A Time for Everything (3 page)

“
Don’t you worry, ma’am,”
Isaac said loudly over his shoulder. “The road’s pretty smooth and
well-traveled. I ain’t seen no trouble on it for a long
time.”

She nodded, though she knew he
couldn’t see her.

Mr. Franklin turned around partway in
his seat. “Tell us if you need anything at all, Mrs. McAllister.
It’s my job to carry out Beau’s orders, and he’s ordered me to
bring his son a teacher. Dead or alive.”

Portia’s eyes widened, and Mr.
Franklin laughed.

“
I’m joking! Take a rest
if you’d like. It’s fairly comfortable back there.”

After a mile or so, she discovered he
was right. The wide hood surrounding her seat felt like a firm
pillow when she rested her head on it. But before she shut her
eyes, she pulled Jake’s old shirt from her bag, balled it up, and
wedged it under her cheek. It didn’t take long for her to fall
asleep.

Portia awoke to her backside bumping
about on the seat. Sunlight flashed on her face through the budding
trees on the roadside. She sat up just as the world tipped
violently, throwing her against the side of the carriage. Crying
out in shock and the pain that followed, she dove for her bag,
figuring she was dead already if robbers had struck. But she wasn’t
about to go down without a fight. She needed Frank’s pistol and
fumbled about until her fingers closed around the grip.

The gun hadn’t cleared the bag’s
opening when an iron-strong hand clamped her wrist. She
screamed.

“
It’s all right,”
Mr. Franklin said, eyeing the pistol in Portia’s
hand. “Just a broken wheel, darlin’, that’s all.”

Her heart pounded hard against her
ribcage as though it might burst free any moment and run away. She
closed her eyes, took a couple deep breaths, and looked up at him.
Still gripping her forearm in his strong hand, he flicked his eyes
between her face and the gun until she let it slide back onto the
other belongings in her bag.

“
I’m sorry,” she said,
rubbing the spot on her arm he had just released. Red marks the
shape of his fingers formed on her skin. “I fell asleep. Where are
we?”

“
Just a mile or so from
Lebanon.” He held out his hand. “Let me help you out of there so we
can get this wheel changed.”

Her feet hit the ground. Up ahead, the
horses shifted nervously. Issac held one of them by the bridle and
patted its neck, speaking softly to calm the animal.

He hollered over his shoulder, “You
all right, Mrs. McAllister?”

Thankfully her heart decided to retain
its position and slowed a bit. “Yes, I’m fine. How long will we be
stuck?”

“
Won’t take long at all,
ma’am. I’ll get that wheel changed lickety-split.”

Mr. Franklin led her off the side of
the road where tall cedars shaded a large gray rock. He gestured
for her to have a seat. She brushed off dry evergreen needles and
sat, but her sore backside made her regret that decision. Mr.
Franklin smiled. With hardly a foot between them, she fought the
urge to scoot away from him.

Isaac pulled out a homemade jack from
under her seat. He placed it under the buggy’s rear axle,
ratcheting the handle until the broken wheel spun freely about an
inch off the ground.

She glanced at Mr. Franklin, wondering
why he wasn’t helping with the effort. Instead, he opened a pocket
knife and started whittling a small piece of cedar. The wood’s
pleasant perfume overpowered the scents of damp earth and wagon
grease. He kept staring at her as he worked. She could have sworn
he scooted closer.

“
So Mr. Franklin…” She
abruptly stood, brushing stray needles off her skirt. “Are you kin
to the Stanford family?”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment.
Shrugging, he turned his attention to the wheel repair in progress.
“Just a distant relation, but half of Wilson County could be
considered distant relations. Me and Beau, see — we were neighbors,
spent summers runnin’ around together. My folks had gone down to
Chattanooga to look at some land down there and left me with the
Stanfords. They were thinking of moving, and I didn’t want to go.
Didn’t want to leave Beau and Ezra — that’s his pa — behind. They
were like second family to me. Anyway, we got word that they’d had
an accident on their way back. The wagon rolled off a ledge. Killed
’em both.”

