Книга - The Memory House

The Memory House
Linda Goodnight


New York Times bestselling author Linda Goodnight welcomes you to Honey Ridge, Tennessee, and a house that's rich with secrets and brimming with sweet possibilitiesMemories of motherhood and marriage are fresh for Julia Presley—though tragedy took away both years ago. Finding comfort in the routine of running the Peach Orchard Inn, she lets the historic, mysterious place fill the voids of love and family. No more pleasure of a man's gentle kiss. No more joy in hearing a child call her Mommy. Life is calm, unchanging…until a stranger with a young boy and soul-deep secrets shows up in her Tennessee town and disrupts the loneliness of her world.Julia suspects there's more to Eli Donovan's past than his motherless son, Alex. There's a reason he's chasing redemption and bent on earning it with a new beginning in Honey Ridge. Offering the guarded man work renovating the inn, she glimpses someone who—like her—has a heart in need of restoration. But with the chance discovery of a dusty stack of love letters buried within the lining of an old trunk, the long-dead ghosts of a Civil War romance envelop Julia and Eli, connecting them to the inn's violent history and challenging them both to risk facing yesterday's darkness for a future bright with hope and healing.







New York Times bestselling author Linda Goodnight welcomes you to Honey Ridge, Tennessee, and a house that’s rich with secrets and brimming with sweet possibilities

Memories of motherhood and marriage are fresh for Julia Presley—though tragedy took away both years ago. Finding comfort in the routine of running the Peach Orchard Inn, she lets the historic, mysterious place fill the voids of love and family. No more pleasure of a man’s gentle kiss. No more joy in hearing a child call her Mommy. Life is calm, unchanging…until a stranger with a young boy and soul-deep secrets shows up in her Tennessee town and disrupts the loneliness of her world.

Julia suspects there’s more to Eli Donovan’s past than his motherless son, Alex. There’s a reason he’s chasing redemption and bent on earning it with a new beginning in Honey Ridge. Offering the guarded man work renovating the inn, she glimpses someone who—like her—has a heart in need of restoration. But with the chance discovery of a dusty stack of love letters buried within the lining of an old trunk, the long-dead ghosts of a Civil War romance envelop Julia and Eli, connecting them to the inn’s violent history and challenging them both to risk facing yesterday’s darkness for a future bright with hope and healing.


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The Memory House

A Honey Ridge Novel

Linda Goodnight






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


I had no way of knowing when I first imagined this book with its theme of grief that I would become intimately acquainted with that excruciating emotion during the writing. With a shattered heart and endless love, I dedicate this book to the memory of Travis Goodnight, the finest son any mother could ever have.


Contents

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About the Author (#ub09789e6-ce0b-5fcb-8058-baf608aa1fc6)

Title Page (#ubc310aee-5bb7-51a2-accd-5ce3aac5fa40)

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1 (#ulink_e102ca14-ceb8-58c8-96ce-7ea0e3931f9b)

“The Child is father of the Man…”

—William Wordsworth

Nashville, Tennessee

Present Day

Freedom was its own kind of prison.

These were the thoughts of Eli Donovan as he scraped drywall mud from his elbow and watched a familiar bronze Buick pull to the curb outside the remodel. With a tug in his gut, Eli tossed the trowel to the ground and straightened. What had he done now?

A man stepped out of the Buick and adjusted his blue tie before squinting toward the house. Their eyes met, held for a fraction of a second until Eli looked down. Once upon a time he would have challenged anyone in a staring contest. Hard time and maturity had changed him. He didn’t want to fight anyone anymore. Certainly not his parole officer.

Saying nothing, Eli started across the greening lawn, past the scattered remains of lumber and construction junk. He was no longer arrogant and proud, but the jitter in his belly shamed him just the same.

“Eli.” Mr. Clifford spoke first, broke the impasse. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.” He stopped two feet from the fortysomething officer of the court, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on the other man’s balding head. Anxious, afraid of tripping himself up, he waited for Clifford to speak his business.

“I had a phone call this morning.”

Still Eli waited, not knowing what to ask or say. If he misspoke, Clifford would get the wrong idea or ask questions Eli couldn’t answer. There were always questions.

The parole officer pulled a paper from his pocket and pushed it toward him. “A woman name of Opal Kimble tracked you down through the warden. She wants to talk to you. Says she has something urgent to discuss. Mentioned the name Mindy.”

Eli stared at the yellow Post-it note, the dread deepening. He licked dry lips, tasted drywall mud. “Mindy?”

“Is there anything I need to know? If you’re into something—”

Eli interrupted. “I’m not. Mindy is an old friend. Did Opal say anything else?”

“No, she just left that number and insisted I contact you. I thought it might be important.”

“Doubtful.” Mindy was a sweet soul. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to be sure he was all right. He refused to consider the other issue, certain she was better off not hearing from him.

“You could use a friend.”

The comment took Eli aback. In the six months he’d known Pete Clifford, the man had shown him nothing but suspicion, as if he couldn’t wait for the ex-con to step out of line so he could send him back to that stinking rat hole.

“I’m all right.”

“Do you have a phone yet?”

“No.”

Clifford extracted his from a belt holster. “Call her.”

Eli considered only a moment before accepting the offer. No point in riling the man. He could make a call to an old woman he’d never met. Find out what she wanted and then get back to work. He needed the payday.

He took a moment to study the fancy cell phone. A lot had changed since he’d been gone. Technology marched on, as they said, and left the caged behind.

As he tapped in the numbers Eli was gratified when Clifford turned toward his vehicle. “I’ll give you a minute.”

“Thanks.” The word was gravel on Eli’s tongue but he was grateful. He didn’t take acts of kindness lightly.

A woman’s voice, stronger than he’d expected from the aunt Mindy had described as ancient, answered the call.

“Miss Kimble? Eli Donovan.”

“About time you called, boy.”

Her tone stiffened his spine but he remained silent. He focused elsewhere, as he’d learned to do in the difficult moments inside the big house, letting her talk while he only half listened. A pair of courting bluebirds caught Eli’s eye as they dipped and flirted. He smiled a little, though the action felt stiff and unfamiliar. Since his release, he’d been mesmerized by nature. The rising sun, a fluttering butterfly, a dog sniffing tires. Nature brought a peace, a rightness to his tumultuous soul. In his despair and self-pity, he’d forgotten those simple gifts he’d once taken for granted.

In his ear, Opal said something that captured his attention. He tuned back in. “What did you say?”

“I said, Mindy left some things for you and I want you to come get them.”

He frowned toward the horizon where a single gray cloud hovered like a promise of trouble. “Left things? Isn’t she there?”

A beat of silence pulsed in his ear, tightened the knot in his chest.

When Opal spoke again, her tone softened. “I thought you knew. Mindy’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Not that he’d follow or make contact, but the woman was confusing him.

“Gone for good, Eli.” Opal’s voice cracked. “Mindy died.”


2 (#ulink_1b940855-a9c1-52f1-b4a4-a15ff30a7f8f)

Peach Orchard Inn

Present Day

She’d kissed him goodbye that last morning. Julia was sure she had. Wasn’t she? The action had been so ingrained in routine. Grab the backpack, stick the lunch box in his hand and kiss him, quick and sweet, before he galloped to the bus stop. She’d watched him get on the bus. She always did, though afterward she’d second-guessed a thousand times. If she’d driven him to school, or if she’d kept him home, because hadn’t he been a sleepyhead that last wonderful, terrible morning?

Six years had passed and yet the horror and grief never left. It was the not knowing that drove Julia Presley quietly mad. In those moments of solitude, especially right before sleep and like now, upon waking, the thoughts would come in rapid-fire succession before she had a chance to block them. She’d become adept at blocking.

Most days she survived and some days she even thrived. But days like today were the worst. Michael’s birthday. He was still alive. She had to believe that. Yet, wondering who had him and what was happening or had happened was too hard to bear. But bear it she did, for what choice did she have? Someday, somewhere, someone would spot him in a crowd or he would simply walk free of his captors and come home. Such miracles still happened, and those children once lost but now found gave Julia hope.

He would be fourteen today, no longer the wide-eyed little boy who hated baths and adored mud puddles. Was he tall and loose limbed like his father, and wouldn’t he be heartbroken to know his mom and dad had unraveled within a year without him? That he was the glue holding their ragged marriage together and that in his absence, they’d been unable to comfort each other? They’d laid blame where none was due, such a stupid reaction to a heinous crime. The only person at fault was the evil being who’d snatched a happy little boy from a peaceful town where nothing bad ever happened. And yet, she felt responsible. Mikey was, after all, her child to guard and guide and she’d failed in that essential role of motherhood.

Dragging herself from beneath the ice-blue duvet, Julia reached first for the iPad on the nightstand. With a poke of a finger, she tapped open the Facebook page where Mikey’s bright eight-year-old face smiled out at her next to a computer-aged photo. Would he really look like this today?

She trolled the comments, saw the handful of birthday wishes and closed the program with a sigh. No news. No sightings. Just like every day since she’d started the page with the help of a support group. Other mothers who waited for their children to come home. Most days she didn’t visit the forums for idle conversation. They depressed her, and Lord knew she couldn’t go back down that dark tunnel again.

With a breathed plea for strength to get through another day, Julia dressed and dabbed makeup on the shadowy half-moons beneath her eyes. Though dawn had yet to break, she had to get up and get moving. She had guests to attend, breakfast to cook and a myriad other tasks to address. Keeping busy was important, soothing therapy. Culinary therapy, she termed her cooking obsession. If she worked herself into exhaustion, she could sleep without the oppressive dreams.

She was thankful every day for the rather inexplicable purchase four years ago of Peach Orchard Inn, this big, old oddity of a Southern mansion, now a guesthouse. There was something benevolent about the two-story structure that had survived a Civil War and the century and a half since. The day Valery had dragged her out here “just to look,” the house had wrapped itself around her like a warm hug. Though cobwebs and dust had covered everything, her heart had leaped. For the first time in months—years—she’d felt something other than despair. This wonderful old bed-and-breakfast had, quite literally, saved her sanity. She’d yet to understand why. It simply had.

She’d clung to her former home on Sage Street—Mikey’s home—too long, fearing her son would return and find her gone, but she was dying there. Depressed, barely able to get out of bed each morning, and some days she didn’t get up at all. Since a dead mother was not what she wanted her son to come home to, at her family’s urging Julia had sold the modern brick home and moved into a piece of history sorely in need of restoration. In that way, she and the house were the same.

Everyone in Honey Ridge knew about Mikey’s disappearance, but most were Southern enough to speak of the loss only among themselves and never to her. She was left alone and they, along with her family, pretended that she was a normal person, an ordinary divorced businesswoman running a guest inn and clinging to history—her own and that of this antebellum house.

She was stuck in the past, both in the distant and the near. Stuck. In freeze-frame for six years, waiting, unable to move forward, unwilling to give up that gossamer thread of hope that one day she’d awaken and Mikey’s disappearance would only have been a nightmare.

Bingo, the aging Australian shepherd, rose from his rug at the foot of her bed. When Julia paused to give his blue-merle head a rub, she spotted an object on the floor where he’d slept. At first she thought it was a rock and bent to pick it up, puzzling to discover another smooth, round child’s marble. Not an ordinary, modern marble. This one was reddish in color, made of clay, a handmade antique like the others she’d discovered in the house.

“Did you bring this in here, Bingo?” He was forever bringing her little gifts. “Better than the dead snake you brought last time.”

She rolled the child’s toy in her palm, wondering. She and Valery had found a number of interesting and historic items during the ongoing remodel, each one adding another layer of mystery and history to the old inn. But the marbles were different. They showed up randomly, usually in a place she’d recently cleaned and always on a bad day. They spoke to her, comforted her, and wouldn’t Mama have a fit to hear that her unbalanced daughter was now communing with marbles.

“She’d say I’ve lost my marbles.” Maybe she had.

Grasping comfort where she could, Julia slipped the little clay ball into her pocket and started toward the kitchen.

Bingo trotted by her side past the wide stairs that led from floor to floor. Though not as grand as the one in Gone with the Wind, the staircase had captivated Julia on sight. She imagined a nineteenth-century bride sweeping down these now burgundy carpeted stairs, one gloved hand on the gleaming oak banister as her heart canted toward her true love waiting next to the enormous marble fireplace in the parlor below.

Fantasy, yes, like the comforting marbles, but a house like this allowed a certain imaginative license. Part of a Southern upbringing is to believe history lingers in walls and whispers from ancient oaks, and though she believed in so little these days, she believed that. This house was a living entity and Julia had carefully listened as she and Valery worked to create an inn worthy of a special trip to a small town in rural Tennessee. An inn where others might find peace even if the owner couldn’t.

Sometimes, when she sat on the enormous wraparound porch, Julia thought she heard the rattle of carriages and horse hooves between the double row of old magnolias. She was careful to tell no one about the incidents. Nor of the time she’d felt a cool, soothing hand on her forehead after a screaming nightmare about Mikey; nor of the little boy’s laughter she sometimes imagined in the upper hallway. A woman with a slender hold on sanity had to be careful about her wild imagination, for that is all it was. Julia didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or even much in God anymore.

She’d once made the mistake of sharing one of the episodes with Valery, a confession that had driven her sister to the liquor cabinet. That was a move Julia did not want to repeat. Valery and liquor were a troubling pair, especially since her sister’s latest battles with Jed the jerk, the worst boyfriend in history.

Though she and Valery were close, Julia had learned to keep her thoughts and grief to herself. No one understood. They expected her to move on and forget she’d had a son, a husband, a family. To forget she’d had a happy, almost perfect life until that horrible October morning.

Rounding into the kitchen, a late addition to the house, Julia flipped on lights and went straight for the coffee and oven dials. She might never win any chef awards but she loved to feed people.

Though her specialty was peach tea made from scratch, her coffee was good, too, a unique blend she ground herself and served French press. Guests were known to linger for hours over coffee, so she started there. The breakfast menu varied but always included a peach dish, mostly with fruit from her orchard. People expected peaches from an inn with a name like Peach Orchard.

