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Her Captain's Heart
Lyn Cote


Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesNothing is impossible–as far as idealistic schoolteacher Verity Hardy is concerned.The lovely widow is certain teaching freed slaves in a Virginia town torn apart by the Civil War will help heal bitterness and old wounds. But she's finding that the school's cynical builder, Matthew Ritter, has little reason to have faith in her–or anything else.An ex-Union captain, Matt has seen more than his share of destruction. And the threats he's getting about the school are almost enough to make him give up. But Verity's spirit and courage inspire him to fight once again for what he believes in–and to show her they can reach their dreams together. . . .









“Thee doesn’t believe in miracles then?”


Matthew was about to say he didn’t, and then he recalled all he’d witnessed today. “I haven’t for a long time,” he said finally. “Is it a miracle or coincidence that my cousin was one of the men you nursed at Gettysburg?”

“I call it providence,” Verity answered.

“Providence?” Matt asked.

“Yes. God knew that I would come here to Fiddler’s Grove to open this school for freed slaves.”

Matt wished Verity wouldn’t wear such a deep-brimmed bonnet. He wanted to watch her vivid expressions. For a woman who radiated peace, she felt and showed everything vibrantly.

As she continued to speak of the providence that brought them to this place, her voice grew stronger with the passion that he loved in her. And hated. Don’t care so much, Verity. That’s the way to pain. He wanted so much more for her.




LYN COTE


Lyn Cote married her real-life hero and was blessed with a son and daughter. She loves game shows, knitting, cooking and eating! She and her husband live on a beautiful lake in the north woods of Wisconsin. Now that the children have moved out, she indulges three cats: V-8 (for the engine not the juice), Sadie and Tricksey. In the summer, she writes using her laptop on her porch overlooking the lake. And in the winter she sits by the fireplace her husband installed with the help of a good neighbor during their first winter at the lake. Lyn loves to hear from readers, so visit her Web site at www.LynCote.net, or e-mail her at l.cote@juno.com.




Lyn Cote

Her Captain’s Heart















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


Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God.

—Matthew 5:9

I can do all things through Christ which strengthen me.

—Philippians 4:13


Dedicated to my Sunday school teachers, the

women and men who first taught me about God,

His Son and His Spirit. Florence Brauck,

Ruth Silovich, Beatrice Sladek née Nilsen,

Gordon Zoehler and others whom only God recalls.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




Chapter One


Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, September 1866

Verity Hardy loathed the man, God forgive her. She stood looking down at her late husband’s cousin, she on the top step of her wide porch, he on the bottom. The unusually hot autumn sun burned just beyond the scant shade of the roof. Her black mourning dress soaked up the heat that buffeted her in waves, suffocating and singeing her skin. The man had been haranguing her for nearly a quarter of an hour and she didn’t know how much more she could take.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with this insane plan.” Urriah Hardy wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and glared at her, his jowly face reddening. He held the reins of his handsome gelding, fidgeting just behind him.

Pressing a hankie to her upper lip, she looked past him to the golden fields beyond. Memories of wounded soldiers—their agonized screams and soul-deep moans—shuddered through Verity. She’d never forget those bloody July days three years ago. She couldn’t let them count for naught. Still, her deep uncertainty made her hands tremble. She clasped them together so he wouldn’t see this sign of weakness. “Thee knows,” she said in a final attempt at politeness, “I’ve packed everything, and we leave at dawn.”

“You’re a fool, woman. That renter you’ve found won’t make a go of it. He lost his own farm.”

Yes, because he was drafted into the Union Army and thy younger brother, the banker, wouldn’t give him more time to pay the mortgage. “That’s really none of thy business,” she murmured, adding a warning note to her tone.

“You should have rented to me. I’m family.”

His reference to family stung her like rock salt. Urriah had cheated on every business deal she’d ever known him to make. “So thee could have cheated me instead?”

After the brazen words popped out of her mouth, conscience stung Verity instantly. Judge not, lest ye be judged. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—take back the words. She stood her ground, her face hot and set.

He swore at her, vulgar and profane, something no man had ever done in her presence.

Her frayed temper ripped open. “I don’t expect thee to understand,” she shot back with a disdain she couldn’t hide. “Not a coward who bought his way out of the draft.”

For a moment he rocked on his toes and she thought he might climb the steps to strike her. Instead, an evil, gloating leer engulfed his ugly face. “Well, since you won’t listen to reason, I guess you’ll just have to take what comes, down in Dixie. You’ll be lucky if the Rebs just run you out of town on a rail. If they lynch you, I’ll inherit the land and you know it.” He chuckled in a mean way and turned his back to her. “The day a woman bests me will be the day hell freezes over,” he taunted as he mounted his horse.

His parting shot drew her down the steps and into the dusty lane. “I’ve made out a will and thee’s not the beneficiary!” she called after him. “Roger’s father inherits the land as guardian of Beth.”

“I’m a patient man, Quaker.” He pulled up the reins, stopping his horse. “I can wait till Roger’s father dies and then the court will name me, your daughter’s next of kin, guardian of her assets.” He doffed his hat in an insolent way and cantered off.

Stiff with disapproval, she watched until she could see only the dust his horse’s hooves kicked up in the distance. The hot anger drained out of her, leaving her hollow with regret and worry.

Letting anger rule the tongue was never wise. But his cutting words had prompted her own doubts. Was she up to the task she’d taken for herself?

Out of the blue, a memory—vivid and as fresh as today—caught her by surprise. Five years earlier, she’d stood in this very spot as her husband had left for war. She could see the back of his blue Union uniform as he marched away from her.

Then he halted in midstride and ran back to her. Pulling her into his arms, he’d crushed her against the rough wool of his jacket. His kiss had been passionate, searching, as if drinking in the very essence of her. “I’ll come back to you,” he’d promised. “I will.”

But he hadn’t. Thousands upon thousands had broken that same promise. She’d watched many soldiers die, both gray and blue. And many had keepsakes from wives or sweethearts in their pockets. It broke her heart to think of it.

She wrapped her arms around her. In spite of the scorching sun, the loneliness she’d lived with for the past five years whistled through her like an icy winter wind. “Now I’m leaving, too, dearest one,” she whispered.

She’d asked God’s blessing on her plans but how had she behaved the day before she left? Shame over her unruly tongue deepened. She covered her face with her hands as if she could hide her hot tears from God.

“I’m sorry, Father, for my temper. I shouldn’t have spoken to Urriah like that. But he’s…it’s such an injustice. He lives and prospers while Roger lies somewhere in an unmarked grave in Virginia.” She pressed her hands tighter against her face as if pushing back the tears and her un Christian words, feeling as if she couldn’t get anything right today.

“Again I must apologize, Father. It is not my job to decide who is worthy of life and who deserves to die.” Lowering her hands, she turned back to the house. Her father-in-law and her daughter would be back from their last-minute trip to town anytime now and she had to get a cold supper ready for them.

At the top step, she paused and leaned against the post. “God, I’ve felt Thy spirit moving within me, Thy inner light. I’m sorry I’m such a weak vessel. Please use me. Let me reflect Thy light in the present darkness.”

Fiddlers Grove, Virginia, October

In one routine motion, Matt rolled from the bed, grabbed his rifle and was on his feet. In the moonlight he crouched beside the bed, listening. What had roused him from sleep? He heard the muffled nicker of a horse and a man’s voice. Then came knocking on the door. Bent over, Matt scuttled toward the door, wary of casting a shadow.

Staying low, he moved into the hall and ducked into an empty room. He eased over to the uncurtained windows overlooking the front porch. From the corner of the window sash, he glanced down. A buckboard stood at the base of the porch steps. A man wearing a sad-looking hat was standing beside it and a little girl sat on the buckboard seat.

“Verity, maybe there is a key under the mat,” the man said quietly to a woman hidden under the front porch roof below Matt’s window.

Verity? A key? A woman was knocking at his door and looking for a key? And they had a child with them.

“But, Joseph,” came her reply from out of sight, barely above a whisper. “This might not be the Barnesworth house. I don’t want to walk into some stranger’s home uninvited.”

She spoke with a Northern accent. And this was or had been the Barnesworth house. Wondering if this was some sort of diversion, he listened for other telltale sounds. But he heard nothing more.

He rose slowly and walked back to his room. He pulled his britches over his long johns and picked up his rifle again. Just because they looked like innocent travelers who had turned up after dark didn’t mean that they actually were innocent travelers. Caution kept a man alive.

He moved silently down the stairs to the front hall. Through the glass in the door, he glimpsed a shadowy figure, dressed in a dark color, facing away. He turned the key in the lock, twisted the knob and yanked the door open. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The woman jerked as if he’d poked her with a stick, but did not call out. She turned toward him, her hand to her throat.

“What do you want?” he asked, his rifle held at the ready.