“
Oh… I’m
sorry.”

He let his whittling rest on his lap.
“It’s all right. I was seven, maybe eight. Ezra raised me and Beau
together after that, and I’ve been part of the family ever since.
So what about your folks? Any of ’em still around?”

“
Not really,
no…”

“
And your husband? What
was his name?”

“
Jake.”

“
I don’t recall him, but
Beau and I were on the Federal side.”

“
Oh…” Her mouth went dry.
She had assumed they were Confederate. Just a year ago, they were
enemies — Jake’s enemies. “I didn’t know that.”

“
Yeah, well, our
affiliation didn’t earn us much fanfare when we returned. You
always lived in Brentwood?”

“
Yes.”

“
I’ve not been through
there since before Franklin got blown to hell. Oh, pardon my
language, ma’am.”

“
It’s all
right.”

“
Anyway, I reckon that was
one awful fight. We were lucky enough to not be involved in that
one. Beau and I were both wounded in Allatoona. We healed up enough
to get transferred to Smith’s regiment for patrol duty along the
Cumberland. Nothin’ but a muddy mess, but at least we didn’t get
shot again. So, what happened to Jake?”

“
He died in Nashville. I
think he might have fought in Franklin, as well.”

“
Might have took a shot at
me a time or two. Who knows?” He grinned and winked, snapping the
blade of his pocket knife against his thigh to close it.

“
Please don’t make light
of such matters, Mr. Franklin.” She paced away so he couldn’t see
her chin quivering.

“
I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to
upset you.” His footsteps drew closer. She thought he might touch
her. The thought made her cringe.

Isaac clapped twice and motioned for
them to come along. “All done. Ready to go on?”

“
Yes,” Portia answered and
hurried to the now-fixed and level wagon.

Harry tossed his unfinished whittling
creation to the ground. He helped her into the wagon, and she
couldn’t help but notice the melancholy turn to his
features.

With a numb bottom and stiff neck,
Portia wondered how much longer it would be before they arrived.
The sun had ascended toward its summit. She blinked the sleep from
her eyes and took in her surroundings. Along the dusty road, the
countryside told its sad story with overgrown fencerows, empty
pastures, and abandoned plantations. Wind whistled past her ears,
its tone so sorrowful it sounded as if the land itself wept from
the wounds of man’s folly.

Pulling her locket from under her
collar, she rubbed the tarnished silver between thumb and
forefinger. Her thoughts drifted back to the day Jake presented it
to her. That February afternoon had been one of the happiest days
of her life.

“
It’s beautiful,
Jake!”

The silver plated locket
was oval-shaped, engraved with the initial
M
for McAllister. The chain was long
and delicate. Not expensive, yet she knew Jake would have had to
sacrifice something to buy it. They’d barely made any money from
the previous harvest. Soybean and corn prices had bottomed out
since the start of the war, and what was left had been taken by the
army.

“
Open it,” Jake had said
with the same sideways smile he’d had since they were
children.

She’d done as he said, and found a
miniature portrait from the photo they had taken on their wedding
day. “You sold your daddy’s musket, didn’t you?”

Jake had nodded. “I traded it to Mrs.
Overton. Besides, that old gun don’t matter. All that matters is
you and my sweet baby girl.”

He’d leaned over and kissed their
newborn on the forehead. Abigail had entered the world only a few
hours before — a wriggly, pink bundle now swaddled in a soft
knitted blanket and sleeping peacefully. Little brown ringlets of
hair covered her head. Jake had whipped out his pocket knife and
Portia had yanked up the baby, holding her tight to her
breast.

“
Calm down, mama.” Jake
had chuckled. “There’s just one thing missing from your
gift.”

