Whispers from the Past (6 page)

“How can you tell this?”

“I’m with you a lot, and I know my brother pretty well. He’s too restrained. There’s an innocence to the way you are together. It’s really sweet.” She gave my hands a squeeze. “Mark might not like it, but he’ll wait.”

I desperately hoped she was right. I had always expected to remain chaste until marriage. Yet how did we reconcile that he was ready for such intimacies now? “I worry.”

“Don’t. You’re doing this the right way—loving your man, yet still taking your time.” She shook her head confidently. “Don’t say yes until all of your reasons to say no are gone.”

I had been scheduled for the late shift on Tuesday evening. With the weather report promising rain, Mark had driven his truck to school and would arrive in time to take me to Lucy’s at five.

During my indenture, I had worked from dawn to dusk every day but Sunday. To work only forty hours in a week seemed decadent.

I would spend my morning surfing the web on Marissa’s computer. Dorcas’s letters had brought forth long-buried questions in my mind. For days, I had fought against their pull—but no longer. I would seek answers today and find out what I could.

My first attempts would focus on the people I loved. I would not query about Phoebe. I knew her tragic fate and had no inclination to learn more details. My attention must shift to my friends and family in Worthville. Since a tornado had destroyed the town, I would start there—seeking out those I hoped had survived.

Although I combed meticulously through early nineteenth-century records, I could find nothing on Dorcas Pratt.

Perhaps she had married, for a more beautiful and clever girl was not to be found in Wake County during the first decade of the 1800s. I did not wish to believe that an injury could have ruined the chances for a girl as wondrous as she.

I tried “Dorcas” with “Wake County” and “North Carolina.” There was nothing that seemed promising. With growing anxiety, I tried “Dorcas” with every pertinent word I could think of. Naturally, there were many women with that Christian name, but none who could be my dear friend.

The internet found no trace of Dorcas Pratt in history.

What had happened to her? Of all the people I’d left behind, it was she who most concerned me now. Had she fared well? Had she escaped the storm’s fury?

The lack of information was frustrating, for there could be no conclusions drawn. I wouldn’t give up, though. I checked next for her younger siblings. With Drusilla, I had no luck, but her brother, Peter Pratt, was referenced twice, both times as a young man.

The tornado had spared at least one of the Pratt children who would have been living in the household at the time. This was hopeful news.

With no more to be discovered about Dorcas on the web, I would have to find the opportunity to do research at the State Archives. Perhaps I would visit after my schedule at Lucy’s had settled into a routine.

Who else might I research?

My own family, of course. It took little time to collect answers. Both of my brothers, along with their families, appeared in the 1810 census. Joshua was listed in Hillsborough, while Caleb was listed with the people of Ward’s Crossroads. I was glad to discover that my oldest brother and his family had survived the storm and continued to make their living on the Marsh farm.

There was a hit on the name Marsh in an article entitled “Wake County Casualties from the War of 1812.” I hovered over the link, wanting and dreading to know. I clicked.

Josiah Marsh
. Caleb’s oldest child. He’d lost his life when he was barely twenty. I closed my eyes and mourned a boy I’d hardly known.

With a sense of inevitability, I searched for the older Pratts.

Deborah was nowhere to be found, nor could I find Aaron Foster.

Jedidiah had lived long in Raleigh. His name remained on census reports through 1820.

With a great deal of foreboding, I finally entered the name I dreaded most in all the world. Jethro Pratt.

Many links appeared. Mr. Pratt had often placed notices about his horses in the Raleigh newspaper. None were dated after 1805.

The more information I uncovered, the more my curiosity increased. How many of the Worthville Pratts had perished in the tornado?

And when, precisely, had the storm happened?

I found an answer for the latter question quickly enough. Unfortunately, the date perplexed me. An online book describing the early years of Wake County claimed that a violent storm had occurred in May of 1807. Yet I was confident that Mark’s research had said 1805.

Might they be different storms?

I kept looking until I found a confirmation for the

Worthville storm.
May 15, 1805
.

With the actual date before me, I settled into my chair and pondered what that day must have been like. Had the sky churned with ugly clouds? Had this tornado roared up with a suddenness that took everyone unawares? Where had everyone been?

I checked an online calendar. May fifteenth fell on a Wednesday.

Mr. Pratt would likely have been in the pastures, overseeing his horses.

But what of Dorcas?

Wednesday meant baking day—if the women hadn’t altered their routine in the intervening nine years. Dorcas would have avoided the kitchen that day. She had never been one for excessive heat.

Perhaps she would have been in the main house. That could not be a safe place.

I did not wish to think that my sweet Dorcas sat in a house while that terrible storm bore down on her, threatening her very life. Was there something I could do from the future?