Her face was concealed by shadow and a wide-brimmed bonnet and her voice seemed strangely disembodied when she spoke. “Thee surprised me, friend.”

Thee? Friend? “What’s a Quaker doing at my door at this time of night?” he snapped.

“No need to take that tone with her,” the older man said, moving toward the steps. “We know it’s late, but we got turned around. Then we didn’t find anywhere to stop for the night and the full moon made travel easy. So we pressed on.”

“Is this the Barnesworth house?” the woman asked.

“It was,” Matt allowed. “Who are you?”

“I am Verity Hardy. I’m a schoolteacher with the Freedman’s Bureau. Who are thee?”

He rubbed his eyes, hoping she would disappear and he’d wake up in bed, wondering why he was having such an odd dream. “Why have you come here?”

“Why, to teach school, of course.” Her voice told him that she was wondering if he were still half-asleep. Or worse.

Not a dream, then. His gut twisted. Something had gone wrong. But he forced himself not to show any reaction. The war had taught him to keep his cards close to his chest. He rubbed his chin. “Ma’am, I am—” he paused to stop himself from saying Captain “—Matthew Ritter.” But he couldn’t keep from giving her a stiff military bow. “I am employed by the Freedman’s Bureau, too. Did you come with a message for me? Or are you on your way to some other—”

“This is the Barnesworth house?” the woman interrupted.

He didn’t appreciate being cut off. “This was the Barnesworth house. It belongs to the Freedman’s Bureau now.”

Something moved in the shadows behind the strangers. Matt gripped his rifle and raised it just a bit. He searched the shadows for any other telltale movement. It could just be an opossum or a raccoon. Or someone else with a rifle and lethal intent.

The woman turned her head as if she had noticed his distraction. “Is there anything wrong?”

The older gentleman said, “I think we need to shed some light on the situation.” He lifted a little girl with long dark braids from the buckboard and drew her up the steps. “I’m Joseph Hardy. Call me Joseph, as Verity does.” He offered Matt his hand. “I’m Verity’s father-in-law. Why don’t you invite us in, light a lamp and we can talk this out?”

Matt hesitated. If someone else were watching them, it would be better to get them all inside. And he couldn’t see any reason not to take them at face value. Four years of war had whittled down a good deal of his society manners. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

Matt gripped the man’s gnarled hand briefly and then gave way, leading them to the parlor off the entry hall. He lit an oil lamp on the mantel and set the glass globe around the golden point of light. Then he set a vase in front of it, making sure the light was diffused and didn’t make them easy targets. He knew what Fiddlers Grove was capable of doing to those with unpopular views.

Turning, he watched the woman sit down on the sofa. She coaxed the little girl, also dressed in black, to sit beside her. Joseph chose a comfortable rocker nearby. Matt sat down on the love seat opposite them, giving him the best view of the front parlor windows. He rested the rifle on his lap at the ready. Now that he had more light, he saw that they looked weary and travel-worn. But what was he supposed to do with them?

He was still unable to make out the woman’s face, hidden by the brim of her plain black bonnet. He glanced at her hands folded in front of her. Under her thin gloves he saw the outline of a wedding band on her right hand. Another widow, then. Every town was crowded with widows in mourning. He knew they deserved his sympathy, but he was tired of sidestepping the lures cast toward him.

He watched the woman untie and remove her bonnet. The black clothing, Quaker speech and the title of teacher had misled him. He’d expected mousy brown hair and a plain, older face. But she looked to be around his age, in her midtwenties. Vivid copper-colored hair curled around her face, refusing to stay pulled back in a severe bun. Her almost transparent skin was illuminated by large caramel-brown eyes. The look in those eyes said that, in spite of her fatigue, this widow was not a woman to dismiss. A vague feeling of disquiet wiggled through him.

Why are you here? And how can I get you to leave? Soon?

As if she’d heard his unspoken questions, she began explaining. “I was told in a letter from the Freedman’s Bureau to come to this house this week and get settled before I start my teaching duties next week. But I was not told a gentleman would be at this house also.” The cool tone of her voice told him that she would not be casting any lures in his direction. In fact, he’d been right. She sounded as disgruntled to find him here as he felt in confronting her.

Good. But what had happened? Matt frowned as he added up the facts. He should have expected something like this—everything had been running too smoothly. The Freedman’s Bureau was part of the War Department. And after serving four years in the Union Army, he didn’t trust the War Department to get anything right. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Obviously,” Joseph said dryly.

“Would thee mind telling us what thee is here for?” Mrs. Hardy asked him.

He did mind, but he thought an explanation might help resolve the problem. “In general, I’m here to help former slaves adjust to freedom in any way that I can. Specifically, I am here to form a chapter of the Union League of America and to prepare the former slaves to vote. I expect the amendment that will give them that right will be passed in Congress soon. And I’m to get a school built.”

Mrs. Hardy quivered as if somebody had just struck her. “The school isn’t built yet?”

“Did they tell you it was?” Matt asked, already guessing the answer. His gaze lingered on those caramel eyes that studied him, weighing his words.

Suddenly he realized how wild he must appear to her. He was shirtless with bare feet and uncombed hair, and his rifle still rested in his hands. Yet she sat prim and proper, appearing not the least intimidated by him. One corner of his mouth rose. The woman had grit.

But now he had to deal with this mixup. This was the second unexpected wrinkle in his plans. The first had been his sharp feeling of regret when he arrived here. To fulfill a promise, after he’d joined the Freedman’s Bureau, he’d asked to be assigned to this part of Virginia. He’d expected to feel better coming here—he was, after all, coming home in a way. But upon arrival, he’d felt quite the opposite.

“If the school isn’t built yet, what am I to do?” she asked. “I’m supposed to begin lessons for former slaves and their children as soon as feasible. But how can I do that if the school hasn’t even been built yet?” A line of worry creased the skin between her ginger eyebrows.

His mouth twisted, a sour taste on his tongue. “It’s easy to see what happened. Somebody sent you a letter too early. I’ll telegraph the War Department and get this straightened out. You’ll just have to go back to where you came from until the school’s built.”

“We can’t go back,” she objected. “I have rented out my house for a year.”

I work alone, Mrs. Hardy. That’s why I took a job where I’d be my own boss. “You can’t stay. The school isn’t even started—”

She interrupted him again. “We’ve driven all the way from Pennsylvania.”

Joseph cut in, “We’re not going to drive all the way back there unless we’re going home for good.” He’d set his dusty hat on his knee, wiping perspiration from his forehead with a white handkerchief. The little girl stared at Matt like a lost puppy.

Matt frowned at them. They frowned back. He really did not want to deal with this. He rose and walked toward the front window to peer out. Again he detected that subtle shifting in the shadows in front of the house. He stepped near the window and raised his rifle so it would be clearly seen by anyone outside.

Returning here had been a foolish, ill-considered notion. Upon arrival, he’d realized that who he was would just make all the work he had to do here more difficult, more unpleasant, more personal. He muttered too low for anyone else to hear, “I should have gone to Mississippi, where I could have been hated by strangers.”

Mrs. Hardy cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her. She moved to the edge of her seat. “I’m certain that the Freedman’s Bureau would not expect an unrelated man and a woman to live under the same roof. Even with my father-in-law living with us…” Her voice drifted into silence.

He couldn’t agree more. He heard the nicker of their horses outside again. Did the animals sense something that shouldn’t be here? He parted the sheer curtains with his rifle and gazed outside once again.

“I would say that I could find somewhere else in town to stay.” He brushed this possibility aside. “But I doubt any of the former Confederate widows would want a Yankee boarding in their homes.” And I wouldn’t like it either. He didn’t want to live with others. He hated having to make polite conversation. He hated it now. He continued peering out the window.

“What is distracting thee?” she asked.

He held up one hand and listened, but heard nothing unusual outside. Still, he asked in a low voice, “You’re Quaker, so you didn’t come armed, right?”

Joseph spoke up. “Verity’s family is Friends. Mind isn’t. I brought a gun. Do I need it now?”

Matt watched the shifting of the shadows out in the silver moonlight, concentrating on listening.

“A gun?” she said. “Why would we need—”

Rising, Joseph cut her off. “What’s going on here? Haven’t the Rebs here heard that Lee’s surrendered?”

The woman continued, “Thee didn’t tell me thee brought a gun, Joseph.”

Matt spoke over her. “Where’s the gun?”

The older man came toward him. “It’s under the seat on the buckboard, covered with canvas. I wanted it handy if needed.”

“Maybe you should go get it now.” Matt motioned with his rifle toward the front door. “I’ll come out and cover you. And stick to the shadows, but make sure the gun’s visible and be sure they hear you checking to see that it’s loaded.”

Verity stood up quickly. “Wait. Who does thee think is watching us?”

Matt shrugged. “Maybe no one, but I keep seeing shadows shifting outside. And your horses are restless.”

