—she most certainly did not. Johnny Tabor had found his way into holding Vivianna’s attention with his pure desirability, into piercing her heart with some intangible power she could not understand, and that was no one’s fault but her own.
As she returned the letter to its place in the small box, she sighed. Perhaps she was simply not meant to love Justin Turner, just as she was not meant to love Caleb. Perhaps Justin’s letters to her and hers to him—perhaps they had simply been an instrument to help both she and Justin to endure the horrors of the war. Perhaps she would one day leave Florence. Perhaps the Turner boys she had so desperately loved would become nothing but a sweet memory of the past.
Vivianna thought of Savannah then—of the great debt she owed to her. Savannah wanted nothing more than for Vivianna to marry Justin or Caleb. It was many times Savannah had confessed this to her. Guilt and anxiety gripped Vivianna at the thought. She could not disappoint Savannah, nor Nate and Willy. She could not. Yet Justin did not want to marry her—at least, not in that moment. And she was not in love with Caleb. Either marriage would be out of obligation—either for Vivianna’s part of it or for Justin’s and Caleb’s.
Shaking her head with utter frustration and fatigue, Vivianna sighed. Many things occurred out of a sense of obligation, including marriage. Perhaps she should have accepted Caleb’s proposal. Certainly she was not in love with him, but she did love him, and he was steady. Caleb, though owning no sign of passion, was a good man—a kind and understanding man. In those moments of near despair and utter weariness, Vivianna Bartholomew wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake in not marrying Caleb Turner. After all, what good had it done her to dream over Justin, to have him return home only to find him so changed?
It was late. Vivianna knew it was never wise for a body to ponder so deeply when one was so very tired as she was. She stood, lifted the lantern with one hand, and tucked the small box containing Justin’s letters under her arm. She needed rest. The day had been long and emotionally taxing. Even in that moment, she could yet feel the press of Johnny’s lips to hers. They began to rise in her then, all her emotions, every one, all the feelings she’d buried for so long—the ardor that had begun to stir deep in her from the moment she’d first kissed Johnny beneath the honeysuckle. Still, she was weary, worn from the events of the day, from hard labor, from the emotional consequences of her discussion with Justin. Yet it was the thoughts of Johnny—her confusion mingled with delight—that most exhausted her. She reminded herself that he was nearly a stranger to her. He was not someone she’d known the whole of her life as she had Caleb and Justin. He was a stranger, a stranger whom she knew nothing about, save that he was from Texas and had a family there, that his sister was named Jeannie and had named her son after him, and that he held secrets.
Vivianna thought then of Johnny Tabor’s tin box, the one Justin had told her he clung to as if it contained the most valuable of treasure. She thought of his asking her to sink it in the river if he died. She thought then also of the dead Confederate Nate and Willy
had found in the woods. Quickly, she buried her suspicious nature. Justin would not own a friend who was in any way wicked. He would not. Her mind was too tired—too worn out. She would return to her bed and sleep. And in the morning, she would take Justin’s letters to her old home and hide them.
A cloud passed over the moon, and the darkness thickened. Vivianna was grateful she had not wandered too far from the house in seeking out pure privacy in which to peruse Justin’s letters. Even with the lantern light, the thick darkness would have caused difficulty for her as she made her way to the house had she not known the path so well.
“Vivianna.”
Vivianna gasped, her heart leaping so quickly within her bosom she feared it may well leap entirely from it!
“Johnny!” she scolded as she looked up to see Johnny standing before her. He held a lantern in one hand, a small, battered tin box tucked under his left arm. “You near scared the waddin’ outta me! What are ya doin’ out here in the dead of night?”
Johnny arched one broad brow and asked, “What are you doin’ out here in the dead of night?”
Vivianna paused in answering. She fancied she might well tell him what she was doing and why. And before she could think to do otherwise, she did indeed tell him.
“I…I wanted to read Justin’s letters once more…before I put them away perhaps forever,” she said. She could not believe the confession had passed beyond her lips! Why would she tell him of her plans to put Justin’s letters away?
Johnny glanced to the small box she carried.
“You’re givin’ them up?” he asked. “Have you…have you and Justin come to an agreement on—”
“We’ve agreed that he needs more time to heal…that perhaps I do, as well,” she interrupted. “We are neither of us the same…changed since the letters passed between us. He wants me to love him for the man he is now, not the man he was when he wrote these to me.”
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine Page 18
