Threads of Change (4 page)

“Wonderful, I’m hungry,” Lucas said, placing his hand around the back of Thomas’s shoulder. “Let’s go eat. We can discuss the details later.”

Dawn had a hard time breaking through the fog the next morning. Liz could barely see the corner of the barn from the house with its red outline poking out through the muddled mistiness. The fog had a way of filtering out any distant noises until they drew near so, when Thomas’s wagon showed up in the yard, the sudden jolt of the horse announced his arrival.

A large wooden marker and two shovels lay in the wagon bed, along with about ten feet of rope. Liz didn’t know the purpose of the rope; but it was always in the wagon.

“Good morning!” Thomas called as he stepped down. “How are you?”

“Good morning. I’m fine; a little tired, however,” Liz admitted. She hadn’t slept well the night before.

Liz had decided to put the marker on the “bodiless” grave. She’d never wanted to before, but she felt she needed to do it before they left their home behind. Caleb’s marker would rest on the hill where Claire and other family members had been buried. Her husband needed to be remembered.

Thomas brushed something from the horse as he said, “Sure is foggy. Are you sure you want to do this today?”

“Yes, we need to,” she replied, looking around as though she might manage a glimpse through the fog.

Thomas helped Liz up into the wagon and they went on their way toward the hill where the family gravesite sat. On the way, the little lives that thrived only at night scurried around, not yet aware that morning had arrived, the sun to follow soon. A dull green bullfrog waited in a scummy waterhole, croaking out its prayer for catching some breakfast before daylight blew his cover, and little field mice scampered about gathering seeds of their own. The birds hadn’t yet warmed up for the chirps that would announce the day.

On a clearer day, the mill might have been seen next to the river when traveling along the main road. Standing on the slope behind it under the cover of fog were small cabins where some of the millworkers stayed; at least the ones that didn’t live out in Lecompte or Meeker, just a few minutes from the mill. The barn and stable where the horses, chickens, and Belle, the very old cow who had outlived two coats of milk paint on the barn, all lived, stood farther up the path and closer to the house.

Liz and Thomas rode along in silence until they reached the small graveyard, Thomas jumped down and immediately helped her down from the wagon. He grabbed the larger shovel and began digging a hole in which to place the marker. Liz watched from the sideline, first trying to lean against the wooden wheel. She quickly gave up and decided to pick some wildflowers to tie on the cross instead.

Thomas carried the wooden marker from the back of the wagon to the grassy area, inspecting the coat of paint along the way. He had constructed the large pine cross months ago at Luke’s request, and he’d carefully applied a couple coats of white paint. Liz’s heart squeezed slightly as Thomas grabbed a square marker for the base of the cross and set it into place.

To a true friend;

We will miss you.

To a father who fathered honorably;

You won’t be forgotten.

To a husband who loved faithfully;

Your memory will never fade from our hearts.

Thomas carefully packed dirt all the way around its base and then secured the square marker to the bottom of the cross before standing back to examine his work.

Liz thought he probably felt obligated to say something, so he decided to recite the words from the epitaph that he had painted on the marker. Afterward, silence shrouded them again. They both just stood there, looking down at the newly placed marker, each of them remembering Caleb in their own way. It felt so lonely to Liz without Caleb that she thought she might scream. Fighting back the urge to cry, Liz placed the flowers on the ground and walked back to the wagon, ready to be done with this. When she glanced back at him, Thomas still knelt silently beside the marker. And he was crying.

She knew Thomas still held a heavy burden for Caleb’s death. Liz knew he had risked his life jumping into the rushing water to try and rescue Caleb, and she felt she could never repay him for it. Caleb’s childhood friend had been willing to give his life in order to save her husband.

After a moment, Thomas stood up, cleared his throat, and placed his shovel in the rear of the wagon.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Liz said, “for everything you’ve done. I can never tell you how grateful I am.”

Thomas nodded his head without really looking at her.

They slowly loaded up again and were on their way, both glancing back at the memorial as they rode past. Silence followed them, and neither noticed when the morning fog finally lifted. By the time they got home, the sun shone brightly, not a single cloud to be found in the sky.

L
iz imagined the stagecoach bouncing recklessly along the rocky, rutted road that led the way to a whole new life for her cousins. She pictured Abby and Emma trying for two solid days to sit upright in the leather seats, and she knew Emma would have given up long before Abby. After endlessly pricking her fingers as she stitched, Emma would have folded up her work and placed it back into her sewing pouch while Abby stared at the same two pages of her book for miles upon miles.

Abby, the schoolteacher, sat tall in her seat—in Liz’s imagination anyway—looking almost as fresh as the day they left. Emma, on the other hand, likely felt all five days of wear. Dirty, tired, and longing to arrive at their destination.