He’d uncovered Abigail’s head and,
very carefully, cut off one of the longest ringlets on the nape of
her neck. Portia had smiled and nuzzled her daughter’s
sweet-smelling head as she watched Jake’s rugged fingers tie a tiny
piece of narrow pink ribbon around the silky lock of hair. He
placed Abby’s hair inside the locket and closed it. Portia had held
her long hair out of the way, while he fastened the clasp behind
her neck.

Jake had draped an arm around her and
rubbed their daughter’s angelic soft cheek.

“
Thank you, Jake. I love
you,” she’d whispered as she rested her head on his
shoulder.

“
Love you too, Po. You,
me, and our baby girl — we’re a family now! How about
that?”

She’d spied a glimmer of tears in his
eyes, which he quickly blinked away. How her heart had swelled as
she witnessed her tough-as-nails husband soften up like warm
butter. She’d handed Abby to him, and he’d looked scared to death,
like she might break.

“
You still all right back
there?” Mr. Franklin asked, pulling her from the beautiful memory
and back to the uncertainty of her present
circumstances.

She hoped he hadn’t heard her
sniffing. “Yes, I’m fine. How much farther?”

“
Not long now.” He draped
his elbow over the seat and smiled. “We’re nearing the town up
ahead. You been to Lebanon before?”

“
No.”

“
It’s a real fine town,
prettier before the war, but there’s still some nice architecture
to admire.”

She took the hint and sat up in her
seat. They were traveling along a tree-lined street. On her left, a
stately white mansion with tall, wide columns came into
view.

“
That’s the Caruthers
house,” Mr. Franklin said. “He was one of the founders of
Cumberland University and governor of Tennessee for a while until
the war ended.”

“
Where is the
university?”

“
It was over there off
Spring Street. Got burned up in the war. It’s where Beau’s
father-in-law taught law until he died. Claire — that’s Beau’s late
wife — wanted their son to go there when he got old enough. I think
they’re still having classes around here somewhere.”

They entered the town square — a busy,
spacious place with people moving in all directions on horseback,
in wagons, and on foot. Two men unloaded large panes of glass at a
store with boarded up windows. Scaffolds holding painters and
carpenters crisscrossed other storefronts. Saws chewed through wood
and hammers pounded nails. The song of reconstruction, Portia
concluded, had become the nation’s bitter anthem.

“
We’re taking you the long
way around,” he said, “so you can see more of the town. I hope you
don’t mind.”

“
No, not at
all.”

She shifted her weight to ease her
aching backside.

Mr. Franklin pointed to one landmark
after another. “There’s the Presbyterian Church over there, and
that’s Odd Fellows Hall, where the Yanks cornered John Hunt
Morgan’s cavalry.”

“
Almost got him too,”
Isaac added with a chuckle, “but he got away just in the
knick.”

“
So, you were freed and
hired after the war?”

“
Oh, no, ma’am. We’ve
always been free. Mr. Stanford’s grandfather saw to
that.”

Isaac slowed the horses and turned
onto another street. Children’s laughter cut across the road.
Smiling, Portia sat up straight to see them at play. A little black
boy sprinted in front of the horses, with three white boys in hot
pursuit.

Isaac yanked the reins and yelled,
“Whoa!” and managed to stop the horses before they trampled the
children.

The black boy skirted up a
tall sycamore, and the others ran up against the tree trunk,
whacking it with sticks, and laughing while they chanted,
“The greatest old Nigger that ever I did see,
Looked like a sick monkey up a sour apple tree.”

Portia stood and started to climb out
of the buggy. Those boys needed their ears twisted plumb off; no
child deserved such teasing, but Mr. Franklin extended his arm in
front of her and said, “Wait.”

Isaac jumped out and ran right at
them, waving his rifle, but pointed it toward the sky.

“
Get out of here, now. I
said, get!” The pursuers started to scatter, but Isaac did get in a
kick to the last one’s backside before he could vanish, squealing
in terror, back into town with his friends.

“
Come on down, Jim,” Isaac
said. “They’re gone. They ain’t gonna bother you no more
today.”