Handpicked Family. Shannon Farrington

it. Better by far for her to be on her way. He cast Miss Martin a glance as the wagon lurched forward. Silence still reigned.

      Presently she was taking in the scenery, but it was not the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains or the rock-dotted Shenandoah River that held her attention. It was the imprint of war. For miles she had viewed charred remains of barns and stables, empty homesteads now covered with vines, but the nearer they came to the town of Forest Glade, the more evident the destruction.

      The once prosperous little hamlet on the north fork of the river was now only a shell of its former glory. The flour mill had been destroyed. The sawmill was much the same. Remnants of warped and twisted machinery sat rusting into oblivion. Of the workers’ houses opposite the sites, not a structure remained intact.

      “This makes me angry,” Miss Martin said suddenly.

      “It should,” Peter replied.

      After the space of a heartbeat she then said, “I can’t help but wonder what has happened to the people who lived here, who worked here? Are the men we met just now on the road the most desperate of the lot or are there others worse off than they?”

      He could hear the emotion in her voice, the compassion. That was another thing he admired about her. At her age most Baltimore belles would be focused on replacing their outdated wardrobes as soon as possible. He gave her a quick once-over. Here she sat in homespun, protected from the rain by only a plain knitted gray shawl and an unembellished straw hat. She looked damp and uncomfortable but she was not complaining.

      Again his conscience was pricked. I did speak harshly to her. Perhaps more harshly than necessary. “That’s what I’m here to find out,” he said, “and to hold those responsible who promised to make reparations.”

      She looked at him with those wide, innocent green eyes. “I’ll help you in any way I can,” she promised.

      Great. He sighed under his breath, for in his opinion she was still a little too eager to help him. Making quite the effort to keep his irritation from coming through in his voice, he then said, “Well, I’m not all that certain how much help you can be. I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.”

      She took no offense at that. Thankfully, she realized he didn’t doubt her research abilities but her physical safety. “That’s why you wanted David,” she said.

      “Yes,” he said simply.

      She turned her attention back to the road. So did he. The wagon rocked and bounced over the uneven ground. About a half mile beyond the crossroads stood the church. Its faded white steeple still pointed faithfully toward the rolling gray sky, but vines and thistles were fast consuming its foundation. Boards had been nailed across several broken windows to protect the panes from further damage. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like when Daniel first saw it, or when Miss Martin’s brother had, for that matter.

      Were they both here at the same time? Knowing that detail had no bearing on his personal mission, Peter pushed the thought from his mind. As they pulled into the churchyard, Reverend Webb’s wife, Sarah, met them. “Thank the Lord for your safe arrival,” she said. “I’m so pleased to see all is well.”

      But not without incident, Peter thought.

      Her husband, James, explained what had happened on the road. Peter then reported the lost cargo. The woman’s tired face fell even further. “What exactly remains of your supplies?” she asked.

      “We’ll need to take inventory to be certain of that,” Dr. Mackay said.

      “Never fear,” Miss Martin added, her optimism apparently rebounding. “We can still assist many with what remains.”

      The Mackays introduced themselves, and then Miss Martin. Mrs. Webb offered her a smile. Eager to converse with the woman, Miss Martin climbed down from the other side of the wagon and hurried to where the reverend’s wife stood.

      Having secured the reins, Peter gingerly made his way to the ground, listening as Miss Martin explained that her brother had lodged at the church facilities.

      “Oh?” Mrs. Webb said.

      “Yes, and I was eager to come and thank you and help you in any way I can.”

      Her enthusiasm was obvious. Peter didn’t doubt it was sincere but he couldn’t help but think, You won’t be so optimistic when you see the inside of the church. I’m certain it’s a far cry different from your own.

      Half of the pews were missing. According to Reverend Webb, they had been used for firewood, stretchers and crutches following the battle of New Market when the church had served as a field hospital. Looking closely at the floor, one could still make out the bloodstains that had seeped into the wood planks.

      Miss Martin noticed them at once. Peter saw the look of horror wash over her face. However, it quickly passed. Apparently she was determined to soldier on, but still in her naive way.

      “Are you in need of further seating for your congregation?” she asked the reverend. “Perhaps we can find someone to craft more pews.”

      Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. Crafting pews would not be high on anyone’s list around here, not when homes needed to be rebuilt first.

      “Thank you, miss,” Reverend Webb said with all the gentleness of a seasoned saint, “but we have all we need, at least for those who attend now. Many of our church members are no more.”

      “No more?”

      “Deceased, miss. The fortunate ones have relocated, reunited with family elsewhere.”

      “Oh,” she said slowly. “I see.”

      Do you? Peter wondered. Do you now see the real world? For I don’t have time to enlighten you.

      There were articles to write on the local provisional authorities and missing supplies to locate. He also wanted to assist in the reunion of displaced family members, but there was one particular family member he was most desperate to find—his brother Daniel’s bride.

       Caroline. The bride Daniel had no business taking.

      Peter drew in a breath. How did one even begin to locate such a woman when no one around here, not even the reverend, seemed to know who she was?

      * * *

      Trudy couldn’t help but feel sorry for this poor country preacher. He obviously cared for his community, and the fact that he could no longer account for much of it weighed heavily upon his heart. She laid a hand on the parson’s arm, and his dark mustache lifted with a smile.

      “We will do all we can to help those people who remain,” she said.

      “Thank you, miss,” he said. “I am most grateful to you and the others. Your coming is such an encouragement.”

      At least it is to someone, she couldn’t help but think, for despite what she had hoped had been a closing conversation, Mr. Carpenter still looked irritated with her. Or is it simply the circumstances in which we find ourselves? If that were the case, then she could understand a little of what he was feeling.

      Trudy had promised Reverend Webb they would do all they could to serve this community but knew their ability to do so had been diminished severely. The crates that had disappeared en route were the most valuable they carried. The wheat, dried meat and medicines were lost. So was the seed they had brought for planting fall vegetables. Mr. Carpenter had ruefully noted that not only were these items the most valuable in aid but they would also fetch the greatest price on the black market.

      “Whoever took them knew exactly what would bring the most profit,” he’d said.

      Those and his previous words taunted her. “Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”

      Whatever his opinion, it doesn’t negate the fact that there are children in this world, she