Linda Goodnight - The Rain Sparrow

“Yeah.” Brody piped up. “The old gristmill. People say it’s haunted.”

“Haunted, is it?”

The South was full of supposedly haunted places. Hayden had never given the stories credence. But then the dream flashed in his head, the dream about a Yankee miller and the Portland Grist Mill.

8

Victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

—William Faulkner

1867

If the watch was an omen, Thaddeus faced a dismal future.

Late in the evening on the first hot, sticky day of walking, he’d reached inside his vest to check the time only to come away empty. A search of his carpetbag proved every bit as futile. His silver pocket watch was gone.

Distraught to lose this final link to Amelia and the past he never wanted to leave behind, Thad considered turning back to retrace his journey.

Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he contemplated a long, hungry walk that would likely turn up nothing. He didn’t even know where to look. The last he’d seen the timepiece was on the train before disembarking. A train bound for Chattanooga and beyond.

For an hour, he sat under an oak by the side of the dusty trail, head in his hands, and mourned. More than the loss of his timepiece, Thad mourned what the watch represented. Amelia. Their love. Their life together.

Gone. Everything that mattered gone.

He’d given up the familiar and his future in Ohio to come to this hostile state. Losing the pocket watch felt as if he was giving up the last vestige of who he’d been, of who he was. It felt like letting go of Amelia and Grace all over again.

He considered making camp for the night, but night was still hours away, so he finally roused himself and, weary now in a way he hadn’t been, trudged onward.

Without the watch, he kept time by the morning and evening of each day as God had done in Genesis, though he quaked to compare himself to the God who gave and took away.

Each night he lay his head beneath the oaks and willows, listened to their whispers, thankful he traveled in summer, though mosquitoes and chiggers feasted on his flesh until he had no place left that wasn’t covered in itchy bumps. Last night, he’d stolen an ear of corn from a farm and gnawed the raw kernels after river fishing proved unsuccessful. He’d found blackberries growing along the river’s edge, but too many berries pained a man and he’d learned to be careful.

At the third daybreak, after a night on ground soppy with southern dew, he ate a handful of those same berries, then dipped in the river, the cold water soothing his insulted, itchy skin. Then he hiked up and over a long, wooded ridge, confident that a township wasn’t far away. Yesterday, the number of farms had increased, and he’d stopped to ask directions. The cautious-eyed occupants had mercifully obliged, though not one single Southern soul had offered the Northern wayfarer a meal or shelter.

Now with the sun blistering his neck and his belly snarling around the berries, he entered the edge of a town that according to William’s map must be Honey Ridge, Tennessee.

Outside a tidy cottage a pair of chickens pecked. Thaddeus fought the urge to wring a neck in the name of survival as he had done during the war even though thou shalt not steal was as ingrained in him as his belief that all men were created equal. The cottage owner, no doubt, needed the birds every bit as much, and they were not his to take. Not since the war ended. He and the Union might be the victors, but the vanquished foes would soon be his neighbors and his employers. He’d best not steal their chickens.

As he hurried on, a young widow, evidenced by her black-dyed dress and veil, tossed a dishpan of water out her front door, barely missing him. She looked up and smiled an apology, her face tired already this morning. He touched the brim of his hat, aching a little as he suspected she was a war widow and wondering if he or Will or someone he knew had taken the life of her man.

A wagon rumbled past, drawn by a single mule. Horses were in short supply, seized by the armies and never replaced. Like towns and cities everywhere across the war-torn regions, Honey Ridge had seen better days. Only a handful of businesses had survived the lean times, others were boarded up, and the charred remains of a large building scarred the town square.

A melancholy hung over the South as thick and oppressive as humidity.

Beneath the shady porch of the mercantile, an aproned man swept the boardwalk. Hoisting his bag, Thaddeus approached.

“Good morning, sir.”

The merchant stopped sweeping to stare at him, his squinted gaze taking in Thad’s unshaven face, rumpled clothes and carpetbag.

“Morning.”

“Is this Honey Ridge?”

“What’s left of her.” The man, eyes cautious beneath a wrinkled brow, his brown beard salted with gray, leaned his broom against the wall. “Looks like you’ve been traveling.”

“Yes, sir.” Thad rested a boot on the edge of the boardwalk. “Name’s Thaddeus Eriksson. I’ve come to work at the Portland Grist Mill.”

“Jess Merriman. This is my store.” He jerked a thumb toward the dark entryway behind him. “Gadsden mentioned a cousin millwright.”

“That would be me.”

“From up North?”

Thad tensed. “Yes, sir. Ohio.”

“Well, son, you’re either brave or a fool. The war’s not over to some, but you’ll find welcome at my store. The wife has kin in Pennsylvania.”

Tension seeped out. Thad’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m obliged.”

On the opposite side of the road, a woman exited a milliner’s shop, a basket in hand, and started across in a jaunty, purposeful stride, her head held high, hair as bright as a copper penny gleaming in the sunlight.

He watched her, mesmerized by her energy and hair. She was color to the town’s tired drab, a slender redbird on a bland canvas of dust and unpainted buildings. Even the dull gray of her dress couldn’t hide her vibrancy. Her skin was pale peaches and cream, and her bright hair, though tucked up on the sides, sprang loose in headstrong ringlets along her cheeks and neck.

She was, in short, a stunning beauty.

At that moment, a wagon, going much too rapidly, sped down the dirt thoroughfare. The woman, halfway across, looked up in alarm, too late to get out of the way.

The mules kicked up a dust devil, and the woman cried out. The wagon barreled on past, the driver yelling at the out-of-control mules. Thad dropped his carpetbag and rushed to the woman’s side. She was on the ground, struggling to sit upright.

Thaddeus went to his knees beside her. “Ma’am, are you injured?”

Her chest rose and fell in breathy gasps. Her peach cheeks had turned as red as summer roses. She shook her head. Her bonnet was askew, her ribbons untied.

“I don’t think so. I am, however,” she said with a jut of her chin, “quite furious.”

A smile tugged at Thad’s lips. There was fire beneath that red hair.

“Allow me to assist you.” Without waiting for her reply, he slid both hands around a very narrow waist and easily lifted her to her feet.

She landed with her hands gripping both his arms to steady herself, and he couldn’t help noticing how utterly feminine and fragile she seemed to his superior height. Closer now, her beauty struck him like a blow. He’d not noticed a woman other than Amelia since he was eighteen. Noticing this one disturbed him. He loosened his hold and stepped back. Her hands still rested on his arms, too close, close enough that her rose scent tickled his nose and sent a hot spiral of memory through his body.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, in a drawl as thick and sweet as honey. “You are too kind.”

“Glad to be of service. Looks like the wagon had a runaway.”