“That could be just the wind and the branches,” she protested. “I don’t want rifles in my house.”

“This isn’t your house,” Matt said, following Joseph to the door. “And some of the Rebs here haven’t surrendered. We’re from the North and they don’t want us here.”

She followed them, still balking, “I didn’t expect it would be a welcome with open arms—”

He didn’t listen to the rest. He shut the front door, closing her inside, and gave cover to Joseph, who collected his gun, making a show of checking to see that it was loaded.

When they reentered the house, the widow stood there with hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “We don’t need guns. We are here to bring healing and hope to this town.”

“No, we’re not.” His patience went up in flames. “We are here to bring change, to stir up trouble. We’ve come to make people here choke down emancipation and the educating of blacks. The very things they were willing to die to prevent. We’ve brought a sword, not an olive branch. If you think different, just turn around and leave. No white person is going to want us here. Many will be more than willing to run us out of town. And if they could get away with it, a few would put us under sod in the local churchyard.”

His words brought a shocked silence. Then the little girl ran to her mother and buried her face in her mother’s skirts. Mrs. Hardy cast him a reproving look and began stroking her daughter’s head. Ashamed of upsetting the child, Matt closed and locked the door. Maybe he had been imagining something or someone lurking outside. But he’d survived the war by learning to distrust everything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…scare her.”

“You only spoke the truth,” Joseph said. “Christ said He came to bring a sword, not peace. And you knew that, Verity. We discussed it.”

“But guns, Joseph,” she said in a mournful tone, her voice catching. “The war is over.”

Her sad tone stung Matt even more than the little girl’s fear. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?” he said gruffly.

The little girl peered out from her mother’s skirts. And then yawned.

Right. Time for bed. A perfect excuse to end the conversation. “It’s late,” Matt said. “Why don’t we just get you settled for the night—”

“But how can we if you’re here?” The woman actually blushed.

The solution came to him in a flash. “There is a former slave cabin back by the barn. I’ll stay there until this is sorted out. That should fulfill propriety until one of us is moved to another town. We could just take meals together in the house till then. I plan to hire a housekeeper.” He felt relief wash over him. He’d keep his privacy and she’d probably get a quick transfer to a more sensible post.

Verity and her father-in-law traded glances. “Are thee sure thee won’t mind?” she asked in a way that told him she wasn’t just being polite.

He shrugged. “I lived in tents through the whole war.” Images of miserably muddy, bone-chilling nights and cold rain trickling down his neck tried to take him back. He pushed the images and foul sensations aside. “Don’t worry about me. The cabin’s built solid and has a fireplace. I’ll be fine.”

“You served in the Union Army, then?” she asked solemnly.

He nodded, giving no expression or comment. I won’t talk about it.

“My husband served in the Army of the Potomac.”

Silence. Matt stared at them, refusing to discuss the war. It’s over. We won. That’s all that matters.

Again, her eyes spoke of her character. Their intensity told him she took very little about this situation lightly. She inhaled deeply, breaking the pregnant moment. “Then we have a workable solution. For now. And tomorrow we’ll compose that telegram to the Bureau about this situation. Will thee help us bring in our bedding?”

“Certainly.” He moved toward the door, thinking that he didn’t like the part about them penning the message together. I’m quite capable of writing a telegram, ma’am.

Out in the moonlight, they headed toward the buckboard. Mrs. Hardy walked beside Matt, the top of her head level with his shoulder. She carried herself well. But she kept frowning down at the rifle he carried. And he in turn found his eyes drifting toward hers. “Let’s get started carrying your things in, ma’am.”

Verity looked up into Matt’s eyes. “Thank thee for thy help. I’m sorry we woke thee up and startled thee.”

Her direct gaze disrupted his peace. But he found he couldn’t look away. There was some quality about her that made him feel…He couldn’t come up with the word. He stepped back from her, unhappy with himself. “No apology necessary.”

Laying his rifle on the buckboard within easy reach, Matt began helping Joseph untie and roll back the canvas that had protected the boxes and trunks roped securely together on the buckboard.

Maybe this would all be for the best. Maybe he, too, should ask for a transfer in that telegram. It would be wiser. Then he could leave town before Dace and he even came face-to-face. Blood was the tie that had bound them once. But now it was blood spilled in the war that separated them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the gentle sound of Mrs. Hardy sharing a quiet laugh with her daughter. The nearby leaves rustled with the wind and he nearly reached for his rifle. But it was just the wind, wasn’t it?

Unsettled. That was the word he’d been looking for. Mrs. Hardy made him feel unsettled. And he didn’t like it one bit.




Chapter Two


In the dingy and unfamiliar kitchen, Verity sat at the battered wood table. Her elbows on the bare wood, she gnawed off a chunk of tasteless hardtack. Trying not to gag, she sipped hot black coffee, hoping the liquid would soften the rock in her mouth. Her daughter was too well-behaved to pout about the pitiful breakfast, but her downcast face said it all. Their first breakfast in Fiddlers Grove pretty much expressed their state of affairs—and Verity’s feelings about it.

She leaned her forehead against the back of her hand. The house had looked more inviting in moonlight. Gloom crawled up her nape like winding, choking vines. And yet she couldn’t keep her disobedient mind from calling up images from the night before—a strong tanned hand gripping a rifle, a broad shoulder sculpted by moonlight.

She gnawed more hardtack. Why had Matthew Ritter behaved as if he’d expected someone to attack them? The war is over. The people here might not like the school, but there is no reason for guns. Her throat rebelled at swallowing more of the gummy slurry. She gagged, trying to hide it from Beth.

Joseph came in the back door. “Ritter isn’t in the cabin out back.” He sat down and made a face at the hardtack on the plate and the cup of black coffee. Joseph liked bacon, eggs and buttered toast for breakfast, and a lot of cream in his coffee. “Slim pickings, I see.”

She sipped more hot coffee and choked down the last of the hardtack. “Yes, I’m going to have to find a farmer and get milk and egg delivery set up. Or perhaps that store in town stocks perishables.”

“Do you think we’re going to be here long enough to merit that?” Joseph asked. “I’m pretty sure Ritter has gone to the next town to send that telegram.”

At the mention of Matthew Ritter, Verity’s heart lurched. She looked away, smoothing back the stray hair around her face. Last night when Matthew had opened the door, shirtless and toting a rifle, she hadn’t known which shocked her more: his lack of proper dress or the rifle. Of course, they had surprised him after he’d turned in for the night. But he hadn’t excused himself and gone to don a shirt or comb his dark hair.

Men often shed their shirts while working in the fields, but he’d sat with them in the parlor shirtless and barefoot. And she couldn’t help but notice that Matthew was a fine-looking man. She blocked her mind from bringing up his likeness again. Her deep loneliness, the loneliness she admitted only to the Lord, no doubt prompted this reaction.

As if Joseph had read a bit of her thoughts, he said, “Ritter is probably more comfortable in the company of men. You know, after four long years of army life.”

No doubt. She willed away the memory of Matthew Ritter in dishabille. “He might be sending the telegram, but we don’t know what the answer will be. Or when it might come.” She tried to also dismiss just how completely unwelcoming Matthew Ritter had been. And how blunt. “And we need food because, after all, we’re here.” And we can’t go back.

Joseph grunted in agreement. “Well, I’m going to do some work in the barn. This place must have sat empty for quite some time. The paddock fence needs repairs before I dare let the horses out.”

Verity rose, forcing herself to face going into a town of strangers. After Matthew’s dark forebodings last night, all her own misgivings had flocked to the surface, pecking and squawking like startled chickens. If we’re on the same side, he shouldn’t be discouraging me. How will we accomplish anything if we remain at cross-purposes?

“Joseph, I’m going to walk to the store and see about buying some food. We’ll eat our main meal at midday as usual. I’m sure I’ll be able to get what I need to put something simple on the table.” I can do that. This is a state of the Union again. No matter what Matthew said, I will not be afraid of Fiddlers Grove.

With a nod, Joseph rose. “Little Beth, you going with me or your mom?”

“I want to help in the barn,” Beth said, popping up from the table. “May I, Mother?”

“Certainly,” Verity said. Better you should stay here, my sweet girl. I don’t want you hurt or frightened. Again. Last night Matthew’s harsh words had caused Beth to run to her. She shivered.

I will not be afraid. Not until I have good reason to be.



With her oak basket over one arm, Verity marched down the dusty road into town. Fiddlers Grove boasted only a group of peeling houses with sagging roofs, two churches and a general store. With the general store looming dead ahead, her feet slowed, growing heavier, clumsier, as if she were treading ankle-deep through thick mud. This town was going to be her home for at least a year. Starting today. Lord, help me make a good first impression.

On the bench by the general store’s door lounged some older men with unshaven, dried-apple faces. Matthew’s warning that some here would welcome her death made her quiver, but she inhaled and then smiled at them.

