Chapter Five
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
July 1887
As a holiday, Independence Day left a lot to be desired. Independence was a dream Caroline Turner wasn’t likely to ever attain. Crumpling the note in her hand, she surveyed the crowd of people gathered to watch the fireworks display. Her blackmailer could be here tonight. He could be watching her every move.
The fireworks’ blue-green light flickered over the sea of faces, followed by red, white and gold. She tried to shake the sinister feeling. Stuffing the wrinkled paper into the pocket hidden deep in the folds of her skirt, she schooled her features and made her way along the edge of the field to where the musicians were playing patriotic tunes. She wasn’t about to give her tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her.
“Caroline, we’re running low on lemonade.”
“Then make more,” she snapped at eighteen-year-old Wanda Smith. Surely the volunteers serving refreshments didn’t need her input in every decision.
“We’ve misplaced the lemon crates.”
At the distress in the younger girl’s countenance, Caroline relented. “Fine. I’ll look for them. You may return to your station.”
It took her a quarter of an hour to locate the missing lemons. By then, the last of the fireworks had been shot off and attendees were ready for more food and drink. The celebration was far from over, yet she wished she could return home to her bedroom and solitude. The prospect of having to dole out more money to a stranger made her stomach churn.
She diverted to the drink table and helped serve the press of thirsty folks. The line eventually dwindled, and Caroline drifted over to watch couples dancing to lively music. The summer night air enveloped her, ripe with the scents of fried chicken, honeysuckle and cologne.
A trio of young women approached and engaged her in conversation. As usual, they wanted to know about her outfit, whether she’d had it made by a local seamstress or her mother had had it shipped from New York. Before they’d exhausted their talk of fashion, a stranger inserted himself into their group.
“Excuse me.”
Caroline didn’t recognize the hulking figure. Well over six feet tall, he was as broad and solid as an oak tree and looked as if he hadn’t seen civilization in months. He was dressed in common clothing; his shirt and pants were clean but wrinkled. Dirt caked the heels of his sturdy brown boots. His thick reddish-brown hair was tied back with a strip of leather. If left unbound, it would likely skim the bottom of his collar. While he appeared to have a strong facial structure, his mustache and beard obscured the lower half of his face. His mouth was wide and generous. Sparkling blue eyes assessed her.
“Would you care to dance?” He spoke in a rolling brogue that identified him as a foreigner.
The other girls had fallen silent and were watching him in awed stupor.
“Are you speaking to me, Irishman?” Caroline raised her brows.
He flashed a lopsided grin. “I’m no Irishman. I hail from Aberdeen, Scotland. And yes, I’m wantin’ to know if you’d like to dance.”
The way he pronounced his o’s teased her ears. Interest stirred to life, and she considered accepting his invitation. Then reason prevailed. As a member of one of Gatlinburg’s most prominent families, she couldn’t allow her reputation to become tarnished. In the Turner family, missteps were frowned upon.
“I don’t associate with drifters.”
“I take it your answer is no then?”
Regret sharpened her tone. “I believe I made
