ten
Penelope had done everything but handcuff herself to another person to keep from being alone with her mom. Tucker’s fundraiser was only half over, and her mom had hounded her every step. She was ready to throw herself at the mercy of Winston, who was marching her direction, just to keep her mother at bay.
Except Winston was alone, Emmaline having ducked out of the room.
And she would much rather admit the whole farce to her mother than have a conversation with Winston.
Penelope whipped her head around to look for some help, but the already scant crowd was thinning even more. Tucker was fully engaged in conversation with Mrs. Saunders, so she didn’t dare interrupt that—no matter how much she liked the old woman. She wouldn’t risk a donation to Tucker’s campaign.
Where was her mother when she needed her?
She spied her mom’s sleek brown bob across the room. She was deep in conversation with a couple Penelope didn’t know.
She glanced back just in time to see Winston’s long strides eat up the last few yards between them. Then he was in her face. Not literally. To an observer, he was probably standing a very respectable three feet away. But when he spoke, his voice hissed an accusation.
“What are you doing, Pen?”
She cringed. Why did he insist on calling her that? She’d hated it when they were together, and that hadn’t changed in the years since. But she managed to plaster a smile into place. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Parading around with that guy like I’m not even in the room.”
The truth of his words slid down her neck, making her hair stand on end. She’d missed this selfish streak in him before. She hadn’t seen it when she’d been too busy making plans for the rest of their lives. But now . . . well, it was too blatant to ignore. And it lit a fire somewhere deep inside her.
Glaring at him, she squared her shoulders and clasped her hands in front of her. “What on earth makes you think that anything I do has anything to do with you?”
He opened his mouth, a retort certainly on the tip of his tongue. But she didn’t give him a chance.
“You walked out on that right the same day you failed to show up at our wedding.” It took everything inside her to keep the words soft, but her mama hadn’t raised a fool. This night was not about making a scene. Neither was it about putting Winston in his place. That was just an added benefit.
“I will spend time with whomever I choose. And right now, I choose Tucker Westbrook. If you had even a lick of sense, you’d spend time thinking about how to make Emmaline happy and how to tell her about our past. And you’d spend a whole lot less time thinking about me. Because I assure you, I don’t waste my time thinking about you.”
Dear Lord in heaven, had that really come out of her mouth? It most certainly had, but it had originated somewhere much deeper. She’d been carrying that around for a while, for at least as long as she’d wanted Winston to know that she was just fine.
She couldn’t move. Neither, apparently, could Winston. He stood before her unblinking, motionless. Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Hurt, definitely.
She should apologize. But she meant what she’d said. She just hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so harshly.
Before she could even begin to form the words to backpedal, a hand slipped around her waist, an arm across her back. Then his lips were at her ear. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
Like she’d been doing it for ages, Penelope sank into Tucker’s embrace. “Hi.”
His smile was just for her, and as his gaze swept to Winston, a sour expression settled onto his lips. “St. Cloud.”
There was no “glad you could make it” or “good to see you.” Tucker wasn’t playing around with niceties. He knew how to be diplomatic, but he didn’t seem particularly inclined to be where Winston was concerned.
Turning his smile back on her, Tucker said, “I believe I owe you a dance.”
She laughed. “You want to dance?”
Tucker shrugged. “With you, I do.”
She didn’t spare Winston another look and only the briefest of thoughts—the tiniest moment of regret for letting three years of pent-up anger break free all at once.
Then they were on the dance floor, the slick faux-wooden surface set up near the dais and lined by four musicians zeeb-zoop-dooping up the register and back down with a rat-a-tat-a-tat. The trumpet player wailed a high note just as Tucker held one of her hands in his and pulled her all the way against him with the other.
She lost her breath for a moment and stared down at his shining black shoes until she could regain her composure.
“Are you having a good time tonight?”
“I was.”
He squeezed her hand. “Until Winston?”