Grime coated the storefront windows with a fine film and the door stood propped open. Flies buzzed in and out. Her pulse hopping and skipping, Verity nodded at the older men who’d risen respectfully as she passed them. She crossed the threshold.

A marked hush fell over the store. Every eye turned to her. Drawing in as much air as she could, Verity walked like a stick figure toward the counter. The townspeople fell back, leaving her alone in the center of the sad and bare-looking store. She halted, unable to go forward.

She began silently reciting the twenty-third psalm, an old habit in the midst of stress. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

Near the counter, a slight woman in a frayed bonnet and patched dress edged away from Verity, joining the surrounding gawkers. Verity tried to act naturally, letting everyone stare at her as if she hadn’t fastened her buttons correctly.

She forced her legs to carry her forward. “Good morning,” she greeted the proprietor. Her voice trembled, giving her away.

The thin, graying man behind the counter straightened. “Good day, ma’am. I’m Phil Hanley, the storekeeper. What may I do for you?”

She acknowledged his introduction with a wobbly nod, intense gazes still pressing in on her from all sides. Her smile felt tight and false, like the grin stitched on a rag doll’s face.

“Phil Hanley, I’m Verity Hardy and I need some of those eggs.” She indicated a box of brown eggs on the counter. “And, if thee have any, some bacon. And I need to ask thee who sells milk in town. I require at least two quarts a day. And I’m out of bread. I’ll need to set up my kitchen before I begin baking bread again.” Her words had spilled out in a rapid stream, faster than usual.

In the total silence that followed, the man stared at her as if she’d been speaking a foreign language. People who weren’t used to Plain Speech often did this, she told herself. They would soon grow accustomed—if she and her family stayed here longer than Matthew hoped.

She waited, perspiring. As the silence continued, Verity blotted her upper lip with a handkerchief from her apron pocket. More of the twenty-third psalm played in her mind. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

“Ma’am.” A slight, pinched-looking woman edged nearer and offered in a hesitant voice, “I just baked this mornin’. I have a spare pan of cornbread.”

With a giddy rush of gratitude, Verity turned toward the woman. “Thank thee. I’m Verity Hardy. And thee is?”

“Mary. I mean, Mrs. Orrin Dyke, ma’am.” Mary curtsied.

“I’m pleased to meet thee.” Verity offered her hand like a man instead of curtsying like a woman, knowing this would also brand her as an oddity. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Mary Dyke shook her hand tentatively.

“Mary Dyke, I’m living at the Barnesworth house. Could thee drop by with that cornbread later this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. I can do that,” Mary said with a shy blush, curtsying again.

Verity reached into her pocket and then held out a coin. “Here. I’ll pay thee in advance.”

“No.” Mary backed away, one ungloved hand up. “You just give the money to Mr. Hanley to put on my account. I’ll bring the bread over right away. ’Sides, that’s way too much for a pan of bread. I couldn’t take more than a nickel.”

Sensing a stiffening in the people surrounding her, Verity wondered how she’d given offense. Still, she held out the dime, her mind racing as she tried to come up with a way to make her offer acceptable. “But I’ll owe thee for delivery, too.”

“No, no, ma’am, I can’t take anything for bringing it. Or in advance.” Mary scurried from the store.

Verity appeared to have offended the woman by offering to pay too much and in advance. But what could she do to amend that here and now? Nothing. Her mind went back to the psalm. He restoreth my soul. Yes, please, Lord, she thought. She took a deep breath and said through dry lips that were trying to stick together, “Two dozen of those fine brown eggs, please, Phil Hanley?”

“Of course.” He set the offered oak basket on the counter and carefully wrapped the eggs in newspaper, nestling them into it. His movements provided the only sound in the store other than Verity’s audible rapid breathing. She fought the urge to fidget.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“Well, now that I’m going to have cornbread—” she smiled “—I’ll need butter. And the bacon, if thee has some. Two pounds, please?”

“Just a moment.” He stepped out the back door, leaving Verity on display. While she gazed at the nearly empty shelves, the crowd surrounding her gawked in stolid suspicion. The feeling that she was on a stage and had just forgotten her lines washed through her, cold then hot. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.

In the persistent silence, the storeowner reentered and wrapped the butter and slab of bacon with the rustling of more newspaper. He tucked them into her basket. “Anything else, ma’am?”

“Not right now. How much do I owe thee?” The thought that her ordeal was almost over made her fingers fumble. But finally, out of her dangling reticule, she pulled a leather purse. She struggled with the catch, and then opened it. The taut silence flared and she sensed their disapproval distinctly. She glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at the U.S. greenbacks folded neatly in her purse.

She pressed her dry lips together. A show of wealth was always distasteful, especially in the presence of such lean, ragged people. She tasted bitter regret. At every turn, she appeared unable to stop offending these people. Lord, help me. I’m doing everything wrong.

The proprietor spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “After Mary’s nickel for the bread, that’s just two bits then, ma’am.”

She gave him the coins. “I’ll bid thee good day then, Phil Hanley.” She offered him her gloved hand.

He shook it and nodded farewell. Still smiling her rag-doll smile, she walked out into the bright sunlight.

Cool relief began to trickle through her. She’d gotten food for the midday meal and let Fiddlers Grove know she’d arrived. It said much about the suffering of Virginia that she, who’d always lived a simple life, should suddenly have to be concerned about flaunting wealth. Wounding Southern pride wouldn’t help her in her work here. She’d have to be more careful. I’d never had been this jumpy if Matthew Ritter hadn’t tried to scare me off. It won’t happen again, Lord, with Thy help.



Later that warm, bright morning, Verity stood at the door of her new home, her pulse suddenly galloping. “Won’t thee come in, Mary Dyke?” Lord, help me say the right things.

“No, ma’am. Here’s your pan of bread, as promised.” The small woman’s eyes flitted around as if she were afraid. She handed Verity the circle of cornbread, wrapped within a ragged but spotless kitchen cloth. A sandy-haired boy who looked to be about eleven had accompanied Mary Dyke.

Verity needed information about the sad-looking town and its people to get a sense of how the community would really react to the new school. In spite of Matthew’s warning, Verity refused to assume the possibility of community cooperation was impossible.

Verity smiled. “Mary, I’ve never moved before—at least, not since I married and left home to move into my husband’s house. I was wondering if thee…and is this thy son?”

“Yes, ma’am.” A momentary smile lit the woman’s drawn face. Mrs. Dyke patted her son’s shoulder. He was taller than his mother already and very thin, with a sensitive-looking face. “This is my son, Alec. Son, make your bow.”

The boy obeyed his mother and then Verity felt a tug at her own skirt and looked down. Evidently Beth had been drawn by the lure of another child. “This is my daughter. Beth, this is Mary Dyke and her son, Alec.” Her seven-year-old daughter with long dark braids and a serious face made a curtsy, and stole a quick glance at the boy.

“What is it you are wondering about, ma’am?” Mary Dyke asked, sounding wary.

“I could use some help opening boxes and putting away my kitchen things.” Verity gestured toward the chaotic room behind her. “Would thee have time to help me unpack boxes? I’m sure company would make the work go faster.” Please, Lord, help me make a friend here.

The woman appeared uneasy, but then bit her lip and said, “I can stay a mite longer.”

“Excellent. And perhaps thy son would like to help my father-in-law with the horses in the barn?” All children loved horses—and Joseph.

“Yes, ma’am.” Alec bowed again and started toward the barn at the back of the property. Beth slipped from her mother’s side and followed the boy, keeping a safe distance from him.

Verity smiled and ushered Mary into her disordered kitchen. Wooden boxes with straw and crumpled newspaper packing covered the floor. “Thee sees what I mean?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Soon Verity and Mary were working side by side. Unwrapping jars of preserves swathed in newsprint, Verity was cheered by Mary Dyke’s companionship. She already missed her six sisters back in Pennsylvania and her kind neighbors. If she were to be able to accomplish both her public and private reasons for coming here, she needed to begin to learn about the people here. And she couldn’t forget that she’d come with a personal mission, too.

Then Verity asked a question that had occurred to her on the way home. “Where is the school? I didn’t see it in town. I want to get Beth enrolled.” Verity paused to blot the perspiration on her forehead with a white handkerchief from her apron pocket.

Mary didn’t glance up. “Ma’am, we don’t have a school in town.”

“No school?” Verity couldn’t keep the dismayed surprise out of her tone.

“I’ve heard that there are free schools in the North,” Mary commented in a flat tone, not meeting Verity’s eyes.

Verity realized she’d just insulted the town again. She racked her brain, trying to think of some way to open up this timid woman—not to gossip but merely to provide Verity with helpful information.

Perhaps honesty would suffice. “I’m afraid that I offended many at the store this morning. I didn’t mean to, but perhaps I should have been less forward with my offer of payment. I hope I didn’t offend thee by offering to pay thee to deliver the bread.”

