The Rain Sparrow. Линда Гуднайт

Me, too. Miss Carrie’s usually real nice.”

      Teeth bared, Carrie flared her fingers like claws. “They don’t call me the dragon lady for nothing.”

      Hayden offered his most charming smile, wanting back on her good side. “The dragon lady wins. Homework first, Brody, my man. We’ll hang around until closing time and feed Miss Carrie a burger, too. Maybe some ice cream. Sweeten her up.”

      “The library doesn’t close until five,” she said.

      “Which gives my pal and me time to wrestle out the English assignment. Then we can drive around Honey Ridge, and you can show me the sights.”

      Carrie shook her head. The light caught the pearly luminescence of her earrings. “We already have breakfast on Thursday.”

      “You only eat once a week?”

      She huffed, amused. “I have books to drop off after closing. Shut-ins that live up on the ridge.”

      “Mind if I tag along?”

      She blinked, puzzled. “Why would you want to?”

      Because you intrigue me. All buttoned up, neat and tidy, and fresh as a flower. When his curiosity was roused, he never backed off until it was satisfied.

      If he was truthful, he felt a connection with Carrie, whether because of Brody or their obvious shared love of books or something else. He wanted to know her better.

      “Research,” he lied, smooth as warm butter. “I need to get the lay of the countryside anyway.”

      “Oh, right.” Her eyes twinkled. “A place to commit murder.”

      His smile was intentionally diabolical. “Exactly.”

      “In that case, you’re staying across the road from the creepiest place in Honey Ridge. You should check that out first.”

      “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