She wanted to agree, but that wasn’t quite true. “Until I realized I was going to have to avoid my mom all night. And until I thought about how much good an event like this could do for Jordan and her group—I told you about them.”
He nodded, then stopped as his eyebrows met in the middle. “Why are you avoiding your mom?”
“Probably the same reason you haven’t spoken to your parents tonight.”
He glanced over his shoulder before pulling her into a quick spin, his feet following the music. “They’re going to have some questions, aren’t they?”
“Yep.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, his swallow audible. “And what about Jordan? She’s the one who wanted to do a fundraiser for her nonprofit that helps kids coming out of the foster care system, right?”
That was harder to explain, and she tried to get her list together before unrolling it. “If these people knew—if they really knew how hard it is for kids aging out of the system, if they knew how much potential these kids have . . . I mean, look at Jordan. She has almost nothing—I don’t even know if she has a place to live. But you know what? She’s amazing. And if she’s any indication of how far these kids would go—if only someone would believe in them—don’t we owe it to them to try to help?”
He brushed a strand of hair that had escaped from her French twist off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear and pausing there for longer than a breath. His fingertip flirted with the top of her ear, a whisper of fire as it traced its way down to her silver earring.
Suddenly the whole room stood still. The band stopped playing. Everyone else disappeared. And she forgot to breathe.
He was staring at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, and a swarm of butterflies released in her middle. Her limbs went limp and her chest seized.
Just before she thought she’d sink straight to the ground, he broke the silence. “Are you suggesting these people should be giving to another cause?”
She laughed and the whole room came back to life, every chattering conversation and zippity-doo-wop. “Well, I do believe I might have lost you a donor tonight.”
He smiled, his arm pulling her tight against him. “How’s that? Your conversation with Winston not go so well? Color me surprised.” His tone said he was anything but. She pressed her face into his shoulder to suppress the laugh attempting to escape.
He spun them in a slow circle to the syncopated rhythms of the Barnett Brothers, dodging a few other couples, his hand still pressed to the small of her back. It was absolutely in an acceptable range, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hyperaware that it was simply there. Its shape was branded against her back, so warm, so close.
With that awareness came another certainty. He could feel the extra serving of curve at her hip, the extra on her back. Things Winston’s new bride-to-be certainly didn’t have.
But when Tucker whispered in her ear, she almost forgot. Almost.
“I’d rather not owe St. Cloud a penny. Besides, Mrs. Saunders gave me a check.”
She leaned back just far enough to look into his face. “She did?”
“She’s a big fan of yours.”
Her cheeks flamed. “She’s very kind.”
He pushed her away, still holding on to her hands, and then spun her back into his arms. “The way she talks, it sounds like you were the kind one.”
“Oh, that.” Penelope took a step and landed right on Tucker’s toe. “Ack! I’m sorry.” She laughed as she dipped her head to make sure she hadn’t done any permanent damage. “Maybe we should sit down.”
He nodded, leading her through the twirling couples and pausing by their now empty table. “I suppose I should go say hello to my parents. Are you going to talk to your mom?”
“When Mrs. Saunders is here?” She wrinkled her nose and gave a small shake of her head. “I’ll go thank her for her donation.”
Tucker nodded but paused halfway through the motion. “You know, she said . . .”
Penelope waited, but he didn’t continue. “What?”
He shook his head, a strange distance settling into his gaze. She tried to follow it but couldn’t see whatever had caught his attention.
“Tucker? What did Mrs. Saunders say?”
He shook off the faraway look. “Oh, nothing. Just . . . that apparently you broke the doctor’s orders and brought her a cinnamon roll. Shameful.”
“Don’t believe everything she says. She’s the one who asked for it.” After giving his arm a quick squeeze, she strolled across the room in search of his newest supporter. Maybe Mrs. Saunders could explain why Tucker looked like he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
After visiting every table and shaking every other hand in the room, Tucker was left with no choice but to visit his dad’s table. He clapped his dad on the shoulder and fell into the seat beside him. “How was your chicken?”
