joined it, as well.
“What about medicines?” he asked. “People around here are sick.”
“Aye,” Dr. Mackay said, “but first we must reorganize our supplies. Come to the church. We will do our best by you there.”
The situation had been remedied, at least for now. Still Peter kept his guard. With one eye he watched the men. With the other he studied Miss Martin. She was smiling, no doubt pleased with herself and hoping he would be pleased with her. Well, he wasn’t, and at the risk of being ungentlemanly, he was going to let her know that.
* * *
The cornmeal had been distributed without further incident and the men were now returning to what remained of their homes. Emily was helping her husband resecure the oilcloth cover over their wagon while Trudy held the second one in check. Mr. Carpenter was still on his horse, his back ramrod straight as if poised for battle. Since there had been no skirmish with the hungry men, was he now about to engage her in one? Apparently so, for when the last local man disappeared over the knoll, her employer slid from his horse and lumbered toward her.
He had that look in his eye, the one he showed in the newsroom whenever a reporter missed a deadline or the proof sheets weren’t to his liking. Trudy’s thoughts tumbled nervously over one another. Inadvertently she tightened her reins. Her horse threw his head in protest. Quickly she tried to correct her mistake but only made matters worse. Now the horse seemed determined to back up.
“No... No... Don’t do that! Please, no.”
“Loosen the reins, Miss Martin!” Mr. Carpenter commanded as he muscled his way, albeit somewhat awkwardly, into the driver’s box. His ink-stained hands reached for hers. Forcefully he commandeered the reins.
“Stand!” he called to the beast.
The horse promptly obeyed. Trudy had no doubt that it would. Even she felt the sudden urge to sit bolt upright at attention.
“You must be more careful.”
“Y-yes...” She replied. For a split second she was tempted to call him “sir” but she knew he did not like that title.
“It’s Mr. Carpenter or Peter,” he’d always said, and although she had wanted to call him by his Christian name, she certainly would not do so now. He might think more of the familiarity than she actually meant.
“Miss Martin,” he said as he put on the brake and then turned to her. His probing brown eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Why exactly are you here in your brother-in-law’s place?”
Trudy swallowed hard. “Exactly?”
“Yes, Miss Martin.”
“Well... Mr. Collins is ill and cannot oversee the paper...”
Still the look... Elizabeth called it frightening, like standing before a judge who was eagerly awaiting confession so he might pronounce sentence. Trudy was beginning to understand. He uses this tactic to assert his authority, to intimidate. Why hadn’t she noticed this about him before?
Do not worry. I’ve no longer any interest in you whatsoever, she wanted to say, but she had been raised to be a lady. Even if at times she failed to live up to the standard, she was determined now to salvage some shred of dignity. And a lady wouldn’t dare broach the subject of romance with a man. So she was committed to explain in as few words as possible. After all, she had come here for other reasons—ones totally unrelated to him.
“Elizabeth is feeling very poorly—”
“And you thought it best to leave her and come here?”
Guilt threatened to creep back in but she lifted her chin. Elizabeth was fine. She didn’t need her help, but according to Emily, the people here did. “David was worried and Mr. Collins is now ill, so he will be caring for his wife and overseeing the paper in your absence.”
Mr. Carpenter rolled his eyes at that. She did not stop to ask why. Trudy then explained that her brother had been wounded here. “I wanted to express my thanks to Reverend Webb.”
“This is no sightseeing expedition, Miss Martin.” The look he gave her then made her wanted to leap from the wagon, run all the way back to Mount Jackson and climb aboard the first train to Baltimore, but Trudy steeled her resolve.
I have injected myself into his cause, wrongly, perhaps, but it is done and I will see this mission through. “I realize that, Mr. Carpenter,” she said firmly, “I am here to render aid, not play the role of a tourist.”
“Good,” he said in that commanding voice of his. “As a representative of my newspaper I expect you to do your job.”
“I shan’t do anything else.”
“Good,” he said once more. “Make certain of that.”
I will, she thought as she continued to hold his look. Believe me, the subject of romance is firmly closed. He had read her motives once before. Trudy trusted he had read between the lines now, for without further word, her employer disengaged the brake and urged the horse forward.
It wasn’t the encounter with Zimmer and the rest of his rough-looking compatriots that had left Miss Martin silent. It was Peter’s remarks that kept her stone still beside him. He felt bad for speaking harshly to her, especially when he accused her of sightseeing, but he told himself it had to be done. She said she had come because of her brother, a desire to help him and the reverend who had tended him. He just wanted to be certain that was her only reason.
If she had put the idea of marriage to him out of her mind, then he had been successful. If he had made her reconsider marriage in general, then even better. If only Caroline had more carefully considered such things before my brother came along.
The wagon jolted and Miss Martin’s arm brushed his. Peter’s thoughts returned to her.
Romantic notions aside, he was genuinely concerned for her welfare. She does not belong here. Ideally they’d soon go their separate ways. Just as they’d resumed their trek to the church, Dr. Mackay had mentioned the possibility of sending for more supplies. Hopefully Miss Martin would be the one to return to Baltimore to do so. It’s the best place for her.
Miss Martin’s innocent, open nature was refreshing, but it was also unnerving. She believes the best about everyone she meets and thinks that love, faith and hope are enough to set the world right.
His brothers had thought the same.
But hope can’t reverse time or raise the dead, Peter thought. This world is no longer a Garden of Eden, not since jealousy, greed and murder entered it. And in this desolate place, there are too many who would take advantage of that innocence rather than protect it. Better by far for her to be on her way. He cast Miss Martin a glance as the wagon lurched forward. Silence still reigned.
Presently she was taking in the scenery, but it was not the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains or the rock-dotted Shenandoah River that held her attention. It was the imprint of war. For miles she had viewed charred remains of barns and stables, empty homesteads now covered with vines, but the nearer they came to the town of Forest Glade, the more evident the destruction.
The once prosperous little hamlet on the north fork of the river was now only a shell of its former glory. The flour mill had been destroyed. The sawmill was much the same. Remnants of warped and twisted machinery sat rusting into oblivion. Of the workers’ houses opposite the sites, not a structure remained intact.
“This makes me angry,” Miss Martin said suddenly.
“It should,” Peter replied.
After the space of a heartbeat she then said, “I can’t help but wonder what has happened to the people who lived here,