In minutes, the ham-and-egg strata was ready for the oven, the peach-muffin batter spread among the tins, and the coffee sang its aromatic siren song. Taking a cup, Julia went out onto the front porch for her favorite time of day. With only the dog for company, she sat in one of four white wicker chairs to watch the sun break over the lawn and come sneaking through the waxy-leaved magnolias and fuchsia rhododendron. Last night’s rain glistened like tiny crystals on the verdant grass while Old Glory hung limply from the white-board porch rail.

Julia made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. Valery had forgotten to bring in the flag again last night, a clear breach of etiquette that would have the townspeople on the phone if anyone had driven past. Hopefully, no one had. Backed by woods, Peach Orchard Inn was off the main thoroughfare on the edge of town. Mikey would have loved this place. Room to run and explore and be a little boy in safety.

But safe was a relative term.

The house was shielded from the road by a thick stand of leafy trees, including the showy pink blooms of the peach orchard that ran to the right of the front lawn and down the north side. Sometimes she heard a car go by but mostly not. The small-town peace and quiet was one of the draws of her little guesthouse.

Julia propped her heels on a neighboring chair, gazed out toward the orchard and sipped her coffee.

“Happy birthday, baby,” she whispered, and the hollow heat of grief seized up in her chest. Eyes closed, she heard his small voice, smelled his little-boy and toothpaste scent and felt the warmth of his sturdy body as she’d hugged him that final time. Her throat thickened and tears welled. She’d grieve for these few minutes alone, as she had for six years, and then she’d dust off her hostess smile and get on with her day.

Bingo padded to her knees and whined, nudging. The Aussie didn’t want anyone to be unhappy, though he had endured his share of her tears. He, too, had grieved, wandering forlorn for weeks in search of the adored boy who never came home.

Leaning forward, Julia wrapped her arms around the dog, pressed her face to his fur and wept.

“Ma’am. Are you all right?”

Julia jerked upright and dropped her feet to the porch with a thud. Her heart beat in her throat as she stared at a man standing at the bottom of the steps. She glanced behind him, saw no car and wondered where he had come from. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her errant thoughts of rattling carriages, talking marbles and touches in the night had her wondering if she’d imagined him, conjured him up. Was she hallucinating? He was handsome enough to be a dream but hard looking, too, as if he’d seen too much and done even more. A dark-eyed pirate in a tattered jean jacket with a day’s growth of beard, shaggy black hair and a rumpled white T-shirt.

“Who are you?” The words were breathy, harsh and out of character for a Southern hostess.

A frown formed a vee between the man’s Faustian black eyebrows. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You were crying.”

She realized then that her face was still wet. “I’m fine.” She swiped both hands across her cheeks in one quick motion. “Where did you come from?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The road. My car broke down. You wouldn’t have any jumper cables, would you?”

“Sorry, no.”

He glanced toward the section of the peach orchard that ran parallel to the house. His shoulders lifted in a hopeless sigh.

“Could I use your phone?” He asked as if expecting a denial.

“Don’t you have a cell?”

His jaw flexed, hardened even more. His eyes cut to hers and just as quickly cut away. “No.”

Everyone had a cell phone these days. Where had this guy been? The moon?

She heard a slight noise from inside the kitchen and knew her guests had begun to stir.

“The phone is in the kitchen. Come in.” She turned, felt his eyes at her back as she reached for the screen door. With a silent move that could have been unsettling, he joined her, took hold of the door and held it open as she entered.

She wasn’t afraid of him. But even if he’d been an ax murderer, she’d not have been afraid. A person who was dead on the inside had no fear.

One of her frequent guests, a bespectacled sixtysomething Bob Oliver, stood at the counter helping himself to coffee. He and his wife had been here so often in the past two years, she let them have the run of the place and was glad they felt relaxed. That was the point of Peach Orchard Inn.

“Good morning, Bob,” she said. “You’re up with the birds.”

“I smelled your coffee.”

She managed a smile. “I’ll fix a carafe for Mattie too.”

“Later, maybe. Seven is too early for Mattie. When she retired from teaching she said she was never setting another alarm. And she hasn’t.”

“Can’t blame her for that,” Julia offered before turning toward the man who stood uncertainly beside the back door.

Before she could point the stranger toward the landline, Bob said in his usual candid manner, “Didn’t know you had a hired man now.”

Julia slanted the stranger a glance, wondering if he’d been insulted. His hard face remained impassive.

“Unfortunately, help, other than Valery, is still a pipe dream for Peach Orchard Inn. His car broke down up on the road.”

“Probably the battery,” the newcomer said, and then as if he’d been reprimanded for speaking too loudly, he looked down at his feet.

“Is that so? Maybe I can help.” The older man offered a hand. “Name’s Bob Oliver.”

The stranger looked at the outstretched hand for an extra beat—long enough to draw attention to the hesitation—before he reciprocated. “Eli Donovan. I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Oliver.”

“Call me Bob. Mr. Oliver sounds like a professor of physics—which I was for thirty years. Now, I’m just plain old Bob.” He chuckled and reached for the silver carafe, giving the plunger a push with the flat of one hand. “Julia here makes fine coffee.”

The stranger flicked a glance at her but said nothing. She should offer. Offering coffee was the hospitable thing to do. “Would you care for a cup?”

He swallowed, seemed troubled by the simple question. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

She poured another cup and handed him the aromatic brew. His fingers trembled the slightest bit, but he quickly wrapped them around the mug while Julia pretended not to notice.

What she did notice was the fatigue around his eyes, the sheer weariness of the man. She noticed, too, that he was fit and muscled, his hands clean but rough, as if he labored for a living. He wore no jewelry, not even a wedding ring, though why she would notice bothered her a little. Good-looking men were not necessarily decent human beings, and even if he was the nicest guy on the planet, she was too empty to be interested.

“The telephone is over there if you still want to make a call.” She motioned to the landline on the brown granite counter and moved to check the casserole.

Mr. Oliver waved her off. “No need. I have jumper cables in my trunk. Never make a road trip without them.”

The stranger’s quick eyes moved from her to Mr. Oliver as if assessing both and wondering what to make of their friendliness. He was like a caged panther, dark and wary and dangerous.

“We’ll drive my car up there,” Bob said. “Give you a jump and have you on the road in a jiffy.”

“Thanks.” Eli Donovan took a brief sip of coffee and moved to set the still-full mug on the counter.

“Take the coffee with you.” Julia gestured between the two men. “Both of you.”

Eli hesitated. “Your cup…”

“Is returnable.”

“Oh. Thanks.” The word was rusty in his throat, as if he didn’t say it often. In fact, all his words were rusty, careful.

Bob clapped him on the shoulder. Julia couldn’t help noticing the way Eli tensed. “Today’s your lucky day, Eli. Good coffee from a pretty lady and a man who never leaves home without tools. My car’s parked around back. Ready when you are.”

“I’m ready.”

From the corner of her eye, Julia watched the two men exit her kitchen, their feet thudding against the board veranda. Eli carefully balanced his coffee, sipping as he walked, and Julia could hear Mr. Oliver, in his perky professor voice, chattering away while the other man remained silent.

Bingo trotted around the gravel walkway behind the pair, happy to have a purpose, abandoning his mistress to the quiet smells of her kitchen.

Julia wiped her hands on a peach-imprinted dish towel and went to the door, watching as Bob Oliver and Eli Donovan disappeared around the corner of the porch.

What a strange morning. Another marble from nowhere, and now a disturbing stranger. Both on Mikey’s birthday.

She reached into her pocket, withdrew the marble and rolled an index finger over the smooth clay. Somewhere in her distant memory, a little boy laughed.


3 (#ulink_7ad32366-1628-56ab-a196-e28eb1286a31)

“What’s past is prologue…”

—William Shakespeare

Peach Orchard Farm

Summer, 1864

The sound of advancing hoofbeats should have shaken the ground. Yet, they moved quietly, reverently it seemed, a cavalcade of Union soldiers bearing their wounded.

Charlotte Reed Portland’s first inkling that her Tennessee home was about to be invaded intruded as she taught a delicate embroidery stitch to her two sisters-in-law. Seated in the parlor, butter-yellow sunlight streaming in through the windows on a hot and windless day, Charlotte heard the excited voice of a servant, heard the hurried footfalls a moment before her nine-year-old son burst through the French doors, cowlick standing on end.

“Mama, the Yankees are coming!”

At Benjamin’s breathless announcement, Charlotte stiffened, her fingers tight on the embroidery hoop.

She had known they would come, an army of men at war with her adopted state, in need of horses and food to fortify the Union. What they didn’t understand, or perhaps didn’t care, was that the Confederacy had need of the same supplies. Even now, the small, out-of-the-way town of Honey Ridge was strained beneath the burden.

So, of course, the Federals would come here, to Peach Orchard Farm, home to three generations of Portlands, including her husband, Edgar, and their son. Though hardly a plantation, they were self-sufficient in corn and wheat, fruit and livestock, and a handful of slaves.

Please, Almighty God, do not allow them to take everything.

Her two younger sisters-in-law regarded her above their needlework with wide, hazel eyes, mouths dropped. Their milk-bathed complexions had gone chalky. As mistress of the house and an ancient twenty-seven, the responsibility for their well-being and that of the house and servants rested upon Charlotte’s shoulders.

“Miz Charlotte, you want I should go to the mill for Mr. Portland?” This from Pierce, the yardman, the whites of his eyes startling in his dark, sweat-gleamed face. A good man, a trustworthy and loyal servant.

Afraid the quiver in her throat would burst free and betray her angst, Charlotte nodded, breathing in for composure.

“Please do, Pierce,” she managed, her British accent stronger when she was nervous, an accent her husband had once found charming. “I’ll go out to greet them.”

With deliberate poise, she put aside the embroidery hoop and rose, smoothing damp palms over her green day gown. Fear vibrated in her stomach.

Edgar would not be pleased at an interruption, whether from her or the hated Yankees, but they’d heard the gunfire in the near distance early this morning. A battle, or perhaps only a skirmish; it did not matter which. Men would die. She’d prayed the war would not touch her household.

But now it had.

Charlotte could hide most feelings beneath a false serenity, a gift she’d found essential here in the American South, where differences were suspect, human beings were sold and traded and her husband ruled with a cold look.

“Josie. Patience,” she said to the younger women. “Lock yourselves in your rooms. Take Benjamin with you. Neither come outside nor look out the windows. Do not show yourselves in any way.”

With rigid posture and a sweep of full skirts, she moved out onto the long, pillared veranda, gripped the whitewashed railing and waited. Normally, she loved the scene from the porch, the double row of magnolias along the curving driveway, the expanse of peach orchard to the north. Yet, today her knees trembled and she saw only the advancing army—a straight military line of blue and gold and rows of men astride their mounts. The Union flag, stars and stripes aloft on the front steed, rippled slightly.

She’d heard the horror stories. The armies of the north came to pillage and destroy, but God help her, with her last breath she would defend her family and this home. From the moment Edgar had brought her here, a nervous bride of sixteen, she’d fallen in love with the house in a way she’d never been able to love the man. The house and her son were enough.

Sweat trickled beneath her collar and yet she waited, outwardly composed, searching for a sign of humanity among the enemy.

As the army moved closer, down the winding lane from road to house beneath the magnolia shade, Charlotte saw the lines of weariness on young soldiers’ faces, the blood on uniforms, the litters and foot soldiers bearing the wounded. It was a small company, not a great army as she’d first thought. In the haunted faces of barely men, the war came, bringing with it a sense that nothing would ever be the same again at Peach Orchard Farm.

With a heavy heart, made heavier by the knowledge that whether by choice or by chance she was their enemy, Charlotte stepped from the porch onto the grass and made her way forward as the horses and men drew to a stop. Dust swirled up from the hooves into her nose. There was a shimmery stillness in the air, as though the house, too, held its breath.

The apparent leader of the troops, a man of erect bearing with an air of authority, touched his heels to a sweaty gray. Charlotte stood unflinching as he approached. He was young, as they all seemed to be. Perhaps her age. And whether friend or foe, he looked dashing in his blue waistcoat with the gold bars on the shoulders and the matching gold stripe down the Union blue trousers. Dashing and handsome, though dusty and strained from God only knew what, with brown hair, a strong jaw dusted with tidy brown whiskers and a lean build.

“Ma’am.” He removed his hat, a navy blue with gold-crossed cannons above the bill. “I’m Captain William Gadsden of the United States Army. Is your husband in residence?”

A simple question, made necessary by the fact that most males in Tennessee had long since donned uniform of one color or another and gone off to fight. She knew Edgar’s deferment shamed him, made him bitter.

“A servant was sent to fetch him. What is the purpose of your visit? We are a simple farm of women and children and a handful of servants.” She refused to call them slaves. Many were as close as family and some, she suspected, might actually be.

Old Hub, whose only job these days was care of the chickens, hobbled around the house to stand beside her, a devoted if bent and feeble guard. His loyalty and courage buoyed her own.

The captain motioned toward the soldiers. “We have wounded.”

“I see that, sir. I’m sorry for your losses.” And truly she was. This American war was futile and cruel.

The captain twisted in the saddle with a slight creak of leather and raised a hand toward his troops. “Company, dismount.”

In poorly synchronized fashion, the battle-ragged soldiers slid from their saddles while a handful of ground troops broke rank and surged toward the veranda.

“Wait!” Charlotte held out a trembling hand as though she possessed the power to stop an armed military. “What is it you want? Food? Bandages?”

Before Captain Gadsden could answer, a commotion ensued on the line. Charlotte watched with growing horror as a soldier tumbled to the hoof-packed earth and lay still.