“Dry.”
Of course. Count on his dad to find the fly in the ice cream. At least he had gotten to eat. Tucker had barely had time to stuff a roll in his mouth. Good thing PJ had reminded him to eat before he put his suit on.
He swallowed the retort on the end of his tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did you get to dance with Mom?” He looked around for her but didn’t see her petite frame among the others hanging on.
“She doesn’t like this kind of music.”
Tucker bit his tongue again and forced his gaze to stay on the floral burst in the center of the table. He didn’t remember ordering those, which meant they were a PJ special. A reminder of the deep dive she’d gone into to make this night perfect.
As though his dad could sense what Tucker was thinking, he said, “You’ve sure been spending a lot of time with Penelope Jean lately.”
Tucker nodded, rubbing the spot on the back of his neck that always itched when his dad took an interest in his personal life. “Not much more than usual, I guess.”
“You guess.” His dad nearly guffawed. “Your mom couldn’t stop talking about how close the two of you looked at the picnic last week. And we all saw you dancing up there. You better be careful, son, or she’ll blame you for scaring off her chance at getting married—I mean, she’s not as young as she was the first time she almost walked down the aisle.”
Tucker nearly swallowed his tongue. The man had some gall talking that way about a woman who had practically grown up in his house.
“She’ll be just fine, Dad.” And she would. Because she was smart and kind and funny, and sometimes her smile absolutely stole his breath. He couldn’t stop someone else from realizing that too.
“Yeah, but she won’t want the whole town thinking she’s dating you.” His dad shot him a quick look, a brief survey that said what it always did. Tucker had been measured and found wanting.
His face flushed hot, and he tasted blood as he bit his tongue, trying to remember the Bible verse about children honoring their father and mother. Wasn’t there also one about fathers not provoking their children to anger? But at the moment, with his dad’s eyes roaming the room, there was no way Tucker could remind his dad of the second verse without wholly disobeying the first. So he tightened his jaw, fisted his hands on his knees, and counted to ten.
Make that twenty. Maybe he’d just keep going until he was under control.
“What about Flynn Rutledge? He’s a lawyer, you know.” His dad’s question sounded like it should have come from the busybodies in the church foyer rather than a retired physician. “Your mom mentioned him.”
There it was.
“She wondered if PJ might need some help moving on,” his dad said. “You know, since Winston’s engagement announcement was in the paper. Your mom thought maybe you could help PJ out. You’re friends with Flynn, right?”
“No. I’m not friends with him.”
He had helped the guy win a case by providing him hours of recordings from Westbrook Security surveillance cameras at his client’s request. But he was not friends with the guy, and he most certainly wasn’t going to suggest he date PJ. Not with his slicked-back hair and tailored suit and too-white smile.
His dad pressed his hands on the table. “Well, do something so the town knows she’s free. I mean, look at her.”
Tucker did not need another invitation. He’d been looking at her way too often lately. Appreciating the way her hair fell over her shoulder or how it shined in the moonlight. Or allowing himself to get swept away in the current of her eyes.
Of course, he took the opportunity anyway. She was across the room, standing beside an empty table, holding one of those little china plates with most of a piece of cake left on it. Her other hand held a silver fork—bite still on it—poised halfway to her mouth. But her gaze was only for the woman across from her, her chin bobbing in agreement every few seconds. Whatever they were discussing, PJ was enraptured.
Tucker could relate.
“She needs someone sharp. Serious. Well suited for her. Winston wasn’t a bad choice. Too bad that didn’t work out.”
Tucker could have put his fist through a cement wall. Everything inside him shook in an effort to control the urge to tell his dad what to do with his opinion on who was or was not good enough for Penelope Jean Hunter.