When no reply came, Verity’s face warmed with embarrassment. “It’s just that I don’t know anyone here yet and I didn’t want to…I don’t know exactly how to say what I mean. I just didn’t want thee to think thee owed me anything. If we were back in Pennsylvania, I would probably have known thee all my life…” Why can’t I stop babbling? “Oh, I’m doing a terrible job of explaining.”

Mary finally glanced her way. “No, ma’am, I think I understand and I wasn’t offended—or maybe I should say not much. You’re a Yankee, and I know Yankees don’t have Southern manners.” Then the woman colored red. “I mean—”

Verity chuckled. “Now thee knows how I feel. And thee hasn’t offended me.”

The back door swung open and Matthew Ritter stepped inside. “Mary!” he exclaimed.

In the midst of lifting a jar of peaches to the shelf, Mary dropped it. The glass shattered, the yellow fruit and syrups splattering the floor, wall and Mary’s skirts. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry!”



Matthew stood apart, saying nothing. Seeing Mary prompted scenes from childhood to flood his mind—playing hide and seek among the ancient oaks around Mary’s house, fishing at the creek, running in the fields with Dace and Samuel. Why did the widow have to be here as witness to the first time he encountered an old friend who was now probably an enemy?

When the mess had been cleaned up, he took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry I startled you, Mary.” He wondered for a moment if she would try to act as if she didn’t know him.

Mary turned toward him, but looked at the floor. “That’s all right, Matt. I just didn’t expect to see you here. Someone said they thought they’d seen you, but…”

A strained silence stretched between them. A string of odd reactions hit him—his throat was thick, his eyes smarted, he felt hot and then cold. To break the unbearable silence, he nodded toward her simple gold wedding band. “You’re married, I see.”

She still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes, I married Orrin Dyke. We have one son, Alec.”

Orrin Dyke? Sweet Mary McKay had married that shiftless oaf, Matt hoped his low opinion of her husband didn’t show on his face. He forced words through his dry throat, “I’m happy to hear that.”

Mary looked up then. “Are you…Have you come home for good?”

Home for good? The thought sliced like a bayonet. He grimaced. “Probably not. I doubt I’ll be welcome here.” He made himself go on and tell the truth, the whole truth. “I’m working for the Freedman’s Bureau. I’m here to help former slaves adjust to freedom and prepare them to vote.”

Mary simply stared at him.

He’d expected his job to be offensive to his old friends, but he was who he was.

The Quaker widow watched them in silence. Her copper hair and air of confidence contrasted sharply with Mary’s meek and shabby appearance. Meeting Mary after all these years was hard enough without the widow taking in every word, every expression. His face and neck warmed—he hated betraying his strong reaction to the situation.

“Your parents?” Mary asked.

He swallowed down the gorge that had risen in his throat. “My parents died during the war.”

“I’m sorry.” And Mary did sound sorry.

“Your parents?” he asked, wishing the widow would excuse herself and leave them. But of course, it would be almost improper for her to do so.

“My mother died, but Pa’s still alive. It’s good to see you again, Matt, safe and sound after the war.”

He imagined all the prickly thoughts that might be coursing through Mary’s mind about his fighting on the Union side and the reason his family had left town in 1852. Just thinking of leaving Fiddlers Grove brought back the same sinking feeling it had that day in 1852—as if the floor had opened and was swallowing him inch by inch.

Mary turned to the widow. “Ma’am, I must be leaving.”

“Of course, Mary Dyke, I thank thee for thy help.” The widow shook Mary’s hand as if she were a man.

Matt held on to his composure as he bowed, wishing Mary goodbye.

Mary curtsied and then she was out the back door, calling, “Alec!” Her son, Orrin’s son.

That left him alone with the widow as they faced each other in the kitchen. Again, he was struck by her unruly copper curls, which didn’t fit her serene yet concerned expression. He wanted to turn and leave. But of course, he had to deal with her. He took himself in hand. I faced cannon so I can face this inquisitive woman and my hometown where I won’t be welcome.

She went to the stove and lifted the coffeepot there. “Would thee like a cup?”

He wanted to refuse and leave, but he was thirsty and they needed to talk. He hoped she didn’t make good coffee. He didn’t want to like anything about this woman. He forced out a gruff “Please.”

She motioned him to sit at the table and served him the coffee. Then she sat down facing him. “I take it that thee went to send the telegram about our situation?”

He’d braced himself for her expected interrogation. “Yes, I did, and I bought some chickens for the yard and a cow for milk.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m surprised that thee made these purchases. Thee sounded last night as if thee didn’t think my family and I would be here long enough to merit the purchase of any stock.”

He sipped the hot coffee. It was irritatingly good. “I’ll be here long enough to do what I signed on to do.” That much he’d decided on his ride to send the telegram. “And whether you’re here or not, I’ll need eggs and milk. We need to hire a housekeeper. Would you do that? Hire her?”

The woman considered him for a few moments. “I could do that. But perhaps I should just do the housekeeping until I start teaching.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want this woman to become someone he’d come to depend on. With any luck, she’d be gone soon. “When you’re busy teaching, it would be better to have household help.” It wasn’t shading the truth, since the decision as to whether she would stay or go was not up to him. After all, he might end up stuck with this woman indefinitely. With her early arrival the Freedman’s Bureau had demonstrated that it could make mistakes.

“Very well. I’ll see about hiring a housekeeper.”

He sipped more of her good coffee, brooding over all he couldn’t change in the situation. After four years of following orders, he’d wanted to be free, on his own. And then here she was. And then the question he dreaded came.

“Thee didn’t tell me that thee had ever lived here before.”

Yes, I didn’t, and I don’t want to tell you now. “I lived here with my parents until I was around twelve. Then we moved to New York State.” And that’s all you need to know.

“I see.”

Was she too polite to ask why? He waited. Evidently she was. Good. Feeling suddenly freer, he rose. “I’m going out to settle the stock. I see your father-in-law is already working on that fence that needed fixing.”

“Yes, Joseph is very handy to have around. When it’s time for dinner, I’ll ring the bell. I bought only bacon, eggs and cornbread, so the menu will be somewhat limited. But soon I’ll have the kitchen completely stocked, and with a cow and some chickens, we’ll only need to buy meat and greens from a local farmer.”

Matt nodded and walked outside into the hot sunshine. As he stood there, the muscles in his neck tightened. He remembered the look on Mary’s face when she’d recognized him. Well, the fat would sizzle soon. Word that he was indeed back in town would whip through Fiddlers Grove like a tornado. It couldn’t be avoided. But he’d given his word and he’d stand by it.

The concerned look the widow had given him poured acid on his already lacerated nerves. He wanted no sympathy—just to do his work and move on. Oh, he hoped that telegram would come soon. He wanted this disturbing Quaker widow anywhere but here.



Later that afternoon, Verity was putting the final touches on the freshly hemmed and pressed white kitchen curtains she’d had sense enough to bring. When someone knocked on her back door, she started. Scolding herself for lingering jitters, she went to open the door and found a tall, sturdily built black woman looking back at her.

Her visitor appeared to be in her middle years with the beginning of silver hair around the edges of a red kerchief tied at the front of her head.

“May I help thee?”

“I’m Hannah. I’ve come to meet y’all Yankees.”

The woman’s directness made Verity smile, and some of the tightness inside her eased. “Please come in, Hannah. I’m Verity Hardy.”

“Are you a Miss or Mrs.?” The woman looked at her pointedly.

“I’m a widow, but I’m a Quaker and prefer to be called by name.” Verity opened the door and gestured the woman in. Please, Lord, help me do better with this new neighbor.

“Yes, ma’am.” The woman entered the kitchen.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Beth ran into the kitchen. She halted at the sight of Hannah.

“Hello.” Beth curtsied. “I’m Beth.”

“You can call me Aunt Hannah, you sweet child.” The woman’s face and voice softened.

Beth looked to her mother for direction. Verity nodded. “If the woman wishes to be called Aunt Hannah, Beth, thee may address her in that way.” Then she turned Hannah. “Won’t thee sit down? I have coffee on the stove.”

Hannah stared at her and then at the table. “This Virginia. Whites and blacks don’t never sit down together.”

Verity did not know what to say to this. It made her stomach flutter.

“But we’re not from Virginia,” Beth explained earnestly.

Hannah laughed. “You sure ain’t, honey. I know that. Tell you what, I go back outside and set on the top step and you can bring me that cup of coffee. And y’all can sit on chairs on the back porch. And that would look all right. How’s that?”

Verity nodded in agreement. Why had Hannah come? Was she bringing more bad news? Very soon, the three of them were seated in Hannah’s suggested manner on the small back porch. Verity waited for Hannah to speak. She hated this awkwardness, this unfamiliarity—hated being the stranger. Odd tremors had coursed through her on and off ever since her trip to town. Now they started up again, making her feel off balance.