“George!” Sword tapping at his side, Captain Will Gadsden hurried toward the fallen. Another soldier knelt on one knee in the lane of Peach Orchard Farm and held an open palm above the fallen comrade’s mouth before he pressed an ear to the unmoving chest. He, hardly a man at all, looked up into the face of the waiting officer, his expression stricken. “George is dead, sir.”

The captain dropped his head. His chest lifted in a hard sigh. He placed a hand on the soldier’s shoulder and paid a quiet moment of respect. The company fell silent, the quiet broken only by the jingle of harness and the puff of equine nostrils.

The reaction touched Charlotte. The captain had a good and caring heart.

But the thought had barely formed when William Gadsden whirled on his boot heels in a decisive about-face. With a voice of authority, he stared straight ahead and said, “With apologies, ma’am, it is my duty to inform you that your residence is hereby commandeered for the good of the Union.” He lifted a gloved hand. “Men, move in!”

* * *

Will watched the color drain from the woman’s delicate features. She was pretty with her fair hair and precise British clip, for he was sure it was England and not Massachusetts he heard on her tongue. His heart squeezed with regret. Genteel and lovely, a woman of grace should not be affected by the evils of war, a woman like his sisters and mother. How he missed home on days like today when nothing but carnage lay in his wake.

He dismounted and approached the woman, removed his hat. “Ma’am, we require your home as a temporary hospital for our wounded. We’ll also need supplies, food and rest, but my men have strict orders to bring no harm to your home or family. We will take only what we need.”

Her chin lifted higher. “And how much do you need? We, too, have people to feed. I cannot allow you to rob my family.”

She was in no position to argue or even to barter, but like a slender oak, she stood her ground, not in anger but with fierce determination. Admiration stirred inside Will. “I will see that you have enough. You have my word.”

A man’s word was often all he had left in this savage war. His word and his honor. Will was determined to return home to Ohio with both unsullied.

Already his men swarmed the elegant home and he felt duty-bound to set a watch on their behavior. Though most were good soldiers, they’d long been away from the social graces of home. He wanted no trouble, would stand for none. Some companies, he knew, took the spoils of war, but he struggled enough with the decision to commandeer homes and take needed food and horses.

The woman’s expression softened, though her posture remained rigid and watchful. She gave a short nod. “Thank you.”

The old slave who’d crept around the side of the house and stood bent and twisted at her side spoke up. His furrowed black face shone with sweat and worry and age. “Miss Charlotte, Mr. Portland is comin’.”

Her head jerked toward the line of magnolias and then back to Will. It was the closest she’d come to showing disquiet, as if the husband’s presence made things worse instead of better.

She quickly regained her poise, a trait he both admired and respected. Then, as if inviting a neighbor to tea, she motioned toward the porch. “May I impose upon you to meet with my husband in the parlor? It is far cooler inside. Hub will show you the way.”

Before Will could respond, the surgeon called his name and motioned from the doorway leading into the house. Doc had wasted no time setting up, a necessary deed considering the nature and number of injuries from this morning’s skirmish.

“Stokes is asking for you, sir.”

Stokes. A good man, grievously wounded. Only God, not a surgeon, could get him through the night.

“I must see to my men first,” Will said to the woman.

“Very well. I will inform my husband.” Green skirt in her small, delicate hands, Mrs. Portland hurried up the lane.

Will watched her for only a moment before striding to the house and his duty, but the image of brave and pretty Charlotte Portland burned in his mind for a long time after.


4 (#ulink_740356b2-20ca-53f5-a572-bdbbd5256251)

Honey Ridge, Tennessee

Present Day

Eli climbed inside Bob Oliver’s blue Accord, a newer model that probably never broke down. Not like the $500 clunker he drove.

His lucky day, the man had said. Given the circumstances and his destination, Eli wasn’t taking any bets. But running into a friendly man was an unexpected stroke of luck. The phone request had been an act of desperation. Even if he’d found a mechanic to come out, he couldn’t have paid him, at least not the full amount. His only hope had been to exchange work for the bill.

“My car is back down the road about a half mile.” He pointed south where the clunker had died on him last night around midnight. Sleeping in the car hadn’t bothered him. He liked being in the open where he could see the stars and feel the fresh air.

“You from around here?” Bob angled his face toward the passenger seat. Morning sun reflected off his black-framed glasses.

“No.”

“Me, either. The wife and I are looking to move this direction, but we hail from Memphis.”

Eli’s stomach dropped into his still-stiff boots. He’d spent seven miserable years in Memphis. Even after six months of freedom, the memory was too sharp for comfort.

Struggling for polite conversation to turn the topic from his least favorite place, Eli blurted the first thing that came to him. “Seems like a nice inn.”

“Peach Orchard? The best. The wife and I drive down here to Julia’s whenever we get a chance. Unless you’re a Civil War buff, nothing much to do but sit around on the porch or walk in the gardens and orchard, maybe fish a little, but that’s why we come. Peace and quiet. Beautiful scenery. And great coffee.” He laughed and drained the remainder of his cup.

Eli continued to relish the best coffee he’d tasted in more than seven years. His mother had made coffee like this, in one of those fancy presses. He wondered if she ever thought about him. He tried not to think about her or of his father or the life he could have had if he’d been a better son. Remembering hurt too much, carried too much shame and remorse.

He sipped at the cup, glad for something in his empty stomach and grateful to the woman at the inn.

Julia. Pretty name for a pretty woman with her honey-blond hair smoothed back into a tail at the nape of her neck and sad blue eyes. He wondered why she’d been crying. But he shouldn’t be thinking about her. Shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to sit down in that sparkling clean kitchen and enjoy breakfast with a woman like her. He didn’t let himself think about women of any kind these days, certainly not a decent one.

“Sweet lady,” Bob was saying as they turned south and approached Eli’s stalled vehicle. “At the end of every visit, she gives us a jar of peach preserves she makes from the orchard. Mighty tasty.”

Eli salivated at the thought of toast and jelly, a reminder that he’d not eaten since yesterday morning long before he’d finished the drywall job, collected his meager pay and left Nashville. To fill his empty belly, he took another mouthful of Julia’s coffee. Bob was right. Great stuff. Smooth and bold, the way Eli used to be.

He stared out the passenger-side window at the rolling landscape, green and flowery with spring. In the near distance he spotted buildings, a surprise. He hadn’t known he was that close to town but now that he thought about it, why would an inn be stuck out in the middle of nowhere?

“Is that your car right up there?” Bob nudged his chin toward a mistreated old Dodge parked at an angle on the side of the road.

He could imagine how a successful man like Bob Oliver must view a rattletrap with rusted fenders and a missing bumper. To the man’s credit, he didn’t react. A kind man. And good. The type of man Eli hadn’t encountered in a long time.

They exited the car and walked to the Accord’s trunk, where Bob removed a set of jumper cables. “Might as well grab the toolbox, too, in case we need it.”

Eli reached for the red metal container and started toward the front of his Dodge.

“How was she acting when she quit?”

“Just quit. The engine’s been sputtering for a hundred miles. I thought the fuel filter might be plugged up.”

“You checked that, I guess.”

“First thing this morning. Blew it out as good as I could. Still nothing.”

“Did she overheat?”

“No, sir. Just quit. The battery is old. It’s probably bad.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Eli stashed his remaining coffee on the floorboard of the Dodge. Then he lifted the hood and braced it open with a stick, amused and interested that a physics teacher had offered to do mechanic work. “Where did you learn about cars?”

“Hobby. When I was a kid, we didn’t have diddly. The only way I could own a vehicle was to rebuild one I’d bought myself. So I did.”

Eli huffed softly. “Sounds familiar.” Though he’d once had the finest vehicles, a beautiful home, a good family. And he’d thrown them all away on stupid choices.

He reached into the toolbox for an end wrench and tapped at the battery terminals. “Corroded,” he said with disgust. Like his life. He stuck the wrench in his shirt pocket while he wrestled the cable heads loose.

Bob leaned in for a look. “I think you’ve found your problem. They need a good cleaning, but a wipe down and a jump should get you back on the road.”

Eli scrubbed away at the terminals, using a T-shirt from his duffel bag. “Best I can do out here.”

Bob hooked up the jumper cables while Eli slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. After a few feeble grinds, the engine caught and started. Black smoke curled out the tailpipe as Bob slammed the hood and came around to the driver-side window.

“You have that checked first chance you get.”

“Sure.” When money grows on trees. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thin dime. Pay it forward. That’s all I ask.”

Eli gave a solemn nod. “Thank you, sir.”

“If you get back this direction, stop in and say hello. If you see this Accord in the lot, we’re here.”

“Will do.” Not likely.

Then, with the morning breeze blowing in his face, Eli aimed the Dodge toward town, Opal Kimble and a piece of the past he’d never intended to resurrect.

The town of Honey Ridge was waking up as the old Dodge wheezed and rattled down the double row of buildings that composed the main street and led to a central square. The concrete was darkened from last night’s rain.

A woman washing the display window of Hallie’s Gifts and Cards paused, paper towel in hand to watch him pass. Her stare gave Eli a crawly feeling. He didn’t want to attract attention, here or anywhere.

A man outside the post office hoisted the flag though not a breath of air stirred. Many of the buildings were from another time but neat and well kept, one of them marked with the date 1884 and painted in colorful murals of the past.

As he passed a doughnut shop, the scent floated through his open window. His belly growled.

Eli fished in his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper and the directions Opal had given. Two blocks east of the stoplight he turned down Rosemary Lane, crawling along until he spotted a blue-frame house with peeling paint, an overgrown lawn and two green metal chairs on the front porch. Opal’s house.

The Dodge rattled to a stop at the end of a cracked driveway where a child’s plastic motorcycle lay on its side next to the garage. Eli’s empty belly cramped. His palms grew wet against the steering wheel.

What was he doing here? Every cell in his body urged him to turn tail and run, but for once in his life he didn’t. Couldn’t. He’d done very few responsible things in his thirty-six years, but this was different. He still couldn’t believe the horrible news. Sweet, giggly Mindy who’d fancied herself in love with him was dead—and she’d left behind a child.

With nerves gnawing a hole in his gut, he got out of the car, crossed the yard and stepped quietly onto the porch. It was early. If the car hadn’t broken down he’d have arrived last night. He didn’t see a light. Was Opal still asleep? Maybe he should come back later.

Coward, a voice inside his head whispered.

He released a gust of breath, wiped his sweaty hands down his jeans and reached for the knocker. His shaky hand wouldn’t quite take hold of the tarnished brass. He hovered there, as if the ordinary knocker had the power to change his life. Maybe he should forget this and head back to Nashville, keep trying to find permanent work. The boy never needed to know him. The boy.His son.

He pivoted to leave but stopped in a half-turn, wrestling with his conscience.

Before he could conquer the demons fighting inside his head, the scarred wooden door scraped open, catching on the threshold as if the wood had swollen with recent rain. An old woman with curly white hair and a wrinkled, pinched face leaned on a cane as she peered out at him.

Eli swallowed. “Opal Kimble?”

“Are you Eli?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pushed the storm door open. “About time.”

He entered the house where the scent of food battled with the musty smell of age. Everything about the room was old. Old furniture. A big, boxy television on a roller cart cluttered with papers. Faded photos on the wall of people from another era. He thought of the inn he’d recently left and couldn’t help comparing the two houses. Both were old, filled with history, and yet Julia’s home was bright and inviting.

“Sit.”

Accustomed to taking orders, he complied.

“You want coffee?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

The old woman ignored his statement and left the room, returning with two mugs and a plate of raisin bread. “I figure you haven’t had breakfast this early.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” He required significant restraint to keep from wolfing down the bread like a wild animal. Careful to sip the scalding coffee between bites, he managed to eat without humiliating himself. The coffee was bitter compared to Julia’s. He didn’t care. He’d learned the hard way not to complain.

“Go on and eat all that bread,” the old woman said. “The boy doesn’t like raisins, and I’ve had my fill.”

The boy. The reason he’d come. She’d want money—he was certain of that after seeing her living conditions.

He could feel her watching him so he ate one more slice and stopped, though he could have eaten the entire loaf and still had room for breakfast.

When he’d finished, he sat back in the faded chair and waited, feeling a little better now that he’d had nourishment. She’d summoned him, demanded he come. Let her carry the conversation.

Opal, now seated across from him in a green lift-recliner, leaned forward, her fingers curled around the cane like bird claws. “You knew about the boy?”

“Mindy wrote to me.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I thought it was for the best.” He lifted his palms in a helpless gesture. “Under the circumstances.”

“She said he’s your son.”

“He could be.” The news of Mindy’s pregnancy, received in a letter not long after his incarceration, had hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d felt like the lowlife he’d become. He and Mindy had only been together one long, hot summer before the trial that changed everything, and he’d always been cautious about relationships. But nothing was foolproof.

“Mindy wouldn’t lie. She was dying.”

Eli closed his eyes for a second. How could lively Mindy be dead? “I didn’t know until yesterday. She was too young.”

“Cancer knows no age, young man.” Opal raised her coffee and sipped, watching him with hawk eyes. After a few uncomfortable seconds, she went on. “When she knew the end was coming, she brought him to me, her only living relative. I love the child as I loved his mama. I want what’s best for him.”

Eli breathed a sigh of relief. She loved the boy. She’d take good care of him. “I’ll send money when I can.”

“Money?” Her tone sharpened.

“Child support.”

She tilted closer until he thought she’d tumble from her chair. “Child support?”

Was the woman hard of hearing? “I’m…not working much yet—” A painful admission though he’d long ago lost his pride. “When I do, I’ll send all I can.”

“I’m not asking for your money, Eli Donovan.”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to see me? Child support?”

With a shove of her cane, Opal pushed to a stand and tottered toward him, a dangerous expression on her wrinkled face. “Look at me. I’m eighty-four years old. I have congestive heart failure and diabetes. I can barely toddle around with this stupid cane.”

Dread started at the bottom of Eli’s feet and worked up through his chest and into his brain. Like a wild stallion, his flight instinct kicked in. He knew what was coming. Knew and couldn’t stop her.