He ground his teeth together, his jaw working back and forth as he took a deep breath through his nose and let it out through tight lips. Crossing and uncrossing his arms didn’t release any of the tension churning deep in his gut. His dad kept looking around the room, as though he was sure to find PJ a suitable suitor among the many men in attendance—most of whom they’d known since grade school.
And then his dad decided to offer one more jab. “I mean, she’s got a master’s degree—with honors. She’s a smart cookie. She’ll end up with someone else like that.”
Something inside him snapped, and he slammed his palm on the table, shaking several plates and nearly overturning a glass of tea.
His dad’s blue eyes, so much like his own, narrowed in on him. “What’s gotten into you, Tucker?”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about PJ like that. She’s a person with feelings, and she’s my best friend. And I’d rather you and Mom not speculate about who she’s going to marry or when. Because you know what? It’s not your business.”
“I was only giving her a compliment. She can do better than . . .” His voice trailed off, but Tucker felt every pound of the unspoken word.
Shoving himself to his feet, Tucker caught his dad’s gaze. Two elks, antlers locked. “Would that be the worst thing? If people thought she was dating me? If she was dating me?”
His dad’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide.
Tucker marched away, his movements stiff, single-minded. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, only that he knew he needed to do something. He needed to prove to his dad that he was worthy. He was enough. And there only seemed to be one way to do that.
As he neared PJ, she put down her plate and smiled up at him, soft and warm. “Hi, Tuck—”
But she didn’t finish his name. He didn’t let her.
She stopped the moment his hand reached her waist. It slid over the silky fabric of her slate-blue dress, and his arm wrapped all the way around her before he even knew it. Her eyes went wide, and his other arm shot around her back to keep her from escaping—er, to hold her close. That was better.
He leaned down, closed his eyes, and took a quick breath. And then he did something he’d never even let himself think about. He pressed his lips to hers.
She froze. He could feel every single muscle in her arms, back, and shoulders stiffen. Even her breathing stopped, which he had a front-row seat to, their mouths still locked.
And then he froze. Because the only correct response to being attacked without warning was a punch to the gut. In PJ’s case, he fully deserved a slap in the face.
Oh, Lord. He prayed the words while silently berating himself. What was he doing? He had no business—zero, none—kissing PJ in private, let alone in front of a roomful of potential campaign donors, not to mention his parents and her mom. And yet here he was, mauling his best friend in front of half the city, all to make a point to his dad.
A point that did not need to be made.
He should pull back. Step away and thank her for doing such a great job on the event. He should pat her back awkwardly and pretend like this had never happened.
Except she was just so decadently soft. Everything about her was warm and comforting, and for a moment he forgot how he’d even ended up in this place. Her dress felt like cool silk—it probably was—and he slid his hand down her back, stopping at the hollow above her waist. Then he let his fingers sink into her.
She let out a small peep, the tiniest sound, but it seemed to be the only one around them. The rest of the room had disappeared. They were all that remained. All that mattered.
Her hands found their way to the front of his shirt, fingers flat against his chest. He’d bet the election that she could feel his pounding heart beneath her palms, and he expected her to push him away. She didn’t. Her fingers curled into the starched cotton of his shirt and tugged him one step closer.
It was all the invitation he needed, so he added an extra measure of pressure to his lips against hers and held on for all he was worth.
With a soft sigh, she melted against him, and he was lost.
Penelope couldn’t be bothered by the question of the moment—why? Not with Tucker’s arms around her and his lips still pressed to hers.
This was not what she’d anticipated. Not that she’d been anticipating this moment. Because it was never going to happen.
Only it was happening. Right. Now.
Unexpected. Surprising.
His lips were firm but not demanding, insistent yet gentle. He invited her into his embrace like her favorite sweater on a cold winter day.
She thought she’d known everything about him—everything that mattered. But she hadn’t known how he kissed.
And he was good—really, really good.