Part of Abby’s decision to go west with her grandfather had been Emma’s rebellious disposition. Tensions had been so heavy back at home that Liz wondered if Emma had even told her father goodbye. Abby had written that she hoped Emma might come into her own during their adventure.

Abby, calm, composed, and patient, had always seemed to occupy the flip side of Emma’s coin. She never blurted out any words for which she had to later apologize or try to take back; Emma, on the other hand, seemed to explode at times. She often slammed doors and spilled out things she didn’t really mean. They were so different in every way, from looks to attitudes to dreams.

Liz and Megan stood anxiously, fidgeting about in their puffy dresses, both of them burgeoning with anticipation, wiggling much more than two grown ladies should. Liz felt a little silly for it, but she couldn’t help herself. Grandpa Lucas had dropped them off at the general store earlier, then parked the wagon nearby.

“I see the stage,” Megan called out with girlish excitement. Liz jumped a little as Megan squeezed her hand a little too hard.

Liz pulled back slightly. “Megan!”

“Oh, sorry.”

“There it is! I see it now!” Liz said, pointing as the stage pulled to a stop.

She caught sight of Abby and Emma looking out the stagecoach window, and Megan sprung into action as she rushed to the stage. Liz scurried close behind, both of them holding up the edges of their dresses so they wouldn’t trip as they hurried. The stagecoach door opened and the Wilkes sisters stepped down to the dirt road, dust still swirling about. Their Sunday dresses looked slightly wrinkled, but the hats pinned on their heads sat perched straight and proper. With tired smiles, the girls greeted the others with joyous hugs.

“You look wonderful.” Liz spoke first, her arm around Abby. “But I’m sure you’re both exhausted from your travels.”

The commotion from the women drew the attention of bystanders. Some smiled, and a few gentlemen tipped their hats as the four women bustled up the steps. As the ladies chatted and hugged for the third or fourth time, Grandpa Lucas and Chet, one of the millworkers, grabbed the trunks and carpet bags, loading them into the wagon. Each man moved back and forth, taking several loads. When they finally finished, the two men exchanged big smiles.

“How many granddaughters are we picking up?” Chet asked.

Grandpa Lucas looked at the loaded wagon and shook his head. Finally, he slapped Chet on the back and said, “See ya in a while.”

Lucas’s four granddaughters held up traffic on the boardwalk, all of them chattering at once, but all of them keeping up with every conversation. Abby and Emma both kissed their grandfather and thanked him.

Emma looked deeply at her grandfather, as if she wanted to etch every detail about him in her mind. Liz smiled as she watched them. Grandpa Lucas still looked spry for a man of his age; the repayment for a lifetime’s uncompromising work, she supposed. He had many years ahead of him, simply because he refused to quit. Even now, he still put out nearly the same amount of work as he did in his prime.

Liz loved the twinkle in his eyes and his big smile. Lucas Mailly was a man of risk and reached for what he wanted. It was contagious and Liz wanted it, too.

“You ladies go on down to the bakery and take your time. When you’re ready, Chet and I will drive you home.”

Liz chatted happily with her sister and cousins as they strolled down the sidewalk to Granny Smith’s Tea Room and Bakery. Abby and Emma looked about the town of Lecompte and seemed intrigued by it. The wheels of passing wagons crunched over the small rocks covering the street. Horses were tied to most every hitching post. They stomped their hooves and swished their tails, snickering and snorting in the hope of attracting attention and receiving a treat. A brown horse with random white spots made eye contact with Liz, watching her as the girls strolled along. He let out a stern huff and stamped his hoof.

Emma stopped and rubbed the horse’s velvet nose. She had always loved horses. Liz recalled Isaac, the stable hand at her cousins’ plantation, teaching them how smart horses were and how they never forgot a person’s kindness; or lack thereof. Emma winked at the horse and hurried to catch up with the others. She looped her arm through Liz’s as they stopped in front of a large glass shop window.

Chet strolled down the wooden sidewalk up ahead of them, the nailed planks beneath his feet creaking as he walked. Liz caught him watching after the rustle of their four long skirts as they swished toward the tearoom. He stepped off the boardwalk and pulled out his handkerchief, folding it carefully and then dipping the end of it into the horse trough. He wiped his face and neck and put the damp cloth into his back pocket. As the girls headed into the tearoom, Liz watched Chet head toward the saloon down the street. Chet, born a Texan, had moved to Louisiana at twenty-two, and Liz remembered hearing him say that he’d stumbled upon Lecompte for “no particular reason,” and a few weeks later he met Lucas and went to work at the mill. Chet had been respected and paid well, but Grandpa Lucas had said the man had desperately wanted to go back to Texas—he said it was in his blood.