“Mindy wanted you to take the boy. You’re his father.” Opal stuck a bony finger in his face. “She expected you to raise him.”

Eli bolted from the chair. “Are you nuts? Do you know where I’ve been all of his life?”

She pointed the cane at his chest. “You’re out now. And you have a son to care for.”

“I don’t belong around kids. I’m not even sure it’s legal.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s your blood.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t take care of a child.”

A flash of Jessica’s face, bloated and white, floated through his head. Floated the way she had, facedown in the water, while he’d rocked to Michael Jackson through his Sony Walkman headphones.

“I don’t have a home or a steady job and no one wants to hire an ex-con. I’m at the beck and call of a parole officer who doesn’t like me much.” He rammed splayed fingers through his hair, panicked. “I can’t even take a leak without checking in first!”

“Stop raising your voice in my house. Do you want him to hear?”

His heart pounded as if he’d been the one under water too long. “Look, Opal, let’s be reasonable. What you’re asking is impossible. You don’t know me. I’m an ex-con. I am not father material. I wouldn’t know what to do with a kid.”

“Do you think any parent knows anything when their child is born? You’ll learn like everybody else.”

“Impossible.” He couldn’t take responsibility for anyone, especially a child. Dear God, she didn’t know what she was asking!

“Do you know what will become of the boy when I die?”

He shook his head. “Another relative, I suppose.”

“You got family that will take him? Love him?”

The ball of ice in Eli’s chest became an iceberg. “No.”

“All right, then. You’re his only other relative. He’ll go into foster care, into the system.” She spit the last word like profanity.

“Anywhere is better than with me. There are plenty of good foster parents who care for kids.”

“Mindy never wanted that for her baby.”

“I’m sorry, Opal. I can’t do this.” He stalked to the door, torn asunder but certain he was not a fit man to father a child. Ever. “I’ll send money as soon as I can.”

“Mindy defended you. She said you were a good man.” Opal’s thin lips curled. “She was wrong.”

“Yes. She was.” Tormented by the truth, Eli stormed out of the house, across the overgrown yard and into the safe confines of his car. Breathless, his chest aching, he cranked the Dodge, and was out on the streets of Honey Ridge in seconds.

At the corner, Eli stopped at the stop sign and leaned his head on the steering wheel. He was shaking worse than he had on his first day in prison.

He was the worst possible parent for a little boy, a man who had nothing to offer, a man with no future and an ugly past.

Responsibility tightened around his neck like a noose. He had a son. A son who needed him.

And he didn’t even know his name.


5 (#ulink_57d1862b-47a7-5fb3-b723-b14a2fb87a59)

Peach Orchard Farm

1864

“Lizzy, help me.” The stench of blood and gunpowder strong in her nostrils, Charlotte called to her maid above the unholy clamor echoing through the farmhouse.

The groans and cries of distressed men tore at her compassion and frightened the children into hiding, a mercy, Charlotte thought, to spare them this horror.

Chaos reigned over Peach Orchard Farm while Captain Gadsden shouted orders and men dragged themselves and each other into her house.

With the wounded sprawled on the bare floors of her parlor and dining room, Charlotte pulled sheets from storage and ripped them into long strips. She’d been dismayed at the lack of medical supplies carried by a warring army. Indeed, the bulk of bandages and medicine came from the Portlands’ belongings, not the military.

Lizzy, her dark, deft fingers quick and strong, took up a sheet. “You tend that one. I’ll make the bandages.”

Grateful for her maid’s able assistance, Charlotte poured a basin half-full of water Cook had heated on the stove and knelt beside one of the many men lying on the dining room floor. He wasn’t the first she’d tended during the long wait to see the single, harried surgeon.

“What’s your name?” she said, as she slid scissors under his fragmented shirtsleeve.

Through gritted teeth, the man managed, “Joshua Bates. Will I die?”

Charlotte’s hand paused as she gazed down at the ghastly wound laying bare the bone. The wound alone wouldn’t kill him, but infection was the enemy, as she well knew from her mother’s missions of mercy in the slums of London.

“Only a flesh wound.” At the masculine voice, Charlotte gazed up at Captain Gadsden as he dropped to one knee beside his fallen soldier. They exchanged looks and she saw that he no more believed his words than she did. He placed a hand across the man’s sweaty brow. “You fought bravely today, Private.”

Bates, his face as bleached as new muslin, hissed when Charlotte carefully dabbed at the jagged flesh. A river of blood flowed out. “Would you give him a drink of whiskey, please?”

The captain didn’t hesitate. He held the other man’s head and slowly poured in the numbing liquor while she pressed a bandage into the bullet hole and wrapped a strip of sheet round and round the arm, tying it off with a knot.

“That should stop the bleeding.” She prayed it would, for prayer was the only other help she could give him.

“Have you nursing experience, ma’am?” the captain asked, recapping the bottle of whiskey. Edgar would not be pleased at the loss of his liquor cabinet, the medicine he took for his crippled foot and other ailments.

“My mother cared for the sick. She taught me.” Though nothing of this grisly nature.

Satisfied that she’d done all she could for Bates until the surgeon had more time, she rinsed her hands in the basin and moved on to the next soldier. The captain remained for another moment at Bates’s side. She heard snippets of their soft conversation and from the corner of her eye saw the officer remove a paper from the soldier’s breast pocket, read it and put it back. With another murmured word, he moved to the next man.

From the far side of the room, a man screamed. Charlotte jerked and sloshed water before spinning toward the cry. In three strides Captain Gadsden was there. Together with the help of Lizzy and a soldier with a bloody ear, they pressed the hysterical man back to the floor.

“He ain’t bleeding nowhere,” Lizzy said.

The man’s head thrashed from side to side, his shaggy ginger beard making a swish-swish against his blue shirt. He mumbled disconnected sentences, random words. “Get the bucket. They’re coming. Donald! Donald!”

At the last, he began to keen in a high-pitched wail.

“Is he blind?” Captain Gadsden passed a hand over the staring eyes. No reaction.

Charlotte knelt beside the man, full of pity. “Shh. Shh. You’re safe.”

The young soldier grappled for Charlotte’s hand and bore down hard enough to cause pain. She flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Sally? Sally?”

Dismayed, Charlotte looked to the captain, kneeling on the opposite side. A dozen men in different degrees of distress watched the painful episode.

“Is Sally his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Brain fever, Miss Charlotte,” Lizzy said. “His mind is gone.”

“Captain!” someone called from the doorway. “Come quickly, sir.”

The poor captain appeared torn. So many needs. So many voices calling for him.

There were too many strangers in her house.

“I’ll tend to this man, Captain. Lizzy, is there a potion that would soothe him?”

In caution, Lizzy’s dark eyes cut between her and the captain and the other listeners in the room. Not everyone approved of the maid’s medicines. “I’ll see what I got.”

She scurried from the room just as Charlotte’s husband burst in from outside. He gazed around the scene, bewildered, but quickly settled on Charlotte. In a cold, irate voice, he demanded, “Mrs. Portland!”

Charlotte rose to her knees. “Edgar, please. This man is—”

“In my study. Now!” And he stormed through the parlor with little regard to the sick and injured beneath his feet.

* * *

Charlotte jumped as her husband slammed the study door and strode to his desk. Hands on the wood, he leaned toward her. His face was florid, his mouth tight with anger.

“Have you no decency?”

Charlotte waited with her hands in the folds of her dress. She knew better than to argue.

Edgar slammed his fist onto the desk. In spite of her efforts not to, Charlotte jumped again.

“Speak when I speak to you!”

Her chin came up. “There are wounded men in our house, Edgar, whether we want them or not. It seems indecent not to help them.”

“I don’t want them here.”

“Nor do I, but there is little we can do to stop them. Isn’t cooperating better than being shot?”

“Cooperating? Is that what you call wallowing on the floor with a Yankee?”

“The soldier was out of his head. He didn’t know what he was doing.” She took a step toward him, one hand outstretched in a plea. Edgar always responded better when she asked. “Please allow me this ministry. Tending the sick is the Christian thing to do.”

His face worked for several tense seconds before he cursed and spun toward the narrow window, showing her his back. “Go on, then. Go coddle your Yankees.”

Charlotte waited two beats of time, her knees shaking and her stomach twisted in knots. “Thank you.”

Edgar whirled and shouted, “I said go, woman!”

With what dignity she could muster, Charlotte slipped out the door and was shocked to see the young captain in the hallway.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

Heat burned her cheeks. Humiliated but grateful for the kindness, Charlotte nodded.

Moving closer, the captain murmured, “We’ve put you in a difficult situation. I apologize.”

Charlotte glanced toward the closed study, fearful that Edgar would exit the room and cause another scene.

Captain Gadsden took her arm and led her a few feet down the hall. “Could I fetch you a glass of water?”

Her cheeks burned hotter. “I’m fine.”

With a tilt of his head, he released her and started to walk away.

“Captain.”

He turned, holding her with gentle eyes, his head tilted to one side.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The moment stood still while she and the handsome captain stared at each other in the dim hallway. The floor seemed to shift beneath Charlotte’s feet. Her ears buzzed and she had the strongest urge to reach out to him, this complete stranger who’d offered her more kindness than her own husband.

She sucked in a quick breath, shocked at her thoughts, and hurried back to the groaning soldiers.


6 (#ulink_532c166b-499a-5f36-948e-7ccfac6282e0)

Peach Orchard Inn Present Day

Valery was late coming down to work, which could mean two things, neither of them good, both of them probable.

Julia served breakfast by herself, relieved they had only four guests this morning. Mr. Oliver came back from his Good Samaritan trip about the time the first couple was leaving the dining room. He slid into place next to a window overlooking the back lawn. Someday she’d have a garden there, and the old carriage house would be a pretty sight instead of a reminder of all that remained unfinished at Peach Orchard Inn. Unfinished. Incomplete. Like her life.

“Did you get the man’s car started?” She delivered Bob’s breakfast plate and a fresh carafe of coffee.

“Fixed him right up. Brought back your cup. I’m afraid the other fellow must have forgotten about his.”

Julia made a face. That’s what she got for noticing the man’s good looks instead of remembering he was a stranger. “I wonder where he was headed. He seemed sort of lost.”

“Said he was going in to Honey Ridge.”

“Really? Does he have family here?”

“I wouldn’t know. He was polite enough and grateful as a pup but tight-lipped and watchful, too, as though he couldn’t believe I was lending a hand.”

“I’ll have to ask Mama. She knows everything that happens in Honey Ridge, usually before it happens.” She smiled at her own joke. “She and the good old boys at the miniature-golf club.”

“You keep telling me about that place. I’m going to have to stop in there sometime.” He dipped a fork into his casserole. “My wife made an appearance yet?”

“Not yet.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “Save her some of this casserole, will you?”

“Like always, I’ll leave a plate in the warmer.” She bussed the other couple’s table while they talked, all the while casting a worried eye toward the entrance. Where was Valery? “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“No, no. You go on and do what you need to. I know my way around if I want something.”

Julia carried the used dishes into the kitchen and set about putting things in order. Once done, she went back for Bob’s plate and found the dining room empty. Still, Valery hadn’t made an appearance. With a beleaguered sigh, Julia gathered fresh linens for a vacated room and stopped by Valery’s room in the private area of the house.

“Valery.” She tapped at the door. “Valery, wake up.”

She heard a grumble and the thump of feet hitting the floor before the door cracked open. “What?”

Her sister’s brown hair was wild and her eyes bloodshot. Julia’s heart sank. “Oh, Val, not again.”

Valery shut the door in her face. Julia pecked with a little more force, though not enough to disturb their guests upstairs. “I’ll bring coffee. Be out of that bed when I get back.”

Without waiting for a reply, she went for the promised coffee, the only way to flush out the booze Valery must have consumed last night. No wonder she’d forgotten to bring in the flag.

When she returned with the carafe, Julia let herself in with the master key. Valery sat on the side of the bed, holding her head.

“You look like something the cat vomited. Did you see Jed last night?”

“Don’t be grouchy, Julia. We were celebrating our reunion.”

“I thought the two of you were finished.”

“He loves me.”

“He’s not good enough for you.”

“You never liked him. Give me that coffee. I’m croaking of thirst.”

“I don’t like him because he’s not a nice man.” The creep knew Valery had trouble stopping at a couple of drinks. “Here. Take this. I’ve got work to do.”

She softened a bit when Valery’s hands shook, reminding her of the dark stranger—Eli—whose hands had also trembled. Had he been on a binge last night, too? “The guests in the Blueberry Room checked out right after breakfast—which is already over, by the way.”

Valery groaned and pushed up from the bedside. “I’ll get showered and be right up.”

Julia had started toward the door when Valery said, “Julia.”

“What?”

“I only had a couple of drinks.”

Right. “I’ll be in the Blueberry Room.”


7 (#ulink_31a88ce4-5bb5-5312-b55a-147752a9860b)

Peach Orchard Farm

1864

Charlotte closed her Bible and looked out at a morning sky as blue as the robin’s-egg walls of her bedroom.

The ugly incident with Edgar and the subsequent kindness of Captain Gadsden troubled her greatly. She could get neither off her mind.

From this upper-story room she could see the trembling limbs of the orchard with a few rosy peaches still clinging to the branches. Portlands had planted those trees so very long ago, long before she’d come to Tennessee. Long before bloodied strangers invaded the quiet country life.

Directly below the window a tattered score of soldiers milled about the grounds in the gauzy morning, some limping, some bandaged. Four stood guard with rifles to their shoulders. Others lay on the porch where they’d camped since their arrival four days ago. Campfires burned in spots around the summer-green lawn.

An invasion. One that had relegated the Portland family to the second story while the floor below became a hospital for the wounded and quarters for the officers. Inconvenient, and yet the farm had not been completely stripped of supplies; nor had they been driven from their home. And not one resident of Peach Orchard had been molested, a blessed circumstance she credited to Captain Gadsden. He’d kept his promise. He was, she was quite convinced, a good man, perhaps even a godly man, and his soldiers listened to him with respect. Not that they were in any condition to do much else.