So she was going to enjoy every bit of it. She focused on the brush of his fingers across her back, barely skimming the fabric of her dress yet reaching somewhere deep in her chest and making her heart trip over its rhythm. Suddenly one of his hands disappeared, and she tried to lean toward where it had been, only to have him catch her cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing over the apple of her cheek. His fingers were callused, hardworking. But his brief touch against her skin had her insides swarming and her head spinning.
She’d seen older ladies of the town succumb to the vapors—swoon under the weight of some unseen force. And she’d always thought them rather silly. Of course, she’d offered a “bless her heart” and moved along.
But now she knew. She knew.
There was nothing silly about the force buckling her knees. Then again, he wasn’t unseen either. Thank goodness he was stable. The only thing keeping her standing was the steel of his arms. His strength radiated through her, lighting a fire somewhere deep in her chest.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She knew that somewhere deep inside. But how could she be expected to care when he tasted like rich buttercream frosting? Or maybe that was from the cake she’d been eating. Either way, he was sweeter than any snack she’d ever tried.
One taste might not be enough.
Oh dear. That was not the plan.
Well, they hadn’t put together a plan. Rookie mistake. But if there had been a plan, it would not have included her wanting a repeat of tonight’s performance.
She knew she should let him go. She should step back. She should recognize they were still in a half-full room. But if she let him go, she might never get to do this again.
Unacceptable.
Someone behind her cleared his throat, and Penelope stepped back, her gaze locked somewhere in the vicinity of Tucker’s knees. She couldn’t blink, and she sure couldn’t meet his gaze. Not until she’d managed to get her goose bumps under control at least.
It took everything inside her not to press her fingertips to her mouth, to relive the memory of his lips on hers. Instead she brushed her hand against her cheek and flinched at even the brief contact. The skin around her mouth felt like it was on fire. She’d thought it was from his touch, but the truth made a terrifying case. His beard had left its mark.
And then the truth of it all—of what they’d done—crashed into her, stealing her breath. Without a glance up, she whispered, “Good night, Tucker,” and made her escape.
I was not sleeping last night when Bradford burst into my room. Not even the moon shone through my window, and I saw only his shape, but I know his voice. His words were somehow both hushed and loud. They filled my room as I sat up in bed, my covers clutched to my chin and covering my night rail.
He whispered that we must move tonight. He said the soldiers are close, the Yankees are but mere miles away. We cannot afford for the goods to find their way into the wrong hands. He told me that I must dress as a woman, that I must not hide my identity.
I still do not know what the goods are, but I could not mistake the urgency in his voice, so I quickly jumped from my bed and ushered him from the room. I pulled on a simple dress, one I could fasten on my own, for I could not afford to call Sarah or any other servant. My fingers were trembling, and I could hardly button my boots or braid my hair.
A knot deep in my stomach told me I might see Josiah, and I prayed it would be true. However, another glimpse of him could do naught but make me long to see him yet again. I have thought of little else but him in these days since last he appeared and confirmed he is alive.
Finally I managed to make it to the kitchen, where Bradford waited for me by the back door, a heavy coat in his hands. He had wrapped a scarf around his neck and the lower half of his face. I assumed it was to conceal his identity, but as we stepped into the night, the cold stole my breath. I am not accustomed to leaving the warmth of the fire in the hearth after the sun has set, and I did not know that Savannah’s winds could carry such a chill.
Bradford held me to his side as we scurried down the barely lit streets, and I tried to claim what warmth from him I could. Some of the streetlights had gone out, certainly a result of the wind. We kept to the shadows, our steps hurried. I could feel Bradford’s discouragement at his own limitations, but I was ever so grateful for his lame leg that kept him from leaving us. Still, I know his heart is for our home, for our friends. Like Josiah.