After several sips of coffee, Hannah began, “I hear you folks come from the North and you talk like Quakers. And I figure if you be a Quaker, then I think afore the war you was abolitionist, too.”

“Yes, my whole family was very active in the abolitionist movement,” Verity replied. Where was this leading?

Hannah nodded. “I figured so. What’re y’all doing here in Fiddlers Grove, then?”

Only God knows the full answer to that. “I came to teach school.”

“What school?”

“The school Matthew Ritter is here to build.”

Hannah stared at her. “I heard the Ritter boy come back.”

“Yes, he has.” So Matthew was generally known here. Verity tried to discern what Hannah’s attitude was toward the man’s return, but Hannah’s reaction was not apparent.

“What you two living here together for? Are you married?”

Verity sighed silently and tried to quell the trembling that wouldn’t leave her. The close living arrangement with Matthew would be a topic of gossip and speculation, so she might as well tell this woman. She explained the mistake about her coming too soon and Matthew moving to the cabin. Hoping to sidestep the queries and pick up some information, Verity continued, “May I ask thee a question?”

Hannah nodded.

“Soon it will be First Day. And I see that thee has but two churches in town—”

“First day, what that?” Hannah looked puzzled.

“Quakers use Plain Speech, meaning we try to speak simply and truthfully. We do not use the same names for the days of the week as other Christians do because each one of them is named after a pagan god.”

“I never knew that.”

Beth piped up, “Wednesday is from Woden. He was a Nordic god.”

“Do tell,” Hannah replied with a grin.

Verity chuckled, but pressed on, “I was inquiring about the churches—”

“We got St. John’s and Fiddlers Grove Community,” Hannah said.

“Which church does thee worship at?” Verity asked, setting down her cup carefully so as not to let it rattle on the saucer.

“Neither. I attend Brother Elijah’s preaching on the Ransford place on Sunday afternoons. Elijah is the Ransford butler and my husband.”

Verity nodded. “I see. Does either town church have an evening service?”

“Fiddlers Grove Community has 6:30 p.m. service. But St. John’s only meet at 9:00 a.m. sharp. They got a bell. Y’all hear it, all right.”

“Thank you, Hannah.” Verity waited, sensing the woman was finally about to reveal her reason for coming.

Hannah put her empty cup down on the step. She bowed her head for a moment and then looked up at Verity. “I can’t read or write. Can you write me a letter? I know the name and a place to send it. I can pay.”

The request pricked Verity’s heart. How awful not to be able to read and write. Lord, help me get this school started here or wherever Thee wishes. “I have time to write a letter. And I would take it as a kindness if thee would let me do it for thee without pay. I don’t think it’s right to charge a neighbor.”

Hannah grinned. “I thank you. Will you write that letter for me now?”

“Certainly.” Verity rose and dragged her chair back inside, leading the way for her daughter and Hannah to follow. “Who am I writing to?”

“The name’s Isaiah Watson and he live in Buffalo, New York.”

“Is this a matter of business?” Verity asked.

“Don’t know if you’d call this business or not. There be someone I want to find. And I think Mr. Isaiah Watson might know where that person be.”

“Aunt Hannah,” Beth asked, “who is the person that you want to find?”

“Miss Beth, I want to find my boy.”




Chapter Three


In the dazzling light of First Day, Verity gazed at St. John’s Church, which sat on a gentle rise in the midst of an oak grove at the edge of town. It was small but impressive with its tall steeple and golden marigolds along its cobblestone path. Her father-in-law and Beth walked beside her, through the red door and into the sudden dimness of the church foyer. Matthew brought up the rear. A very grim and reluctant Matthew.

She hoped that three visits to three churches would remind the people of Fiddlers Grove that they shared a common faith in Christ. Still, her spine had become a tightly wound spring she couldn’t relax. She feared that this would be worse than visiting the store. Quakers never called attention to themselves—never. And worst of all, the fear Matthew had sparked within her lingered.

Inside St. John’s, a pipe organ began playing. Beth did a little jump. “Music.”

Verity smiled, though her lips felt stiff. Beth shared her late father’s love of music. Verity waited until the congregation had finished the first verse, then she nodded at Joseph and Matthew. Joseph led them down the center aisle to seats in an empty pew near the back of the church. Matthew removed his hat and stood beside Verity, taking the aisle space. He hadn’t brought his rifle, of course, but he looked as forbidding as if he had. It was almost as if he expected someone to attack them.

As expected, many heads swiveled to watch them enter. Verity smiled, her lips wooden. Then Beth began to sing along, as did Joseph. Their voices—the high wispy soprano and the low bass—blended in with the singing. “‘Lord, as to Thy dear cross we flee, and plead to be forgiven.’” She hoped the people singing were listening to the words coming from their mouths. “‘Kept peaceful in the midst of strife, forgiving and forgiven, O may we lead the pilgrim’s life, and follow Thee to heaven.’”

Quaker meetings were composed of silence, praying and speaking, not singing. Though Verity didn’t feel comfortable singing, she enjoyed the music, which calmed her wary heart and lifted her spirit. Still, Matthew stood beside her as stiff and silent as a sentinel. Waves of infectious tension wafted from him. But his formidable presence also managed to reassure her. No one would antagonize Matthew Ritter without good reason.

Verity looked up over her shoulder and saw what must have been a slaves’ balcony. It was empty now, showing that—after emancipation—the black population must not want to come to the white man’s church.

The hymn ended. There was a general rustling around the church as books were put back into their holders and ladies gathered their skirts to sit down. Verity concentrated on the vicar, who in his clerical collar and vestments looked about the same age as her father-in-law. Then she noted that one man, who looked to be about Matthew’s age, kept glancing back at her and Matthew.

Throughout the rest of the service, Verity tried to ignore the surreptitious glances from the people of Fiddlers Grove. It was no surprise that people would be curious about them; still, it made her uneasy. Who was the one man who looked at Matthew over and over?

After the final hymn was sung, the congregation rose and made its way into the aisle. Verity, Joseph, Beth and Matthew made their way toward the clergyman, standing at the doorway and shaking hands with everyone as they left.

She was very aware of the same man who’d kept glancing at Matthew. Was he planning on making trouble? Matthew, on the other hand, pointedly ignored the man.

When it was finally her turn to offer her hand to the vicar, it felt as if the whole congregation on the steps and in the foyer paused and fell silent, listening. Verity swallowed and tried to smile.

“Good morning,” the vicar said. “I am Pastor Savage.”

“That’s a scary name,” Beth said.

Verity touched her daughter’s shoulder. Beth hung her head and then curtsied. “I beg your pardon.”

“Mine is an unusual name, especially for a clergyman.” Pastor Savage smiled. “You are new to Fiddlers Grove.”

“Yes,” Joseph responded, and shook the pastor’s hand.

“Everyone has been wondering why you have come to our little town. Many believe you are one of those meddling Yankee schoolmarms we’ve heard of.” His tone was friendly but uncertain.

“It is hard to be a stranger in a small town,” Verity said without giving him an answer. She liked the pastor’s eyes. They were good eyes. But very sad ones, too.

“Maybe our new family moved to Fiddlers Grove for their health,” a pretty woman in a once stylish but now faded dress suggested in a sly tone. She stood beside the man who’d been watching Matthew.

Verity smiled, though a frisson of fear went through her. Had there been a veiled threat in that statement? Would it be “unhealthy” here for them? There was a pregnant pause while everyone waited for Verity to reply.

When she did not, the man beside the woman said, “May I make myself known to you? This is my wife, Lirit, and I’m Dacian Ransford. I wish to welcome you to our town.”

Mr. Ransford must have served in the Confederate Army. He had that “starved and marched too long” look she’d seen so often in ’63. “I am pleased to meet thee,” she murmured, for once not really sure she meant her proper words. It was obvious in the way Dacian dressed that he was a prominent member of society here. Hadn’t Hannah said that her husband was the Ransford butler?

Joseph accepted Dacian Ransford’s hand and Beth curtsied. Then before Joseph could introduce the fourth member of their party, the man faced Matthew. “Hello, Matt.”

“Dace.” Matthew nodded, no emotion visible on his face.

“I didn’t expect to see you in Fiddlers Grove again.” Neither Dacian Ransford’s tone nor his expression gave any clue as to whether he thought it good or bad to see Matthew here now. Yet neither offered a hand to the other.

Verity tried to behave as if she were unaware of the heightened tension that ran through the milling congregation. Matthew’s expression became stony.

“Oh?” Matt replied. No emotion. No inflection.

Perhaps war did this to men; perhaps it “closed” them. Suddenly she wondered why Matthew’s family had left Fiddlers Grove.

As Verity studied the two men, a forceful wind moved her skirts. Overhead, large white clouds glided across the blue sky.

“How is my aunt Samantha?” Dacian asked Matthew.