She saw him now straight and lean, striding in his long steps, across the lawn, his red trouser stripe a bright flash. Barely daylight, and yet he was up and about and would spend hours in the makeshift hospital ward encouraging his men. She knew because she and the other women of the farm, both white and black, had been pressed into service for the sick. Theirs was a horrifying, heartbreaking task, but how could they do less for men whose mortal souls hung in the balance?

The smell of blood and ether clung to her hands and clothes. During that first long day and night, she’d witnessed grisly, obscene damage that no human form should endure. A merciful God must surely close his eyes in anguish against the barbaric will of man to maim and butcher one another.

Her father, the gentle vicar with too many daughters and too little money, would scarce believe the savagery to which he’d sent his eldest daughter.

Yet, late into the night and against her husband’s wishes, Charlotte made coffee for the surgeon and the sleepless wounded and carried water to groaning souls. During the day, she ripped rags and the few remaining sheets into bandages and wrote letters to wives, mothers and sweethearts in faraway places she’d only seen on Benjamin’s schoolroom maps.

The worst of the ugliness was over for now. Thank the Almighty.

From somewhere inside the house, a hoarse scream shattered the morning and gave the lie to her thoughts. Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. Such suffering as she’d never witnessed, not even in the slums of London, as the surgeon went about the ghastly chore of removing limbs that showed signs of infection. Twice already, a body had been carted to the family cemetery, northern boys laid to rest in foreign soil next to her premature babies. She’d watched Will Gadsden mourn each soldier and later sit at Edgar’s desk and write a letter to the family. An honorable man, indeed.

A tap sounded on Charlotte’s bedroom door. She turned from her desk with a smile, expecting her only son, the joy of her days. But her eldest sister-in-law charged inside, distraught.

“I can’t stand this anymore, Charlotte. We’re prisoners in our own home. Prisoners and slaves to that bunch of Yankees.”

“Captain Gadsden made it very clear that we are not prisoners of war. We are free to leave.” She was pleased, if surprised, that most of the slaves hadn’t taken the captain at his word but only two, Edgar’s most recent purchases, had disappeared.

“Where would we go? This is our home, not theirs, and I am sick of them infesting every fiber of our lives. Yankees everywhere, groaning and crying. Leaving a mess. Devouring every bite to eat. They’re like a plague of locusts.”

“They’re mere men, Josie, far from home, scared and suffering. There’s little we can do but endure.”

Josie tossed her head. As fiery red as Charlotte was blonde, the twenty-two-year-old wore her cascade of curls in a tight bun, but ringlets slipped out around her face. She was a comely young woman, though her ways were not always gracious. The Portland girls had grown up motherless with only their father and brother as examples, something Charlotte tried to remember when anger flared.

“I suppose you’re going down there again today to play nursemaid like a slave girl.” Josie paced the room. “Well, I tell you, I am not. No matter what that captain says, I refuse to help another Yankee. I don’t know why Edgar stands for this treatment or allows his wife to commiserate with the enemy!”

Charlotte folded her hands against her skirt, refusing to be baited by Josie’s sour mood. She was trying to survive, trying to keep her family together and her home intact in the absence of her husband. Lord above, how could she not show compassion to those damaged souls below?

Edgar, in a helpless fury over the invasion, had departed for the mill on the second day of occupation and had not returned. His anger was directed at her, not unusual but difficult because she had no control over the situation. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of his abandonment but consoled the other women with assurances that Edgar was protecting the gristmill that housed their corn and grain supply. She did not know, however, if that was true. She prayed it was. They could ill afford to lose much more.

“I don’t like this, either, but these injured men are God’s children, too.”

“Let them die, I say. They’re not ours.”

“They’re all ours, Josie,” she said softly. “What if it was your Tom?”

Josie sucked in a gasp, green eyes filled with worry. “We’ve heard nothing in so long. Do you suppose—”

Charlotte touched her shoulder in compassion. “Think the best, and pray that if your Tom should be wounded, someone would show him kindness.”

“I know what you’re saying, but I can’t. And how you can gives question to your loyalty. These horrible, smelly men have taken over our home, raided our smokehouse, and still you shower them with compassion—you wash their fevered faces and wrap their bloody wounds. I don’t understand you.”

Of that, Charlotte was quite aware and full of remorse that she had not become what the Portlands needed. Not Edgar. Not Josie. Only sweet and simple Patience seemed to genuinely care for her. Yet, she would not give up trying. They were her family now.

“Did you not sleep well?” she asked, hoping to mollify her stormy sister-in-law. Josie had suffered insomnia from childhood, a malady that worsened after her fiancé marched away with the Confederacy two years ago.

“I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again. I miss him until I think my heart will burst. I want him to come home.”

“Soon, this war will be over and Tom will return. Then, we’ll have a grand wedding and invite everyone in Honey Ridge.”

“Oh, Charlotte, I dream of that day—” Josie clasped a fist to her chest “—when I glide down the staircase in Mama’s wedding gown and Tom is waiting in the parlor to marry me.”

“We’ll get your mother’s gown from the attic this very evening and check the fitting.” After the work. After the patients were tended, the bandages changed, the bloody floors scrubbed and food put on the table.

“Really? Could we?”

“Of course we can.” Though Charlotte was bone weary and would rather collapse on her bed, they needed distractions during these long, trying months of war. No matter how petulant Josie could be. “Tonight, I’ll ask Lizzy to prepare a tea for you. You’ll sleep like a baby and dream of your wedding day.”

Josie made a face. “Her potions taste horrid.”

Lizzy was Charlotte’s friend more than her maid, though Charlotte had been chastised by Edgar for saying as much. Slaves, he insisted, were property, not friends. Yet, he did not prevent her from tending their sick or teaching the slave children to read scripture. He was a strange man, her husband, and she despaired of ever fully knowing him.

“We’ll add a spoon of honey.” She moved to the window and glanced out. Soldiers raided the orchard, though peach season had waned and few fruit remained. She prayed they didn’t discover the storage in the cellar or the silver and heirlooms Hob and Lizzy had buried below the carriage house. “Have you seen Benjamin this morning?”

“He’s probably off fishing with Tandy somewhere. Or lurking with those horrible men. You really should speak to him, Charlotte.”

Another soft tap sounded at her door and Charlotte was grateful for the interruption. Short of locking Ben in his room, keeping him away from the soldiers was impossible. They were everywhere, and both he and Tandy were agog with interest.

When she opened the door, the small love of her life threw his sturdy body against her skirts. With him came the ever-present Tandy, Lizzy’s son and Benjamin’s playmate. “Mama!”

Charlotte’s dress pooled around her feet as she dipped low to embrace him. She thanked God every day that this baby had been spared the fate of the others. Though she longed for more, Edgar had turned away from her bed after the last tiny soul was laid to rest. Because she’d failed in that most fundamental of wifely duties, Ben was likely the only living child she’d ever have. So, she loved him all the more. Desperately, she loved him.

“You smell like horse,” she said, relishing the scent because it came from Benjamin. With deep affection, she smoothed his cowlick, a stubborn column of wheat-colored hair poking up from his crown.

“Captain Will let us pet Smokey. That’s his horse. He’s named Smokey because he’s gray but his mane and tail are black.”

Josie drew back like a rattlesnake. “You stay away from that Yankee. Why, your daddy will have your hide.”

Ben turned worried eyes to Charlotte. “Will he, Mama?”

“Of course not.” Though Edgar was not an affectionate or attentive father, he was not cruel to his son. He was, however, full of hatred toward the Federals. “But you be good boys and don’t bother the captain. He is a busy man.”

“Captain Will is nice. He said boys are no bother at all.” Tandy shared a nod with Ben. “’Cause he used to be one back in Ohio.”

Ohio. The good captain was a long way from home. She wondered what he’d done before the war and if a wife or a sweetheart longed for his return.

“I like him,” Ben declared, and his innocent goodness stirred both fear and pride in his mother. The captain was kind and had given the boy attention, something he often lacked from Edgar, though she felt disloyal for thinking so. “Mama, he wants to talk to you in the parlor.”

A sudden anticipation fluttered in Charlotte’s belly as unwelcome and disturbing as the onslaught of Yankees. These daily conversations with Captain Will Gadsden troubled her, for she enjoyed them.

Perhaps too much.

Edgar needed to come home.


8 (#ulink_a7264030-f2aa-5491-8fef-76fced30aa4d)

Honey Ridge

Present Day

Eli glanced at the gas gauge as he pulled slowly through Honey Ridge. He was running low and had no idea where he was going. Right now, his head pounded and he couldn’t think straight. Remembering a park he’d passed on the way in, he headed there. Parks had been his friends and sometimes his bedrooms since his release. Saving enough money to rent an apartment wasn’t easy to do when all a man could find were odd jobs. The minute he filled out application forms and admitted he was a convicted felon, employment offers disappeared.

He pulled into the graveled parking space, got out of the Dodge and walked to a shady concrete table. Birds had been there first, leaving behind their calling cards. Glad to be outside in the fresh air with the deep green leaves hanging overhead, Eli propped his elbows on the hard concrete and watched red birds peck the ground for the remains of someone’s Cheetos.

Life was a dilemma. As much as he hated prison, he’d understood it. The boring routine, the men to avoid, the unspoken rules about keeping his mouth shut and his head down. But out here in the real world was different. He wondered if he’d ever adjust.

He had a son. That one fact hammered away at him like the woodpecker in the live oak next to the merry-go-round. He wondered if his son played here. Had Mindy brought him? Had she pushed him on the swings or had she been too sick and weak to play anymore? Opal certainly couldn’t. What kind of childhood would his son have with a sick old woman who could barely walk?

He tugged his wallet from his back pocket and counted his money. Thirty-seven dollars. A man couldn’t take care of a child on that amount.

When a black-and-white car pulled up next to his Eli tensed, watching a uniformed policeman exit the cruiser and walk around the Dodge. The cop would call in the out-of-town plates. Find them clean. No use getting in a panic.

But Eli’s palms sweated.

The officer saw him and stepped over the low cable fence. Eli drew a breath, releasing the air in a slow, calming exhale. He had nothing to hide. A stranger in a small-town park would naturally arouse curiosity. He shouldn’t have stopped here.

“’Morning.”

“’Morning.”

“I’m Trey Riley, Honey Ridge Police Department. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“Eli Donovan. I’m down from Nashville. Visiting family.” That much was true. He had a son in Honey Ridge. Poor kid.

“Is that your Dodge?”

Eli offered a wry expression. “Such as it is. I had a little car trouble this morning.”

“Yeah?” Officer Riley turned to look at the old clunker. “Anything I can help with?”

“Bad battery. It’s running now.” He chuffed. “Or it was when I stopped. A man at the inn gave me a jump.”

“Peach Orchard Inn?”

“Yes.”

“Nice place. Julia and Valery have done a great job restoring it. When I was a kid we thought the house was haunted.” Trey Riley chuckled, a nice easy sound as though he laughed often. “Mostly wild stories about Civil War ghosts to keep kids out, I think, but I’m glad to see the place inhabited by the living for a change.”

Eli didn’t know what to say. His conversation skills had taken a hit in the past seven years. “She makes good coffee.”

He remembered then, with guilt, that he still had her cup.

“You should taste her peach tea. Man alive!” Riley drew out the last word with a grin and a head shake. “Great stuff. I’ve been known to show up on her doorstep in the afternoons—official business, of course—” he laughed again “—to beg an ice-cold glass of pure Southern heaven. Julia puts up with me. My mom buys peaches from her.”

Eli couldn’t quite take in the fact that he was having a friendly, man-to-man conversation with a police officer who seemed to be a decent guy.

“I noticed the orchard.”

“I guess it’s blooming.”

“Real pretty.” Like pink, fluffy clouds.

“Spring’s the best in Honey Ridge. Lots of things blooming.” Officer Riley tugged at a well-creased pant leg and propped his gleaming black service shoe on the cement bench. “Gorgeous morning to stop here.”

“Nice park.”

“It is, isn’t it? Honey Ridge is a nice town. I lived away for a while but when this job opened up, I was happy to come home again.”

“You have family here?” There. That wasn’t so hard.

“All of them. Mother, Dad, three sisters.”

“Three?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Pity me.” Officer Riley laughed again. “They’re great. Really. They drive me crazy, too. Always trying to marry me off to one of their girlfriends.”

Eli smiled. Family. He wished he could go home to a loving bunch that would drive him crazy and care about his single status. Instead, he was alone. No, not completely. He had a child. A son who needed him. And he had nothing to offer but himself.

The thought depressed him. A kid deserved better. There was no way he could care for a child.

But if he didn’t, who would? The boy would be as alone as he was. He knew how that felt. He knew about having no one to turn to. He’d been thirteen when life had begun to unravel. His son was only six, a year older than Jessica had been, and already the boy’s life was in shreds.

Before he could operate the smarter side of his brain, Eli said, “You wouldn’t know of any job openings around here, would you?”

“Are you looking to stay on in Honey Ridge?”

“I might if I can find work.”

Officer Riley squinted up into the leafy oak where the woodpecker was having a heyday. “Let’s see. If you’re not picky, food places like Jose’s Pizza and Miss Molly’s Diner are always shorthanded. And you can check with the quick-stops, the horse ranches and Big Wave.”

When Eli tilted his head at the last, Riley explained. “Big Wave builds custom boats. They’re located west of town. I don’t know if they’re hiring, but it’s worth a shot. Ask for Jan. She’s the big boss.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and Julia out at Peach Orchard wants to renovate the old carriage house into guest rooms. I don’t know if she’s ready to start or if she has the money yet, but you could ask.”

A little thrill zipped through Eli at the thought of seeing Julia again. He tamped back the emotion, feeling foolish for even thinking about a good woman. Yet, he’d much prefer working on a remodel than being trapped inside a building all day.