As we turned onto Bay Street, I saw what at first looked like a mob. No, not quite a mob. But there was certainly a restless spirit among the five or six men spread out along the street. Three men stood along a storefront. It was Mrs. Fitterling’s Dress Shop, no less. Once, directly before the war, Mama bought me a special frock from Mrs. Fitterling for a Christmas ball. Lace and silk are not so readily available any longer, so after I stretched its seams as far as they would allow, I made the fine fabric into two pretty dresses for Henrietta and Margarita next door. Their papa had been lost at Manassas, and I could not bear to see them sew another patch onto their dresses.
On Bay Street, I demanded that Bradford tell me what was going on. I had asked no questions before this, but I insisted then.
He told me only that they needed my help. Could I please reason with Mrs. Fitterling?
Reason how? I had never known the seamstress to be anything other than reasonable. But not even the most reasonable woman would allow a mob of men into her store at such an hour.
That’s when I put my foot down and refused to go even a step further until he explained what was going on.
It was not Bradford who answered me. Instead Josiah whispered into my ear. He said they very much needed to store something within her shop. But they could not convince her to allow such a thing. Not without my help.
I spun around and glared into his shining eyes. I had to crick my neck just to look at him. My, but he has grown over the years. And the growth of whiskers along his jaw is anything but boyish. He is a man now, but I refused to succumb to the swirling in my middle at his appearance or his breath against my ear.
I told him I would do no such thing. He must let the poor woman be.
I could not tell if Josiah was battling a smile or a frown, but his lips twitched, and I could barely keep my gaze from them. Finally I managed to look toward my boots, my breath coming out as a cloud between us.
He might have ignored me or forced me. Instead he cupped my shoulders in his hands and leaned in close. He said he should have expected nothing less from me. I would not be intimidated. I stood taller, stretching my neck and straightening my shoulders.
And then he whispered the truth. I know it can be nothing less, for it is too much to be fabricated. I daren’t even record it here, lest anyone else discover the truth among these pages.
But I did just as he asked. I marched to the front door of Mrs. Fitterling’s shop and knocked softly. I called to her through the glass and begged her to trust me.
She squinted at me, and I pleaded with her to open the door. When she finally did, she peered through a mere crack, a wool shawl pulled tightly over her nightgown. She held a candle up to my face, her eyes pale and short-sighted from years of intricate work. But when she knew me for who I am, she relaxed her hold on the door and asked what I was doing about at such a time.
I told her that Savannah needed her help. Could she spare a small intrusion so that hope might be stored among her goods? She said nothing but looked between me and the faces of the men behind me. The standoff seemed to last an age, my hands growing so cold that I could barely move my fingers.
I asked if we could come in to discuss it out of the chill. We all wanted to be in our own beds on such a cold night.
Mrs. Fitterling seemed disinclined to allow this disturbance to last any longer, so she asked if I vouched for these ruffians. I said that I did, and she held open the door with the warning not to disrupt her fabrics or there would be a price to pay.
I looked over my shoulder at the ragged faces of these men, not one of them in uniform, and knew that none of them could afford to replace her cherished sewing materials. So I told them to be careful as they tiptoed past me.
I waited with Mrs. Fitterling in her front parlor, huddled together against the biting wind as the men carried in a dozen boxes, some small, some half the size of the square piano at the church. They disappeared into her dressing and storage rooms down the hall, their movements like that of a ghost.
When they were done, they disappeared just as quickly, dispersing into the night. I hugged Mrs. Fitterling and thanked her for her kindness. She looked uncertain and asked if she had done the right thing.
I could only nod, and now I pray that she has. I pray that Josiah has a plan that might save Savannah. Our own General Hardee waits for Sherman’s men. And what will happen when they arrive? Will they clash in our very streets?
I wished I could have asked Josiah what lies ahead, but he had dissolved into the ether once again, leaving me to walk home with my brother, cold and uncertain.
Fort McAllister has fallen to the Yankees. There is nothing left between us and Sherman’s army. Talk among the men in Father’s study this morning was not hopeful. I was not truly eavesdropping, but I could not very well sit in the parlor with my stitching and not hear their agitated voices.