“My mother died of cholera in ’62. She had been widowed for a year then. And my aunt Sarah Rose?” Matthew asked.

“My mother passed just after Lincoln was elected. A fever. My father survived her by two years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matthew said, sounding sincere.

“And I’m sorry also about your parents passing.” The two men were silent for a moment, and then Dacian nodded and took his wife’s elbow, steering her down the church steps.

Verity tried to make sense of this exchange between first cousins, as well as the shocking news she’d gathered—the fact that Matthew hadn’t mentioned Dacian. Why hadn’t Matthew just told them he had relatives in town?



Later that day, Matthew trailed after Verity and her family, heading toward the singing coming from a maple-and-oak grove on the Ransford plantation. Why had the Quaker insisted they attend three church services today? She’d only smiled when he’d asked her. He was tempted to stay behind, but he hadn’t wanted her going without him. And of course, he’d come face-to-face with Dace this morning. His emotions from that meeting continued to bubble up inside him. He crammed them down. Forget it. Forget all of it.

The singing drew them closer and he began to recognize many of the black faces as people from his childhood. He tightened his defenses against all this remembering. Yet he still searched for Samuel’s face. From him, he might get a genuine welcome.

Before emancipation, slaves had been required to attend church with their masters. Now they were holding their own service and singing a popular freedom song he’d heard in the streets of Richmond and Washington D.C.

,!

Mammy, don’t yo’ cook and sew no mo’.

Yo’ are free, yo’ are free.

Rooster, don’t you crow no mo’.

Yo’ are free, yo’ are free.

Old hen, don’t yo’ lay no mo’ eggs.

Yo’ are free, yo’ are free.

At sight of them, the whole congregation broke off in the middle of a note and fell silent. Abashed, the widow’s little girl hung back, hiding within the folds of her mother’s skirt. The boisterous wind that had come up this morning was now picking up more speed. The black ribbons of the Quaker’s bonnet flared in the wind. Verity smiled, looking untroubled and genuine. But was anyone that cool? What would stir this woman enough to pierce her outward calm? Or did it go straight through to her very core?

Matt had eaten the cold midday meal with them, but hadn’t offered any explanation about his past in Fiddlers Grove. Why couldn’t he just tell her why his family had left and why he’d come back? Somehow, explanations remained impossible.

He recognized Hannah in the shade of a twisted old oak and felt a pang. Samuel’s mother had survived. She hurried to him and hugged him. “Mr. Matt, welcome home.”

“Mr. Matt!” Hannah’s husband, Elijah, grasped both Matt’s hands. “I heard that you had come back to town. As I live and breathe, sir. As I live and breathe.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Elijah.” Matt swallowed down all the memories that were forcing their way up from deep inside him. He wanted so much to ask about Samuel, but he found he couldn’t say the name.

Elijah visibly pulled himself together. “Yes, welcome home, Mr. Matt.” The man’s genuine warmth had been so unexpected that Matt glanced skyward, hiding his reaction.

It struck him that Elijah wasn’t quite as tall as Matt remembered him. Perhaps because Matt had been a child the last time he’d seen Elijah. Elijah looked gaunt, and his closely cropped hair and bushy eyebrows were threaded with silver. He was dressed in a good-quality but worn suit and spoke with a cultured cadence. After all, he was the Ransfords’ butler.

Again Matt felt the urge to ask where Samuel was. But what if Samuel had died? He couldn’t bring himself to stir those waters.

“Y’all come just like you said you would.” Hannah approached Verity and offered her a work-worn hand. “I told everybody about how you wrote that letter for me.”

What letter? To whom? Matt’s heart started throbbing in his chest. What was the woman up to now?

Verity shook Hannah’s hand. “It was a pleasure to help thee. Hannah, thee remembers my daughter, Beth. And this is my father-in-law, Joseph Hardy.”

Hannah introduced Verity and her family to Elijah. “Sister Verity, we’re glad to have you and your family. Welcome,” he said.

“I ain’t glad,” declared a large woman wearing a patterned indigo kerchief over her hair. “Do the Ransfords know this Ritter boy back in town? And what a white woman and her folks doin’ comin’ here? I want to know if she with the Freedman’s Bureau. And when we going to get our land? That’s the only reason I stayed in this place—to get what’s due me.”

“I told you they was Quakers and abolitionists afore the war.” Hannah propped her hands on her ample hips. “And why shouldn’t the Ritter boy come home?”

Come home. Matt was undone. Blinking away tears, he stared up into the gray clouds flying in from the northeast.

The woman with the indigo kerchief demanded, “Are they are our side or master side?”

“We are on God’s side, I hope,” Verity said. “I wish thee will all go on with thy singing, Elijah.”

Matt glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Thank you. Hannah urged the widow and her family to take seats on the large downed log in the shade. Matt hung back, leaning against an elm. The brim of the widow’s bonnet flapped in the wind, giving him glimpses of her long, golden-brown lashes against her fair cheek.

Soon, the congregation was singing and clapping to “O Mary.”

,!

“O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn

O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn,

Pharaoh’s army got drowned.”

Matt wondered if, in their minds, Pharaoh’s army was the Army of the Confederacy. It had gone down in defeat like Pharaoh’s army. But it hadn’t been an easy defeat. Why was it that he could stand here in the sun listening to beautiful singing and yet still be on the battlefield, with cannons blasting him to deafness? Why wouldn’t his mind just let go of the war?

,!

“O Mary, don’t you weep

Some of these mornings bright and fair

Take my wings and cleave the air

Pharaoh’s army got drowned.

O Mary, don’t you weep.

When I get to heaven goin’ to sing and shout

Nobody there for to turn me out.”

The little girl was singing and clapping with the gathering. Her mother sat quiet and ladylike, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her serenity soothed something in Matt. He tried not to stare, but drew his gaze away with difficulty.

He repeated the words of the song in his mind. Some of these mornings bright and fair, Take my wings and cleave the air.

Though his heavy burden of memories tried to drag him down, he fought to focus on the present. The work his parents had begun must be completed. The laws of the land must be the same for white and black. He must not lose sight of that.

The widow glanced over her shoulder at him. How long could he hold back from telling her the story of his family and Fiddlers Grove? The simple answer was that he could not ignore Dace—not just because Dace was his only cousin, but also because Dace had the power to sway others. The Ransfords had run this town for over a hundred years. Matt came to a decision. He’d have to talk to Dace. There was always an outside chance that Dace wouldn’t be hostile to the school, wasn’t there?



After the evening meal, Matt trudged through the wild wind into the white frame church with Verity and her family. The church sat at the end of the town’s main street. It was surrounded by oaks, elms and maples and was much larger than St. John’s. The wind tugged at Matt’s hat. A storm was certain. Matt looked forward to it, hoping for relief from the stifling, un-seasonal heat of the past few days.

On the other hand, Matt dreaded walking into this church. Most of its members had been vocal enemies of his parents. And Matt wondered which of them had been responsible for that final night that had sent his family north. His gut clenched. He reminded himself that that was all past and his side had won the war. Not theirs.

Again they entered during the opening hymn. They elicited glances, some surreptitious and some blatant. Toward the front, Mary and her son, Alec, sat with her father, Jed McKay, who looked like an Old Testament prophet. Orrin was nowhere in sight—an unexpected blessing.

When the hymn ended, the preacher looked straight at them and demanded, “What are you people here for?”

For once, the widow looked startled. “I beg thy pardon?”

“We don’t want Yankees coming down here and telling us what to do with our people. If you’re here to do that, you might as well leave in the morning. We won’t tolerate any Yankee meddling.”

Matt waited to see what the Quaker would say before he entered the fray.

“Friend, I am not a meddler. But anyone who thinks nothing here is going to change after secession, four years of bloodshed, Lee’s surrender and emancipation is deluding themselves.”

Matt’s eyes widened. The widow’s tone was civil but her words broadsided the congregation. He felt the angry response slap back at them. Whoa. The woman had nerve, that was for certain.

Jed McKay leaped to his feet and pointed a finger at her. “We’re not going to let a bunch of Yankees tell us how to run things in Fiddlers Grove.”

“What things are thee talking about, Friend?” the widow asked, as if only politely interested.

Matt’s respect for her was rising. A grin tugged at a corner of his mouth.

Jed swallowed a couple of times and then came back with, “We won’t have our darkies learning how to read and such. And they’ll never vote in Virginia. Never. Blacks voting is just as far-fetched and outlandish as letting women vote. Won’t happen. No, sir.”

“Does thee not read the papers?” the widow countered in a courteous voice. “The Congress is waiting for the amendment for Negro suffrage to be passed by the states, and when it is, Negroes will vote in Virginia.”

“Over my dead body!” Jed roared.

“I believe, Friend,” the widow replied in a tranquil tone, “that there has been enough bloodshed. And I hope many will agree with me.”