“Thanks for the ideas.”

“I hope you find something. Honey Ridge is a good place for law-abiding citizens to call home.” He dropped his foot to the ground. “If you need any help with that Dodge, give me a shout.”

As the man strode back to his cruiser, Eli stared, bemused. His wallet still lay on the table but the officer hadn’t asked for identification. Other than the remark about law-abiding citizens, he hadn’t even seemed suspicious. Trey Riley was either a poor police officer or a very good guy.

Eli pushed to a stand and pocketed his wallet. He didn’t know how or why but, in the past ten minutes, he’d made a decision that would alter his future and that of one little boy.

He was going to find employment in the pleasant, family town of Honey Ridge. And he was going to be a daddy.


9 (#ulink_4a4ee818-11b1-5a3b-ae20-30116654a948)

Julia dialed the police department by memory. After six years of regular calls, she was put straight through to the detective.

“Hello, Julia.” Detective Burrows’s voice was tired but kind.

He was a busy man. She’d get right to the point.

“Today is Mikey’s birthday. I just wondered if…” Her voice trailed away.

“Nothing new, Julia.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not since the false sighting two years ago in Huntsville, but Michael’s file remains active. I talked with the FBI last week.”

She swallowed, disappointed but not surprised. The police did their best. She understood that. For a full year after Mikey disappeared, either Detective Burrows or the FBI unit had called her every day with an update. Slowly, as the case grew colder and more frustrating, the calls dwindled.

“You’ll call me immediately if there’s anything at all.” The desperation and pain she heard in her own voice never lessened. It wouldn’t until her son was found.

“Of course. I wish I had better news.”

“So do I.”

Julia hung up and, heavyhearted, had started up the stairs toward the Blueberry Room when someone knocked at the front door. Deciding to leave the cleaning to Valery, she hurried down to answer, hoping for a drive-up guest. The inn had been slow this month and occasionally someone in town sent a customer her way.

She opened the door to find two older ladies standing on her wraparound veranda. Her mood lifted. No one could be around the twin Sweat sisters without smiling at the two old characters. Dressed in identical pink flowered shirtwaists, shiny pink pumps and jaunty white sunhats with matching gloves, Vida Jean and Willa Dean Sweat were throwbacks to the fifties when Southern ladies dressed and behaved with a certain uniform gentility. The octogenarian Sweat twins, however, were anything but conventional. With their painted-on eyebrows, startling red lipstick and hair dyed a specific shade of lemon yellow, they were entertaining icons of Honey Ridge.

“Ladies, good morning. Come in.”

“We can’t stay long, Julia darling.” This from Vida Jean. Julia knew because she was the twin with the mole on her cheek.

“Of course we can, Vida Jean. Julia, do you have any of your wonderful peach tea made?”

“Just finished. If you’d like to sit in the parlor, I’ll bring in a tray.”

“You are such a darling girl. I was telling Willa Dean this morning. Wasn’t I, sister?”

“Indeed, you were.” Hoisting an oversize straw bag, Willa Dean said, “I wouldn’t mind some coffee cake if you have it.”

“Peach muffins?” Julia offered. “Made fresh this morning.”

“Lovely. Thank you, dear.”

“Coming right up.”

With a smile, Julia left the twins in the pretty old parlor, a polished-wood space with a fireplace, the original chandelier and a toast-colored, camel-backed sofa. Across a persistent dark spot near the fireplace, she’d placed a colorful area rug. She’d heard rumors about the spots but didn’t want to think about bloodstains.

She returned with the tray and after serving the twins, joined them. Valery owed her a little break. There was always work to do—wood to polish, fans to dust or flowers to weed, even when business was slow. This was in addition to the restoration and eventual expansion that would probably never end.

The Sweat sisters, pinkies lifted from the condensing tea glass, regaled her with news of the townsfolk, including a new baby for the Perkinses and the news that poor Brother Ramsey had fallen while repairing the church roof and had broken his leg. Julia made a mental note to send the pastor a card, though she hadn’t darkened the church door in quite a while.

A clatter sounded overhead. All three women looked up.

“Guests,” Julia said. “Or Valery cleaning.”

The twins exchanged a glance. “Willa Dean and I have been wondering. Haven’t we, sister?”

“Indeed. Wondering. You know what they say about this house, don’t you, Julia dear?”

She’d been raised in Honey Ridge. Of course, she knew, but she’d always had an affinity for the old place even as a kid when the house peeled and sagged in exhausted disrepair and weeds choked the front veranda. She’d been a child when the last owners moved to Georgia and left the house to further deteriorate, a sad state of affairs that had fired ghost stories and led to keep-out signs and a locked gate across the entrance.

“They say that about all old houses that have sat empty for a while.”

“Have you experienced anything unusual since you moved in?”

“Unusual?” Like finding antique marbles in odd places or hearing children giggle?

“Granddaddy told stories. Wasn’t he a fine storyteller, Vida Jean?”

“His daddy fought in the war, you know. Chester Lorenzo Sweat, a corporal with the 1st Confederate Cavalry. Sister and I remember the stories, don’t we, Willa Dean?”

Julia didn’t have to ask which war. In Honey Ridge, the Civil War was remembered, revered and reenacted. Stories abounded, embellished by time and Southern pride.

“We haven’t encountered any ghostly apparitions if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh.”

“Well.” Vida Jean’s mole quivered.

Straight and prim, the twins crossed their hands atop their straw handbags at exactly the same time in exactly the same manner, both of them clearly disappointed by her statement.

“Would you care for more tea?” Julia asked.

“None for me, dear. The bladder, you know.” Willa Dean reached for another muffin. “These are delicious.”

“Thank you.”

“From your orchard?”

“The peaches are from the freezer, but yes, they were grown here.”

“Lovely.”

While Willa Dean fawned over the muffins, Vida Jean added another tidbit of local gossip. Or news, as the Sweat twins would call it. “Did you hear about the new family that bought the Akins farm? They have six boys. Six. Can you imagine six little boys running through the house?”

A cloud passed over Julia’s heart. She managed a feeble smile. “How nice for them.”

“Oh, dear, I’ve brought up a difficult subject. Forgive me. But that’s why we came, isn’t it, sister?”

Willa Dean drew an envelope from her purse. “Indeed. That’s why we’re here. You didn’t think we’d forget Michael’s birthday, did you?”

Julia was touched. Her own family wouldn’t say a word, but the twins remembered. She took the card. “Thank you. This means a lot.”

“Well.” Vida Jean wiped her hands on a napkin, fussing a bit as if she didn’t know what else to say, a rarity for either of the twins. “I suppose we should run. We have other calls to make, don’t we, sister?”

“Yes, calls to make.” Willa Dean leaned forward to pat Julia on the hand. “We don’t like to push, but you call us if you want to reminisce. We have photos of Mikey we cherish.”

A lump formed in Julia’s throat. “You ladies are wonderful.”

“Oh, go on now.” Willa Dean took the remaining two muffins, wrapped them in a napkin and slid them into her purse. “For Binky.”

Binky was their parrot.

Then with a flutter, a pair of hugs and two air kisses, the twins were off, leaving Julia standing on the whitewashed veranda wondering who was crazier, she or the twins, as she pressed Mikey’s birthday card against her heart.

* * *

“What were the Sweat twins doing here this morning?” Valery asked. She had finally dragged herself up to the Blueberry Room, looking better than Julia had expected, though her eyes were bloodshot and glassy.

“They brought a card for Mikey’s birthday.”

Valery paused in sanitizing the telephone. Her already pale face blanched whiter and took on a pinched look. “Oh.”

Julia replaced the last blueberry-patterned pillowcase and artfully arranged the pillows on the bed. A guest favorite, the Blueberry Room was painted in the original blue with white accents and a four-poster bed covered with a blue print counterpane. The fireplace, flanked by darker blue armchairs, was original to the house, and a lace-curtained window looked out on the circle driveway with a view of the peach orchard. There was something special about the Blueberry Room that people enjoyed. Except for now when Valery’s reaction to Mikey’s name irked her.

“Did you even remember?”

“Of course I did,” Valery snapped. She tossed her cleaning cloth aside, grabbed the vacuum cleaner and flipped the switch, filling the room with noise.

That’s the way it always was with her family. Silence. Don’t talk about the fact that Michael was alive, that he still had birthdays, that the anniversary of his abduction came around with painful regularity. If they didn’t discuss him, fragile Julia wouldn’t fly to pieces. She wouldn’t fall into another depression and forget to eat or dress or pay her bills.

Julia grabbed the Windex and headed into the bathroom, where she scrubbed the already clean mirror with a vengeance.

Valery stopped the noisy vacuum and came into the bathroom. “I saw Gary Plummer at Pico de Gallo last night.”

A change of topic. Naturally. “Okay.”

“He asked about you. I think he’s interested.”

“What? In me? No. Gary and I are friends from grade school. Don’t be dumb.”

“Dumb? Just because I want my sister to open up to the world and be happy again.”

What she really meant was that she wanted Julia to forget she’d had a son and stop waiting for him to come home. “Don’t, Valery.”

“Why not? Tell me that much. You’ve shut yourself off from everyone.”

“I’m with people every day.”

Valery scoffed. “That’s business. Guests who come and go. I’m talking about a personal life.”

“Like yours?” Julia wanted to suck the words back inside. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.”

Valery’s lower lip trembled. “I had a couple of drinks last night. Stop making a federal case out of it.”

Julia pulled her into a hug. “Hey. Want me to do your toenails later?”

“Would you?” Valery returned the hug with enthusiasm and then huffed a short laugh and pulled away. “I’m such a pushover.”

Which was exactly the problem. Valery was too nice. Too Southern-girl-accommodating so that men who couldn’t even spell gentlemen took advantage of her. Julia had never understood why her sister thought so little of herself or why she chose the kind of men who misused her. They’d been raised by the same parents and as the younger sibling, Valery was the favorite. She should have been confident and strong. Instead, she was a rug for men to walk on, and Jed the jerk was only the latest in a long line of creeps Valery had allowed to make her miserable.

“I found another marble this morning,” she said as a peace offering. No point in pushing the topic closest to her heart. No one wanted to listen.

“Really?”

Julia took the stone from her pocket. “Looks similar to the others.”

“Where did you find this one?”

“On the rug under Bingo.”

They both glanced at the Aussie sprawled like an ink spill on the gleaming heart-pine hallway. His tail thumped. Bingo wasn’t allowed in the guest rooms, but that didn’t keep him from following his owner from room to room.

“Do you still think he’s bringing them inside?”

“He must be digging them up somewhere on the property. What other explanation could there be?”

Valery wiggled her fingers beside her head and grinned. “Ghosts?”

“Now you sound like the Sweat twins. If this old place had ghosts, wouldn’t someone have seen one by now or had some sort of supernatural experience?” Someone besides me, the nut job who hears children laughing.

“Maybe they have and were afraid to tell us.”

She was right about that. “Have you ever seen or heard anything?”

“I’ve had the creepies a few times as if someone was watching me, especially in the carriage house.”

The old carriage house was creepy but not because of ghosts. “Because we haven’t done a thing to it. The cellar’s the same way. Once we clean out the spiderwebs and all that ancient junk and start the remodel into more guest rooms, the creepies will disappear.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all. I would love to have a ghost or two to make things interesting around here. Haunted inns attract crowds.”

Which is one of the reasons I don’t tell you everything. “I like things the way they are. Peaceful and quiet.”

“No excitement in your blood. I swear you are not related to me. Give me bright lights and party time. Give me Vegas and fast cars and hot men.” Valery spun toward the window and stopped. “Like that one. Holy guacamole! Come here, Julia. Check this out.”

“I don’t have any more guests on the log for today.” But she crossed to the window anyway. “Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? Do you know him? He is gor-ge-ous. And a little wild looking. Yummy.”

“He had car trouble this morning up on the road. Mr. Oliver gave him a jump.”

“I’ll give him a jump.” Valery pumped her eyebrows.

Julia snorted and swatted her sister’s arm. “I thought you and Jed were back together.”

“We are. I’m kidding, but I ain’t dead like some women I know.”

Julia ignored the pointed comment. “I’m going down to see what he wants.”

“You’re not leaving me behind. I might be taken, but I like to look. And you could use a man in your life.” She poked a finger at Julia’s chest. “Maybe he fell madly in love the moment he laid eyes on you. Maybe that’s why he’s back.”

Julia hit her sister with the pile of dirty linen. “Hush.”

Valery laughed, stopped at the mirror for a quick fluff and then followed Julia down the stairs.

Eli Donovan stood at the back entrance, holding a mug imprinted with the logo of Peach Orchard Inn.

“Ma’am,” he said when Julia opened the screen.

Valery swept to her side. “She’s Julia Presley. I’m Valery Griffin, her sister. And you are?”

Eli looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the vibrant, gregarious brunette who talked a little too fast. “Eli. I brought back your mug.”

Julia took the cup from him. “Thank you.”

“The coffee was good.”

“Would you like more?” Valery pounced on him like a cat on a grasshopper. She pushed the door wider. “Come on in. Coffee is always fresh and available for our guests’ pleasure.”

Oh, great. Julia fought not to roll her eyes and groan.

Eli glanced her way, and she could have sworn she saw amusement in his leaf-green gaze. Seeing the humor, too, she smiled. “Might as well come in, Eli. My sister is a steamroller. She seldom takes no for an answer.”

* * *

Eli followed the two sisters through the immaculate copper-and-cream kitchen into a breakfast room with cranberry-red walls, white trim and a wall of sparkling windows. Six square tables were set with white linen and napkins in the same deep red as the walls. He noticed the scent again, as he had this morning. Subtle. A waft of fresh bread and clean air. A far cry from the rancid human odors of his past seven years.

He felt out of place, miserably so, but he was here and he was going to do this no matter the result. A man looking to start over had to start somewhere.

“Pretty,” he said, surprising himself.