General Hardee’s men are here in our city, but I fear they may not be able to stop Sherman’s army. They seem insistent upon overtaking us. I pray that this war will end soon.
Melody Singletary’s family has left the city, setting out for where, I do not know. Is there any place safe, save Richmond? Between the blockades and the infantry overtaking the rail lines, how could they even travel? I dare not even consider what might become of them.
Selfishly, I pray that Josiah might be returned to me, whole and safe and no longer a man hidden among the shadows, a man I am not to know is even alive.
I cannot help but speculate that Sherman’s arrival might force Josiah back into the light, back among the living. Is it right to pray for such things? Can I pray such things and still wish for my precious city to be spared further loss?
Monday, December 19, 1864
The city is preparing to be overtaken. And we have one less protector.
Papa barely spoke at lunch yesterday. He said he was pondering the sermon, but I do not see how anyone could have listened to the preacher. I believe he spoke from Jeremiah about a future. This city seems to have lost its hope, for what lies ahead is uncertain and terrifying.
I could think of little else as I lay in my bed last night, my gaze fixed on naught but the ceiling. That’s when Bradford snuck into my room. I thought he needed my assistance once again, so I sat up swiftly, my head spinning.
He held up his hand to still my movements. His voice but a whisper, he informed me that I had a visitor, if I wished to see him. It could be no one but Josiah, so I pushed my brother from my room, pulled my wrap about me, and slid my feet into slippers. Bradford had not told me where I would find Josiah, but I knew to run for the kitchen.
I stopped at the doorway, my breath catching in my throat and my eyes filling with tears. He looked somehow terribly lovely and awfully ragged in the same moment. His beard was overgrown, and his cheeks were hollow. He was haggard and weary.
I had never seen anything so beautiful.
Rushing to him, I held out my hands, making him take them. He smiled and looked down at them, at my hands in his larger ones.
I have missed you, he said.
I told him that I had seen him only a few days ago, and he laughed. The fire in the hearth made shadows dance across his face, falling into the dips and valleys. He said that four years was far too long a drought for a man.
His words, the wistfulness of his tone, gave me a shimmer of hope that perhaps he felt for me as I had for him. All these years of waiting. He’d said nothing before he left, yet I had hoped. I had dreamed.
I stared into his dark brown eyes, praying he would tell me the words I had so longed to hear. For my drought had been just as long as his. But he did not speak them. Instead, he told me to be careful. He told me to take care. He said the Yankees would be there soon, and I must guard my tongue. They could not know all I have seen.
Of course, I promised him I would keep it a secret. But then he said I must keep him a secret. I must never reveal that he has been here. I asked when he would be back, and his smile dimmed. I leaned into him, wishing I could make it return. Wishing I could make the old Josiah return.
He told me he doubts he will ever return to Savannah. I fear there is more to his story than he has revealed, more danger than I had imagined.
I wanted to ask him if I was not worth returning for. I wanted to ask if he did not see a future for us. Mostly, more than anything, I wanted him to kiss me there in the glow of the fire. But I feared his answers to my questions. I feared they would break my heart, so I asked of his cargo.
He offered me a dip of his chin and squeezed my hand. Then he said it is safe enough. For now.
What does that mean? I still do not know what treasures it holds. Might there be jewels and precious metals? Or is it rifles and powder and shot? Whatever it is, Josiah has put his life on the line for it, and I must do everything I can to protect it. Perhaps I shall stop by Mrs. Fitterling’s shop this week. Mama might like some new ribbons for Christmas.
Before Josiah left, I leaned into him and tilted my head back so that he might give me a proper farewell, but he did not. He pressed the back of my hand to his lips and then disappeared through the kitchen door. The night air came in like a flood, and I was left cold and alone and determined to do my part.
Whether Papa and Bradford like it or not, I am part of their scheme now.