The Rain Sparrow

* * *

“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 (#ulink_85cc6808-b0e3-501a-a181-e08b8e8e52d2)

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.

By the time he purged his memory, morning had broken through the drapes in September’s pure yellow-white streaks, and delicious scents wafted from the kitchen, waking his senses and his taste buds. If Julia had found his presence in the parlor odd when she’d come through at dawn, she’d said nothing. A short time later, she’d placed a fresh cup of coffee next to him. He’d called her a goddess.

The classy blonde innkeeper had simply smiled and padded quietly away, a courtesy he appreciated. He didn’t like interruptions when he worked. In fact, he didn’t like people when he worked. He supposed his assistant had relayed that persnickety piece of information when she’d booked the room for an indefinite period of time for enough money to get him anything he wanted. Today he would express his desire for a coffeemaker. Or he’d go into town and buy one. He wasn’t a purist. Any old cup of java worked, though he appreciated Julia’s freshly ground beans.

He sipped the rich, bold grind, a reminder of Carrie, the squeaky cute librarian, his fellow storm watcher from last night. He wondered if her jittery nerves had finally settled enough to sleep.

When he heard a man’s voice in the kitchen, his curiosity got the better of him. Ready for a refill, he hit Save and closed the laptop. Forget the dream. He didn’t write historical novels.

Right now he needed coffee.

Upon reaching the kitchen door, he stopped, amused. Innkeeper Julia and a dark-haired man were locked in a passionate kiss. If Hayden were polite, he’d do the well-bred thing and slip out again. But he was a writer and therefore fascinated by the innate bonds that attract male and female, sometimes to their joy and every bit as often to their detriment.

As the pair broke apart, rather reluctantly if he was any judge, the man noticed him and said, “Caught again.”

Julia made a soft noise, flushing slightly, as she turned and offered a sheepish but glowing smile.

“Hayden Winters, this is my fiancé, Eli Donovan, who apparently returned to the carriage house late last night without warning me.” Her June-blue eyes flashed adoration at her fiancé. “Eli, Hayden is a newly arrived guest.”

Eli extended a hand, though he seemed to regret releasing his hold on Julia. Who could blame him? Love was a beautiful thing. For other people.

“A pleasure, Hayden. I read your books.”

“Thank you. I apologize for interrupting.” Not that he meant it. “Mind if I snitch another cup of coffee?”

“She makes the best.” Eli took Hayden’s cup and refilled it. “How was your room?”

“I’m not sure.”

Julia, who now peered into the oven, looked up with a frown. “Was something wrong?”

“Not at all.” He told her about Brody but skipped the dream.

“For heaven’s sake.” She gazed up at the ceiling as if she could see the boy wrapped in sleep and the plush bedding of the Mulberry Room. “That poor child.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” Being a good guest often reaped benefits. “You can charge me extra if you’d like.”