The woman named Valery beamed. She was a looker, long, wavy dark hair and lots of curves, with a vivacious personality that promised a good time. But it was the quieter Julia who drew his interest. Dressed in casual beige slacks and white buttoned blouse, she had a calming way about her. Like this house. Serene. That was the word. He hadn’t used serene in a long time.

“I thought I’d lost this cup forever,” she said.

“I almost forgot about it.”

“Have you had breakfast? I know it’s closer to noon, but brunch perhaps? There’s still some casserole left.”

“I’m okay.” He wondered if she always tried to feed people or if he simply looked pathetic.

“You’ll have something, Eli,” Valery said. “Julia is a fabulous cook. Maybe her muffins or some peach tea?”

“I heard about that tea.”

“Really? Where?”

“A police officer in town.”

Julia’s blue eyes rounded. “Don’t tell me you got a ticket?”

“No, nothing like that.” Man, she was pretty, her voice as smooth and Southern as a praline sundae. Classy and cool. Like his mother’s. A dull ache tugged behind his breastbone. He averted his gaze, found the view outside the windows.

“Was it Trey Riley?” Valery asked, coming in from the kitchen with a plate of food that made his mouth water. “He’s the cutest thing.”

“That was his name. Nice guy.”

“Sweet as pie. Here you go. Julia’s ham-and-egg strata. Julia, get him some peach tea.” She winked. “If you hate it, I’ll make fresh coffee.”

“Nobody hates my peach tea,” Julia called from inside the giant stainless-steel refrigerator.

Feeling like the beggar he was but hungry enough not to care, Eli dredged up the dry bones of his mother’s manners. “Would you care to join me?”

“Sure.” Valery plopped down across from him and propped her chin on her hand. “Julia, bring me some tea, too, and maybe a muffin.”

“Are your legs broken?”

Eli smiled at his fork. Valery laughed but flounced up to serve herself. “Sassy wench.”

In seconds, both women were back. Valery had joined him at the table while Julia stood a little apart next to the gleaming windows sipping a glass of peach tea. He wished she’d sit down, too, but instantly retracted the wish. She had no business sitting anywhere near him.

Eli sipped at his drink. Cold, sweet and fruity. Three peach slices floated with the ice cubes. “Terrific. Thank you. The casserole is good, too.”

He’d said thank-you more times today than he had in years. He was pretty sure he’d wake up in a minute back in his cell.

“I assume you got your car running again.”

“Thanks to Mr. Oliver.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Is he around? He left this wrench.”

“He and his wife went into town for a while, but I can give him the tool when he returns.”

Eli handed it over. He wasn’t a thief and didn’t want anyone thinking he was. Didn’t need the grief and he sure wasn’t going back to prison. Especially now when his boy needed a dad. “Tell him I won’t forget his kindness.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Yours, either.”

She only smiled, but the soft look was encouragement enough to give him an opening. He’d rehearsed his speech, his arguments and ideas all the way from the park. He’d even stopped at the In and Out Quick Stop to splash water on his face and comb his hair, a shaggy bunch of waves that needed a barber’s hand. He knew how he looked, like a homeless street bum, a description, no matter how shaming, that wasn’t far from the truth. His idea of home was his Dodge and, when money allowed, a room in a rent-by-the-week roach motel. Haircuts and soft beds would have to wait.

What was he doing here? What made him think he could do this? He was broke and homeless. Just because a little boy had his DNA didn’t make him a father.

The familiar, dreaded knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

Loser. Convict. Get up and get out of here. You’ll never make this work.

His hand trembled on the fork. He put it down and reached for the red napkin. The delicious ham and egg felt leaden in his belly. He took another sip of peach tea, swallowed to chase away the negative voices.

This wasn’t about him. He knew what he was, but his son didn’t.

A boy needed a father. Eli should know. Losing his parents’ love and support had been a chain saw through his soul that had left him with a gaping emptiness he couldn’t fill.

For the sake of a child he didn’t even know, he had to ask. If Julia rejected his idea, which he fully expected, he’d try the pizza place. And if there was an application, he’d lie. They didn’t run background checks, did they?

Nobody in Honey Ridge knew him. He could start fresh, his secret tucked away inside, and build a life his son could respect. He should have used a false name, but it was too late for that now. He’d have to hope no one noticed him enough to check into his past.

He folded the napkin and laid the starched cloth next to his empty plate. The Donovan table always had ironed napkins. “Your peach orchard needs maintenance.”

The sentence had come out wrong, blurted and abrupt. He clenched his back teeth. Polite conversation was barely a memory.

Julia tilted her head as if she wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at. Caught in the sunlight, a stray blond tendril spun gold along the curve of her jaw.

“We’ll get to it eventually.”

“I can do it.” He rushed on before she could reject the idea, stunned by the vehemence with which he desired her approval. “Officer Riley thought you might be ready to start work on that old carriage house.”

She glanced toward the tired old building set half a hundred yards beyond the house. “I’d love to, but money is an issue.”

“I understand.” He focused on his plate, afraid he’d see rejection in her eyes, afraid he’d give away his desperation. A remodel like this could take months, maybe longer, and time was money in his pocket. “What if I made you a good deal?”

“What kind of deal?”

He flicked a glance at her. She gazed at him with more interest than he had right to hope for.

“I need work. I could help with the orchard and other odd jobs around the place. I have experience in construction.” Thanks to the prison system, which he was very careful not to mention. “In exchange for room, board and a small salary, I could do those things and repair the carriage house, as well. Whatever you need done.”

Julia brought her tea to the table and sat down. His heart beat a little faster, but he kept his expression bland.

“I don’t know. Material costs alone—”

Valery pointed a muffin at her sister. “We won’t get another offer like that, Julia. A construction company costs out the wazoo. Even Sam Baker charges more than we can afford right now, and he’s the cheapest around.”

“We can work something out. I’m flexible.” Eli tried to keep his voice calm as if he wasn’t desperate, but his chest was tight with hope. He’d not hoped for anything in so long he hurt with the wanting. “Hire me on a temporary basis. For the summer. If things work out, we can continue. If not…” He shrugged. He’d make this work. He had to.

Julia stared in the direction of the weary old building. He could see the wheels turning and hoped they were turning in his favor. “I’d sure love to get the carriage house remodeled. It’s a distraction from the rest of the grounds.”

“The added revenue from renting out the carriage house will offset the cost of remodeling and pay my salary.”

Her focus returned to him. “In the long run.”

“That’s the way business works. Spend some to make more.” He knew about business. Once he’d even had dreams, fueled by his father, and he’d shattered them as he’d shattered everything in his path.

“A healthier orchard will produce more fruit,” Valery said. “And more fruit means more sales at harvest.”

Julia pressed her lips together and looked off into the distance, thinking. Absently, she stroked slender fingers up and down the moist tea glass. The action sent shivers through Eli. He imagined those fingers touching him.

He jerked his gaze away and stood. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.”

“No, wait.” Julia turned her attention back to him. “I’ll have to look at the books and play with the numbers, but I think you may be on to something.”

“I am,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

“Are you honest?”

“Yes.”

Valery laughed. “What did you think he’d say, Julia? Admit he’s a burglar on a cross-country crime spree?”

Eli remained rigid as rock, unblinking. Julia held him by the eyes, studying him as if she could see inside. He wanted to squirm and look away but understood this was his chance. Maybe the only one he’d have.

“You can trust me.”

“Drugs? Alcohol?”

The dark days circled in like buzzards. “Neither.”

“I won’t allow wild parties or drunks or drugs or anything that could harm this inn’s reputation. Screw up and you’re history.”

“You have my word.” It’s all he had.

“Do you have anything planned this afternoon?”

Oh, sure. An appointment for tea with the queen. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Stick around and we’ll talk this out, walk through the carriage house, discuss the particulars and see if you still think this is something you want to tackle.”

He didn’t tell her he was down to few choices. He’d take what he could get at this point. Even though the thought scared him more than a shank in the shower, he was staying in Honey Ridge near his son. “And if it is?”

“Then you’re hired.”


10 (#ulink_3459f2bd-1db1-5fda-a504-376928c32789)

Peach Orchard Farm

1864

Will paced the foyer at the bottom of the stairs next to the outer doorway, ready to be about the day’s work. At the first sound of voices, he stopped to look up the staircase. Charlotte Portland, tidy and serene, came down the curving steps, brown boots tapping softly against the hard wood with two boys following along like puppies. She was lovely, kind and wise, and seeing her each morning had become a highlight of his long, often discouraging day.

Young Benjamin’s excited voice carried to his ears. “Captain Will makes marbles back in Ohio, Mama. And he’s the only son like me. And he has two sisters and a best friend named Gilbert who works in the factory. And Captain Will—”

“Benjamin, hush.” Mrs. Portland’s words were soft admonishment.

A smile stirred in Will’s middle. He’d taken a shine to the youngsters. Benjamin, fair like his mother, and Tandy, the light-skinned slave with the persistent grin and keen mind reminded him of his oldest sister’s boys, not in looks but in manner. They amused him, took his mind away from the worries of war and reminded him that there was some kind of normalcy still to be found in this state of divided loyalties called Tennessee. He prayed neither boy should ever see any more of the war than he’d brought with him. That was horror enough.

His chest tightened when the mistress of the house turned her gentle eyes on him. In the days of watching her in the sick rooms and observing her quiet, efficient running of the household, he’d come to admire her. She was a fine woman. A disturbing hum of pleasure tingled the back of his neck.

Will straightened his shoulders to attention, and the sword bumped his thigh in a reminder of who he was and why he’d come to Charlotte Portland’s farm.

She was another man’s wife. A Confederate sympathizer. He’d do well to remember both.

“Captain Will, Captain Will!” Benjamin thundered ahead of his mother down the stairs. The young slave boy was not far behind. They came to a breathless, grinning halt in front of him. Ben executed a clumsy, endearing salute. “Sir, your message has been delivered!”

“Well done, boys. Well done.” Will returned the salute but his attention drifted to the woman gliding toward him, neither breathless nor grinning.

“Captain,” she said simply, coming to stand before him, those small, usually busy hands resting serenely at her waist. “Good morning.”

He doffed his cap and held it in his hands, though his shoulders remained tight. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to trouble you again. If your husband was in residence I would take up my concerns with him.”

Indeed, Edgar Portland had shown his bloated, furious face but twice since the company’s arrival. Once to express his indignation at the outrage of being invaded before storming away on his horse, and the other to chastise his wife for aiding the enemy. A man who didn’t defend his women held no esteem in Will’s opinion.

“My apologies.” Charlotte’s mouth tightened and those tender hands began to work the cloth of her skirt. “Boys, please ask Lizzy to bring coffee for the captain while the pair of you remain in the kitchen for breakfast.”

“Aw, Mama, I want to talk to Captain Will.”

Will touched the boy’s shoulder. “A soldier obeys orders, son.” He winked. “I think I smell ham.”

Tandy cut a glance toward the kitchen. “I sure am hungry, Ben.”

“Me, too.”

As the pair galloped into the kitchen like young ponies released to new pasture, Lizzy appeared in the opening of the double doors. “I’ll bring the coffee, Miss Charlotte, and look after the boys. You’ll be wanting breakfast, too. There’s ham and biscuits.”

“Have the patients been fed?”

Mrs. Portland’s question deepened the affection he felt and didn’t want. For indeed, patients lined her parlor and dining room on rows of pallets, makeshift beds of little more than a blanket or quilt or a bundle of rags. All of them provided by Charlotte Portland.

“No, Miss Charlotte. Cook is working on that now.”

“I’ll eat later.”

Lizzy’s proud chin jutted stubbornly and doe eyes glittered with fierce affection. “You can’t go working all day again without food.”

Will’s head snapped toward Charlotte. She’d not eaten yesterday?

Charlotte brushed a hand along the hair above her ear, a smooth strip of blond pulled tightly into a bun. A loosely knit blue chignon covered the knot but couldn’t hide the golden shine.

Will felt awkward to notice such a thing as a woman’s hair. With Charlotte he was noticing too much.

“Don’t worry about me, Lizzy,” she said. “I am hale.”

The maid didn’t argue but simply stood in the doorway, her black gaze fixed on Mrs. Portland. Charlotte took no umbrage at the impudence, and Will wondered at the relaxed relationship between slave and mistress.

“Mrs. Portland.” Will touched Charlotte’s elbow, surprised at himself for taking the liberty. “She’s right. You need your strength.”

The slave’s sharp gaze cut to him and settled there in speculation. Like a man burned, he drew away. “If you please, ma’am, could we have a word in your husband’s study?”

Lizzy gave him one long, final stare before fading back into the kitchen.

Once inside the small study, Will rotated his hat in his hands as he waited for Mrs. Portland to be seated at her husband’s writing desk, and then he took the black haircloth chair next to her. She was close enough that her lemony scent drifted to him, a disturbingly pleasant variance from the campfire smoke and coppery blood that clung to this stately home.

Without preamble and in defense against her appeal, he said, “Private Stiffler discovered a rebel hiding in your orchard last night.”

She blanched, pressing back against the mahogany desk chair, a hand to her throat. “In the peach orchard?”

Had she known? Was she harboring and aiding the enemy outside while inside the house his men bled and suffered?

Will watched her shocked reaction, studied the clear-as-June blue eyes. Either she’d missed her calling onstage or she hadn’t known. The relief he felt disturbed him as much as the persistent attraction.

“Yes, ma’am. Stealing the last of the peaches. Are you aware of other rebels nearby?”

“Until you came, the only soldiers we’ve seen were new recruits marching off to war from Honey Ridge.”

“When was this?”

“Last fall.”

Did he believe her? His first inclination was yes, but he had not become a captain because he was foolish or made rash decisions. He’d invaded her home, taken her belongings and would take more before he and his band of injured moved on. Mrs. Portland had been nothing if not cooperative and caring, but she could not want him or his army on her farm.

