Her Captain's Heart (2 page)

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.

I
n 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.