The Rain Sparrow. Линда Гуднайт

didn’t say more.

      One of the tobacco chewers, a short, squat man with a big nose, approached. “Where you from, boy?”

      It wasn’t the first time he’d answered that question, though not everyone across the South had been unkind to a former Yankee soldier. There were sympathizers in Tennessee, including the rosy-cheeked woman who’d sold him a loaf of bread and thrown in some dried apples for good measure. Thaddeus had a feeling this man wasn’t one of those.

      He sighed. “Ohio.”

      The man spat a long stream of tobacco, narrowly missing Thad’s boots. Thad followed the insult with his eyes.

      “Yankee.” The man bit off the word as if it left a nasty taste. He looked to his friends, both of whom stared at Thad with more than a little animosity. The one in red suspenders tilted back to stare and Thad saw what he’d missed. One of the men was missing a leg. A soldier, no doubt. A Rebel. Probably all three of them had been.

      “I’m not looking for trouble,” Thaddeus said. “Just directions.”

      “You won’t find them here.” The man ran his hands under his suspenders. “You best head on back to where you come from.”

      The tiny hope that he might purchase some food or even share a ride on a farmer’s wagon dissipated in the dark confines of the general store.

      The merchant kept his attention on the parcel now neatly wrapped and tied with string.

      Thaddeus gave a head bob and walked outside. A hundred yards down the track, the train chugged onward toward Chattanooga, its smoke a gray feather tickling the blue sky.

      The air was sticky and thick. Nights would be cooler, though every bit as humid. Will had sent him a map, drawn by his own hand. A former army captain who’d campaigned all over Tennessee, William Gadsden would be accurate. The trip to Peach Orchard Farm was a long one, especially without food, but nothing to a man who had marched with a hungry infantry for three years.

      He shouldered his satchel and started walking.

      * * *

      “You can’t. I won’t have it.”

      Josie Portland tossed down her napkin to glare at Will Gadsden across a long oak table that had fed four generations of Portlands. Portlands, not Gadsdens. The former Union captain had married her late brother’s widow, and now the uppity Yankee thought he owned Peach Orchard Farm and Mill.

      “Josie, please,” Charlotte said mildly. “Don’t fuss.”

      “Fuss? You expect me to sit back and let more and more of the enemy invade my home? Haven’t we lost enough?”

      Will’s jaw tightened. “The war is over, Josie. We are not enemies.”

      “Tell that to Tom!” The chair scraped against a floor where dozens of wounded had once sprawled in bloody misery. Josie bolted upright. Heat swamped her, burning her cheeks. She fought hot tears, ever present at the mention of Tom.

      Four pairs of eyes watched her. Her sister, Patience, as sweet and holy as Mother Mary herself, looked baffled as she usually did by any kind of disturbance, while her nephew, Benjamin, clearly sided with Captain Will. He always did. Admittedly, Will had been good to the eleven-year-old after the tragic death of Ben’s father.

      Lizzy’s dark face appeared at the kitchen door, eyes wide. Charlotte’s former maid was one of the few slaves who’d stayed behind to work for provisions and little else. They were all like slaves now, doing what they could to survive.

      “Josie, sit down please and let’s speak of this sensibly.” Charlotte folded her hands together on the edge of the table as calm as bath water. Ever serene, the British vicar’s daughter was too pious for Josie’s liking. Never a bad word, never a complaint, no matter how awful things had been since the war. At times, she didn’t know how Charlotte had kept the farm and the mill going, though her sister-in-law gave credit to God and the handful of crippled Yankees and former slaves who’d stayed to help.

      Certainly, Josie comprehended all that her brother’s widow had done. She wasn’t a fool. If not for Charlotte’s stiff resolve and clever wrangling, they would have lost the farm and mill to Yankee carpetbaggers. Nevertheless, Josie wanted her life back the way it was before the hated war, before Father and her brother, Edgar, had died.

      “Why couldn’t you hire someone from Honey Ridge?” Her chest heaved beneath the hatefully dull brown dress. She was so angry her face must be as red as her hair. “Why do you have to hire a Yankee?”

      “Because no one here has Thad’s skills. He’s from a family of millers. He is a millwright as well as a miller, which means he can repair the machinery and make improvements. He can teach us what we need to know to make the operation smoother and more profitable.” Will lifted the letter he’d received earlier that day. The hateful letter he’d read to them over a supper of dumplings and stewed fruit. “We are fortunate he’s agreed to come.”

      “You’ve been doing fine by yourself,” she spat, though the compliment cost her. Will was a decent man for a Yankee, but he was still a Yankee. Men like him were the reason her Tom had never come home from the bloody, horrible war. They were the reason so many women like her cried for sweethearts still missing or buried in some remote place without so much as a name marker. They were the reason she would never wear Mother’s wedding gown.

      “I’ve barely kept things going, Josie. The mill needs repairs that I can’t do, and even if I could, I haven’t any more hours in the day. I need Thad, and he is already on his way. He’s a fine man who’s had his share of loss, and I expect you to treat him with respect.”

      Helpless fury shook her. Let Thaddeus Eriksson come if he must, but Josie would do her best to make his visit short and miserable.

      She would choke before she’d show respect to another bloody Yankee.

5

      You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

      —Ray Bradbury

      Present

      Hayden awoke with a jerk, disoriented as he stared into a nineteenth-century fireplace. Where was he?

      He sat up, heart chugging with the hard rhythm of a train. Except for the blue glow from his laptop, asleep but powered on, heavy darkness shrouded the room.

      The dream had been so real. Even now when he was awake, Thaddeus’s sorrow lay heavily in his chest, as real as if he had suffered the loss of a wife and child. He’d smelled the smoke, looked into the eyes of the ex-slave and sat at the dinner table with the Portland family.

      “Weird,” he muttered. He’d dreamed scenes from his work before but never anything like this. These characters were realistically familiar, as if he knew them. As if he was them.

      Blowing out a shaky breath, Hayden tapped the keyboard to shed more light on his surroundings. The tiny digital clock in one corner said he’d slept a few hours. Dawn would break soon.

      His senses slowly returned as he recognized the antebellum inn and recalled why he was in the parlor instead of in the cushy bed upstairs in the Mulberry Room. Still, the dream lingered and the strong emotions persisted.

      In his imagination, the computer clock morphed into a silver pocket watch, glinting in the Tennessee sun.

      He scrubbed his face with both hands, uncomfortably aware that the dream man, Thaddeus, had done the same.

      Thaddeus, Abram, Josie. Three fascinating characters who had nothing to do with the kind of book he was contracted to write.

      Yet the rich images prodded at his imagination, stirring the creative hunger.

      Before the gauzy cobweb dream was cleaned away by the hand of wakefulness, Hayden grabbed his computer and began to write.

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