He was drawn to this woman who worked tirelessly with an uncommon compassion. In another place and another time…Will stopped the rabbit trail of thoughts.

He had a duty and he would do it. But because of women such as Charlotte Portland, he would not become as base as some, looting and robbing and taking spoils of battle like savages.

He prayed he’d never have to.

“What will become of him?” she asked. “The man you found.”

“He’s our prisoner. When we move out, we’ll take him along.”

“Won’t he slow you down?”

“No.” Prisoners were not allowed to slow the progress of fighting men. But he did not share that bit of bad news with Charlotte. “We suspect he’s a deserter.”

“You could let him go.” Her lips formed a thin, worried line. His gaze was drawn there.

“Impossible.”

“Why?” She fiddled with an inkwell situated on the open desk, a reddish-walnut affair bare of papers.

“There is a war going on, Mrs. Portland. I have men to protect.”

“Is he so dangerous, then?”

Will huffed a short, unhappy laugh. “The only danger he presents is the amount of fleas and lice covering his body. He’s so scrawny his bones rattle.”

“The poor soul is starving. You could leave him here.”

He wished he could. Just as he wished he could send all his men home. But because he could do neither, he didn’t respond.

Lizzy, in her snowy apron and head wrap, brought the coffee. Once again her sharp glance slid between him and Charlotte. She was watchful, protective of her mistress, and he would not be at all surprised if she stood guard outside the door.

“Your maid doesn’t trust me,” he said, after Lizzy left the room.

“Should she?”

The question bothered him. He wanted to be trusted but, indeed, with the enemy, he could not make that promise. “Have you owned her long?”

Something fierce and dark flashed in Charlotte’s expression. “My husband owns slaves. I do not. Nor would I if the choice was mine to make.”

Her passion gave him pause. He set the coffee on a side table. “You are loyal to the Union?”

“I am loyal to my home and family. Your war bewilders me.”

“As it does all of us, Mrs. Portland. There are times when I—” He stopped, aware he revealed too much.

“Times when you what, Captain? Wished you’d never joined such a ruthless cause? I’m sure those young men lying in our cemetery would wish the same if they could.”

He blanched. Yes, she’d pinched a sore spot, for he was haunted by the loss of men, some of them hardly more than boys, who’d marched to war filled with fiery idealism only to face the harsh realities of butchery and death.

“I regret every lost man, whether Union or Confederate.”

His revelation, one he’d scarce let himself think much less say, softened her. “I’m afraid I do not understand the politics of war, or the propensity of men to purchase human flesh. Both are obscene to me.”

“Would you prefer the Union remained separated?”

“I would prefer, as scripture dictates, to live in peace with all creatures whenever possible.” She grimaced and a flush colored her cheeks the shade of fresh peach skin. “Forgive me, please. Sometimes I forget myself. I shouldn’t say such things to a man of your position and rank.”

“Voicing an opinion is not a cardinal sin.”

“No? Some believe a woman has no opinion, Captain.”

He wondered if she meant her husband but refrained from asking such a private, personal question. As it was, he shocked himself at the ease with which they conversed. She was bright and knowledgeable, qualities he’d been taught to admire in a woman.

“I beg to differ, considering I have two sisters with sharp minds and sharper tongues and a mother who runs the local temperance league and is an outspoken abolitionist. Father has given up trying to contain them.”

At last, she smiled, and Will realized he’d been waiting for that glimpse of sunshine. “My father is a vicar, an ardent student of both philosophy and scripture. Unfortunately, my mother showed no interest in his rather lengthy dissertations on the human condition. I, on the other hand, enjoyed them and was allowed to read widely and speak my mind. Perhaps too much, as I have learned since coming to America.”

Ah, that explained a great deal. “How did a British vicar’s daughter come to marry a Tennessee farmer?”

He was going too far, asking questions that pushed into her private affairs, and yet for the life of him he could not stop. He wanted to know everything about her. If he told himself his reasons were for the good of his army, there was truth in the lie. Until he knew her well, he could not be assured of his men’s safety. But the rest was pure self-interest. He admired Charlotte Portland.

If his question offended her, she gave no indication. Rather, she laughed. “In the usual manner, I’m sure. Tell me, Captain, are you a married man?”

“No woman will have me,” he said in jest, and yet the stab of betrayal was anything but amusing. A man who’d loved and lost did not take such things lightly.

“Doubtful, sir.”

“And why is that?” he asked, amused, intrigued, interested.

She smiled again, the light merry in her eyes. She was enjoying their little spar, as was he. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Captain?”

“Do you have one for me?”

One pretty eyebrow twitched upward as she tilted her head, moving a smidgen closer, enough that he felt the rise in his pulse.

Voice light and teasing, she said, “Perhaps, I do.”

How charming, he thought. Charming, lovely and good.

Will leaned forward, tempted to touch the feminine fingers that draped over the edge of the desk and eager to know what she thought of him as a man. To feel the softness of womanly skin, something he hadn’t touched in so long the void was an ache as strong as hunger. Charlotte was all the good things he appreciated in a woman. Edgar Portland was a very fortunate man.

Suddenly, he caught himself.

He had no right sharing such a lively and intimate conversation with a married woman. He had less right to touch her—even if that woman’s husband had embarrassed and abandoned her.

Abruptly, he stood. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Portland. I’ve overstayed. I must see to my duties.”

“Is something wrong?” She stood with him, bewildered by his sudden change in behavior, for she couldn’t know the turmoil churning beneath his rib cage. And he certainly couldn’t tell her that he was attracted to her, man to woman, and would like nothing better than to take the weight of worry off her shoulders. Indeed, to wrap those slender shoulders in his arms and draw her close to his heart with a promise that all would be well.

“Thank you for the coffee.” He refrained from taking her hand though he wanted to badly. A touch might prove too dangerous. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion.”

“I hope I didn’t offend you with my outspoken opinions.”

“You couldn’t. I treasure them.” Again he fought the urge to touch her, only this time he longed to touch her cheek. Just to trace his fingertips over her dewy skin. “Charlotte—”

“Captain?”

“Will,” he said, though he shouldn’t have.

The tension left her shoulders. “Will.”

Heart thudding in his throat, Will strode to the door and turned the knob. He looked over one shoulder and said, “Eat breakfast before Lizzy has my head.”

Buoyed by her merry laugh, he made his exit. Standing in the dim hallway was the red-haired woman they called Josie. She glared at him.

“Good morning, Miss Portland.”

Arms crossed tight over her chest, she tossed her head with a sniff.

Will gave a nod, but he felt the pinpricks of her animosity stab him in the back as he strode away.


11 (#ulink_4fb2459b-8f94-5fc9-93b2-a853a14cac2f)

Peach Orchard Inn

Present Day

A honeybee orchestra serenaded the rhododendron as Julia led Eli Donovan out the back way across the plank-board porch and down the steps toward the carriage house. Bingo ambled around the corner of the inn to sniff the newcomer’s pant leg. A shadow of his former self, the old dog had once been as hyper as a kindergarten class on red Kool-Aid. Oh, the wonderful times he and Mikey had enjoyed. She wondered if Mikey remembered the dog who adored him, who had looked for him and refused to eat when Mikey didn’t come home.

“That’s Bingo,” she said simply. “He’s friendly.”

Eli scratched Bingo’s floppy ear and ruffled the neck fur, all the while looking toward the ramshackle carriage house. Julia winced, seeing it from a stranger’s perspective.

“The previous owner, maybe even the one before that, didn’t do anything with it, either. The rooms are piled with old junk.”

The tired two-story building with the sagging upper balcony sported a boarded-up bottom where carriages and later cars had been parked. At one end, near a tangled mass of wild roses Julia hadn’t had the heart or time to cut down, was an entrance door with a dirty upper window. The top floor would have been the living quarters for the driver and his family, though now the dormer windows were obscured by cardboard boxes and other stored items.

“What’s in there?” Eli asked.

“Odds and ends. Junk. A few ragged antiques. A bit of everything, I think. When Valery and I bought the house, we added to the collection. Anything we didn’t immediately toss was stuffed in here or down in the cellar.” And both had already been packed.

He paused a few feet out from the building and looked up. He had a quiet about him, a deep reserve. She couldn’t decide if he was thoughtful or hiding something. The latter troubled her slightly. She knew nothing about this man who was willing to work for little beyond a roof over his head. What kind of man did that?

A desperate man. A man down on his luck. A man with nowhere else to turn.

But why? He seemed intelligent, well-spoken with the soft drawl of a well-bred Southerner. He was sad, an emotion that circled him like an aura. That alone had kept Julia from rejecting his strange offer outright. She understood bone-deep, unshakable sorrow.

“A lot of work,” he said.

“Too much?” She watched him in profile as he perused the derelict building.

He was taller than her by several inches, with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms that had seen work. But he was too thin and the bones of his face were too prominent, as if he didn’t eat enough. Neither detracted from his dark and rugged good looks, though noticing men was Valery’s pastime, not hers. Yet, there was mystery about Eli, perhaps due to his tendency toward silence. Not that silence was a bad thing.

“No.”

Terse, to the point and a little uncertain, as though he expected her to send him down the road in that jalopy of a car he drove. He intrigued her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Thanks a lot, Val.

She’d never hired anyone for help around the inn other than Dylan Winfeld, a teenager who cut the grass when she or Valery grew overwhelmed. But she’d known Dylan forever. His family lived next door to her on Sage Street. Eli Donovan was a stranger.

They’d reached the weathered entrance into the carriage house.

“Where are you from, Eli?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His hand paused on the doorknob and his body went still. He focused on the closed door. “Knoxville. Is this locked?”

She reached into her pocket and handed him the key. The door screeched open and he stepped aside to let her enter. A gentleman’s action and one she duly noted just as she’d noted the way he held a fork and used a napkin and the way he’d remained standing until Valery was seated.

“You have family waiting there?”

Her back was to him as they entered the small space, but when he didn’t reply, she paused to look over her shoulder.

“No,” he said, and something in those mysterious eyes flickered. Family was not an easy topic for Eli Donovan.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without mine. When—” She caught herself before it was too late. She’d almost said, When Mikey disappeared.

Talking about Mikey today seemed to be emotional quicksand and she did not want to suffocate in front of a perfect stranger.

“You have other sisters? Brothers?” He asked the question quickly as if he somehow knew about her son and couldn’t bear to hear the story again.

“Only Mom, Dad, Valery and me, but a pretty big extended family.” She didn’t add that her parents had been divorced for years but lived in the same town without killing each other.

“You’re not married.” Again, that terse comment as though conversation was a struggle. Was he naturally shy?

“Divorced.” A wound that didn’t throb anymore. David’s marriage to Cindy Bishop had ended that. Not that she hadn’t wept bitterly when he’d produced another son within a year. He’d forgotten Mikey the way he’d forgotten her. Clean sweep, put the past behind him and moved on as if they’d never lived together in the pleasant three-bedroom brick house on Sage Street. “You?”

Theirs was a casual conversation, nothing personal, a potential employer getting to know a potential employee.

“Never.” He gave a short, self-deprecating huff that made her wonder.

When she tilted her head in question, his gaze shifted from the rising stairs to the door leading into the carriage bay. “Up first or through the lower floor?”

“Let’s go up.”

“You should lead. I don’t know the way.”

She stepped around him, aware of his size and close enough to catch the earthy, outdoors scent of him. Her elbow brushed his jean jacket and the rough texture prickled the skin on her arms.

Disconcerted, she gripped the railing and started up. His movement behind her was quiet, but she could feel him there, a polite distance though still too close for comfort. She felt self-conscious, as if her hips were too wide and their sway meant something other than advancing up a set of narrow, rickety stairs.

At the top, a musty, dusty odor greeted them. Julia stepped into the open space. “We could make two bedrooms and baths up here, I think. Or perhaps a family suite.”

He regarded the crowded space with interest. “A lot of stuff up here.”

“I warned you. Valery poked around in some of it. Old trunks of clothes, discarded furniture, tools, anything and everything. It appears everyone who ever lived here left things behind.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Considering we’ve had no immediate plans to rehab the space, I hadn’t really thought about doing anything, but you’re right. To transform this into guest rooms, we’ll have to get rid of everything.”

“Or store it somewhere else.”

“Maybe I could have a sale.”

He hitched one shoulder. “Maybe.”

“First, we’ll have to sort through, I guess.”

“I can do that for you.” He gestured toward a battered vanity. “How old is this place?”

“Pre–Civil War, though I doubt any of the furniture is that old.”

She shoved a box out of the way to make a path to the dormers. A spider darted across her foot. She let out a squeak and jumped back.

A shiny boot, its relative newness out of sync with the rest of the man, obliterated the hairy creature.

Julia gave an embarrassed laugh. “I hate spiders. A neighbor boy used to torment me with them.” She didn’t know why she’d felt compelled to add that last bit.

“Probably plenty of them in here.”

“A joyous thought,” she said wryly. “And another reason I have avoided the carriage house.”

The corners of his mouth quivered like the stirring of a single leaf by a breath of air. His eyes lit and, every bit as quickly, dimmed.

Had he smiled once today? Did he ever? What weight could a man possibly carry that he rarely smiled? Even she had found her smile again.

“Mind if I look around?”

“Go ahead. That’s why we came, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay right here.”

“Spiderwebs everywhere.” As if to prove the point, he waved his hand into a thick web strung between a stack of boxes and the wall and wiped the cottony mess down the sides of his jeans.

“Exactly.” She remained beside a stack of boxes piled on top of a bureau in need of repair. The bulky piece of mahogany had been here when she’d first arrived and, like so many other things, had simply been too much to deal with at the time.

The wooden floor creaked beneath Eli’s weight as he approached the windows. Thick, dusty cobwebs crisscrossed panes so dirty the sun barely penetrated the glass with a hazy, translucent light.

“Can they be saved?” she asked.

“The spiderwebs? Or the windows?”

A joke. The man had made a joke. Julia smiled. “Saving the planet does not include spiders.”





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