Matt drew in a deep breath at her audacity. Whoa.

Her words left Jed with nothing coherent to say. He grumbled mutinously and then looked at Matt. “Ritter, you should never have come back here. That’s all I got to say to you.” With this, Jed sat down.

“I think it would be best if you all leave our service,” the preacher said. “Now.”

“Mother, can he make us leave church? I thought anybody could go to church,” Beth said in a stage whisper, tugging at her mother’s sleeve.

Matt looked to Verity, leaving it to her whether they stayed or left. After all, this had been her idea. But he’d take on the whole congregation if she wanted him to. In fact, his hands were already balled into fists.

“I bid thee good evening, then,” Verity said, taking Beth’s hand and walking into the aisle like the lady she was. Matt followed her to the door of the church. Then he turned back and gave the congregation a look that declared, Everything the lady said is true. We’ll leave now. I don’t listen to a preacher who speaks hate. This isn’t over.

The wind hurried them all home, billowing the widow’s skirt and making Joseph and Matt hold on to their hats. At their back door he paused for a moment, thinking yet again that he should say something about Fiddlers Grove and his family, but he could come up with nothing he wished to say. So he bid them good-night and headed for the cabin. Behind him, he heard Verity and her father-in-law closing and latching the windows against the coming storm.

Just before Matt closed the cabin door, he gazed up at the storm-darkened sky. Jed McKay’s words came back: “Ritter, you should never have come back here.” Opposition was a funny thing. Initially, he’d felt the same way as McKay—that he shouldn’t have come back. But now that he’d been run out of one church, rebellion tightened in his gut. No one’s running me out of town. Not again.



The thunder awakened Verity. And Beth’s scream. Verity leaped out of bed. Lightning flashed, flickering like noonday sunshine, illuminating the room. Beth ran into the room and threw her arms around her mother. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Verity recognized the hysteria in her daughter’s voice. Thunder always brought back their shared fear of loud noises that had begun with the cannon at Gettysburg and the terror of war. Verity knew from experience that words would not help Beth. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, hugging her fiercely. That was the only thing that ever helped. Verity’s own heart pounded in tune with the relentless thunder.

Then the house shook. And exploded.

Or that was what it sounded like. Felt like.

Joseph charged into her room, trousers over his nightshirt. “I think we’ve been hit by lightning,” he shouted over the continuing din. “I’m going outside to see if anything caught fire.”

Verity glanced out the window and shrieked, “The barn! The barn’s on fire!”

Joseph ran from the room. Verity settled Beth in her bed and pulled the blankets up over the child. “Stay here, Beth. I must help thy grandfather!”

Verity snatched up her robe, trying not to hear her daughter’s frightened cries as she ran. Outside, the storm shook the night. Lightning blazed. Thunder pounded. Barefoot on the coarse wet grass, Verity ran with her hands over her ears. It seemed impossible that anything could burn in the downpour, yet flames flashed inside the open barn loft.

Ahead, Joseph and Matthew were opening the stalls to get the horses out of the burning barn. Between thunderclaps, the shrieking of horses slashed the night. Verity raced over the soggy ground. Somehow she had to help put the fire out.

One of their horses bounded out of the barn. Galloping, it nearly ran her down. She leaped out of the way and fell hard. Another thunderbolt hit a tall elm nearby. Brilliant white light flashed, followed by a deafening thunderclap. She covered her eyes, as well as her ears. The ground beneath her shook.

When she could, she looked up. In the open barn doorway, Joseph was waving both arms, beckoning her. She dragged herself up from the ground. Slipping on the wet grass, she hurried toward him. With the lightning flashing, she didn’t need a lantern to see what had upset her father-in-law. Mary Dyke’s son lay on the dirt floor of their barn.

“What happened to him?” she called over the continuing thunder.

“I don’t know!” Joseph shouted back at her.

Matthew yelled, “I think he climbed the ladder in the hayloft and opened the door so the rain could douse the fire.”

Verity looked up and saw that the fire was out. “What’s he doing here? In our barn?”

“Don’t know,” Matthew said, “Joseph, help me get him into the house.”

Within minutes, Matthew laid the boy on the kitchen table. Verity asked Joseph to check on and reassure Beth so she could examine Alec. Verity listened to his heart and felt for a fever. No fever. But the boy had a black eye, bruises and a split lip. Had he been fighting? Why was he hiding in their barn? Sodden and chilled from her own wet clothing, she tried to rouse him but had no luck.

The thunder still boomed outside, but it was more distant now. “The boy worries me.” She looked toward Matthew and gasped. His hand was pressed against his forehead, blood flowing between his fingers. “Thee is hurt. What hurt thee?”

“Blasted horse knocked the stall door into me on his way out. Don’t worry about me.”

Wasn’t that just like a man? Blood pouring from his head, but don’t worry about him. Her exasperation moved her past her fear of the storm. She moved quickly to the pantry and collected her nursing equipment, a wash basin, a fresh towel and soap. “Sit.” She pointed to the chair.

Grumbling, Matthew sat. She lit an oil lamp on the table and leaned close to him, examining the gash.

“This will need a stitch or two. I’ve got some experience nursing. I’ll take care of it.”

“Just clean it and use some sticking plaster to close it.”

Ignoring him, she gently washed away the blood. It felt odd to be touching a man. His wet hair released the distinctive scent that was Matthew Ritter. She forced herself to focus on the gash on Matthew’s forehead. He sat very still, probably as uncomfortable with this nearness and touching as she was.

Finally she was able to turn away, drawing in a ragged breath. She’d nursed other men without this breathless reaction. Matthew should be no different. She emptied the basin out the back door and returned the medical supplies to the pantry.

The chair behind her scraped as Matthew rose. “What are we going to do about Mary’s boy?”

She looked out at the pouring rain. “This is not a night to go afield. We should get him out of his wet clothing and into a warm bed.”

Matthew swung the thin boy up into his arms and carried him upstairs. Hearing the creak of the rocker in her room and realizing Joseph was rocking Beth, she directed Matthew to lay the boy down on Beth’s empty white-canopied bed. Beth and Verity could share a bed as long as Alex needed to stay.

Verity gathered a clean nightshirt from Joseph’s room and brought it back to Matthew. “Here, put this on him. It will be too big, but it will be dry.” A pile of soaked clothes sat on the floor.

Matthew had lit the bedside candle and stood, looking down at the boy. His expression caught Verity’s attention. “What’s wrong?

Matt hesitated and then folded back the top edge of the blanket covering the boy. Verity gasped.




Chapter Four


The boy was covered in harsh purpling bruises—hardly a spot of skin had been spared. Matt felt a wave of anger wash over him.

The widow turned away, shuddering as if fighting for control. “That couldn’t have happened to him just from the storm,” she finally said in a low voice laced with revulsion.

Matt had to stop himself from putting an arm around her. No woman should have to see something as cruel as this. “No, but it explains what he was doing in our barn.” Matt’s low words scraped his throat. “He was hiding. This isn’t a normal whipping of a boy. Somebody has beaten the living daylights out of him. Somebody bigger and stronger.” Anger steamed through Matt. He had no doubt who’d done this. He met the widow’s eyes across the bed. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her who he thought was responsible. Poor Mary. I have to think what to do to help, not make matters worse. But what? If I confront Orrin, he’ll just beat the boy worse or turn on Mary.

“What are we going to do?” Verity asked, echoing his thoughts.

“Let me think.” This was a sticky circumstance. Going over to Orrin Dyke’s house and beating the thug into the mud wouldn’t help Mary or her son. But Matt had to fight himself to keep from doing just that. Dyke was lucky enough to have a son, and he treated him like this?

Matt glanced up at the rustling of the bedsheets. The widow was very gently and thoroughly checking each of the boy’s limbs for movement. The candle cast her face in shadow. And for once, she was without her armor, her widow’s weeds and tight corseting. In her muslin wrapper and slippers, she looked slender and almost frail. Very feminine.

This reaction rolled through him like the thunder in the distance. He throttled it and asked harshly, “Are any bones broken?”

“His legs, arms and shoulders move in the normal ways. But I’m sure that he has bruised or cracked ribs. Is there a doctor nearby?”

Her compassion touched him. He fought against showing this. “Not near. About eight miles from here. Do you think he is in need of a doctor?”

“I don’t know. I can’t get him to wake up. See here.” She brushed back the boy’s bangs and showed him an especially nasty bruise. She had long slender fingers and her hands showed signs of honest work.

For a moment the woman looked down, a soft expression on her face as she stroked the boy’s cheek. Matt felt her phantom touch on his own cheek. He was conscious of both the sound of steady rain against the window and of the scent of lavender wafting from the woman. He dragged his gaze from her, forcing himself to study his surroundings. This must be her daughter’s room. Pinafores hung on pegs by the door and a canopy covered the bed—it was a homey place that contrasted with the ravaged boy.




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