No, I had promised Mark and myself that I wouldn’t alter history again.

Yet…could it hurt to explain safety measures to her? As her trusted friend, I could relay how to spot a storm and select the best possible location for shelter.

No
. I must resist. My previous return to the past had only made things worse for her.

She did not appear to hold me responsible, though. Indeed, she loved me well enough to risk Mr. Pratt’s wrath by writing me.

Discovering who else had perished in the tornado could wait, for another wish consumed me now. I must write to Dorcas. I must reward her courage with a reminder that I cared about her still—that I was worthy of her trust.

Yet I had to plan this project carefully and deliver the note with stealth. I had narrowly escaped detection when I recovered her letters. I might not be so fortunate if I were to cross paths with my former master again.

Perhaps I could take it to the cave in the early morning, when the Pratts remained at breakfast. Yes, it was a simple but good plan. I would commence immediately.

In my bedroom closet lay a large box filled with parchment paper and calligraphy pens with many colors. I withdrew a sheet and a pen with blue ink and sat at my desk to compose the note.

There. The letter was done. I did not want to delay its delivery, although it was a task I had to complete on my own. If Mark did not see me travel to the past, he could not scold me.

The evening shift at the restaurant that night was a hard one. Perhaps the rainy weather had disturbed our customers, for their complaints were many and unreasonable. I would not be sorry to leave.

Isaac entered the dining room after closing time, his face grim with fatigue. There were no other employees about and I was done with my cleaning duties, so I stored my rags and sweeper in the custodial closet and approached him.

“May I bring you cobbler and something to drink, perhaps?”

“Thank you. Ice water would be great.”

Moments later, I set a dish of berry cobbler and a glass on the table. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Want to sit a moment and talk?”

I nodded. “It won’t be much longer until my ride arrives.”

He stood and held out a chair.

“Thank you.” I knew a moment of regret when I saw him ignore his dessert after he sat down. He was too polite to eat before me.

“This job keeps you busy,” he said, and took a sip from his glass.

“Indeed, and I have another one too. I address invitations to weddings and parties.”

“Do you write calligraphy?”

“It is close.”

Someone stopped at our table. “Susanna?”

I looked up with a start. Mark stood there, holding out his hand. I linked my fingers through his and allowed him to draw me to my feet.

“Mark, let me introduce Isaac Saunders.”

They shook hands.

An awkward silence grew among us. Perhaps it would be best to leave without further conversation. With a nod of good-bye for Isaac, I walked hand-in-hand with Mark to his truck.

He reached for the door’s handle, but he did not open it. Instead, he cupped the back of my head and locked his mouth over mine, kissing me with a seductive thoroughness.

When he drew away, I peered at him, hot color awash in my face. “Mark,” I said with quiet reproof.

“What?”

“Is Isaac watching us?”

Mark watched me through half-closed lids. “He sure as hell is.”

“You have made clear the nature of our relationship.”

“Damn straight.”

“Perhaps it would have worked as well if we had simply told him.” I studied the buttons of Mark’s shirt as the night air cooled my blushing cheeks.

“It was more fun this way.” He opened the truck’s door and lifted me onto the high seat with admirable ease.

Mark hurried around the truck and joined me in the cab, sliding behind the steering wheel. “Did you mind?”

“I do not mind that he knows we are a couple.” I clasped my hands in my lap and looked away. “I would, however, have preferred to keep our private moments private.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

M
AJOR
M
OOD
S
POILER

I followed Susanna into the silent apartment.

Good, my sister wasn’t around. I loved the idea of some alone time. I reached for Susanna, but she eluded my grasp.

“I shall change out of my ‘fried chicken’ clothes.”

Would she ever let me forget saying that? “Susanna…”

It was a wasted effort. She’d already disappeared down the darkened hallway to her room.

I turned on a lamp, flopped onto the couch, and looked around. Marissa had decorated this place in poorrecent-college-graduate style. There were a few pieces of mismatched furniture, bare walls, and a mega-TV. I was surprised Mom hadn’t shamed her into trying harder. My sister could fix this place up if she wanted.

From the rear of the apartment came the sound of running water. Susanna was taking a shower. It was time that I learned to keep my mouth shut.

I flicked on the TV to a sports channel.

The water shut off.

Baseball spring training highlights ended. Hockey highlights came on.

Footsteps padded into the room. Susanna appeared at the end of the couch, wearing sweats, her hair piled high in a loose knot. She slipped onto my lap, grabbed the remote, turned off the TV, and tossed the remote down.

I frowned at her. “What’s going on?”

She wrapped her arms around my neck and surprised me with a hot, brief kiss. “I want us to enjoy each other’s company,” she murmured against my lips.

With a groan, I wound my arms around her waist, completely ready to enjoy her mouth moving against mine.