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
