The next morning, Celia’s eyes flew open. A thunk seemed to come from the back door. She didn’t hear anyone stirring in Will and Harley’s room. Lizzie was still beside her. And Tempie and Mama never got up this early.

Carefully, to avoid waking Lizzie, Celia eased herself out of bed. She grabbed her robe off the hook on the wall and put it on. Only the barest gray light was visible through the windows. The clock on the mantle showed a quarter past five.

She tip-toed through the hallway to the kitchen and peered out the window, her breath catching at the sight of a man striding across the yard, milk bucket in hand. He disappeared into the barn.

Was this man trying to steal their cow’s morning milk? Well, he couldn’t have it—not unless he at least asked first!

But the milk might only be the beginning of what he wanted. Perhaps he was a drifter and would kill them all in their beds. Her heart pounded inside her chest. She’d read a newspaper account of that very thing happening somewhere in Kansas.

Should she go outside and confront him? Not in her nightgown and wrapper! But with his hurt leg, Will was in no condition to face an intruder. Nightclothes or not, if anyone faced the man, it should be Celia.

She padded softly into the breezeway and found her father’s old hunting rifle hanging on the wall on two wooden pegs. If only they had a smaller gun. But she’d have to make do with what she had. Good thing Daddy had taught her how to shoot all those years ago.

Still, it had been a long time since she’d held a gun.

Celia hitched the rifle up to her armpit as she stared out the kitchen window again. She quickly pushed the window up and propped the end of the gun barrel on the window sill, aiming at the barn. When he got close enough, she’d demand to know who he was and what he was doing there.

She waited, propping her hip against the sink as she kept her eyes trained on the barn door. The gun grew heavy in her arms, and the sky lightened even more. The rooster crowed, as he normally did around 5:30, but the man still had not emerged. Was he out there? Had he left without her seeing him?

Finally, the man, wearing a blue chambray shirt with sleeves rolled up past his elbows, came out of the barn carrying the milk bucket. He strode across the yard toward her and the house, but his eyes were trained on the ground as he walked. Celia leaned forward. Unless she was mightily mistaken, the man was Truett Beverly.

Her heart thumped double time as he approached the back door. He set the bucket on the top step and, without looking up, turned and strode back toward the barn.

She slumped against the counter and relaxed her grip on the gun.

Soon, Truett exited the barn again, this time pushing a full wheel barrow. Had he mucked the stable? After dumping that, he sauntered over to the wood pile, picked up the ax, raised it above his shoulder with practiced precision . . . and brought it down on the block of wood, splitting it in two.

Tears sprang to Celia’s eyes. She blinked several times to clear her vision. She wasn’t given to tears any more than she was given to fainting spells. Now, it seemed she was losing control at every turn—especially when Truett Beverly was around. It must mean that she was still sad about her father’s death. After all, she hadn’t allowed herself to cry very much when he died—besides that embarrassing display in front of Truett Beverly when he’d told her Daddy was dead. Crying didn’t help anything, and it wouldn’t bring her father back.

Truett set another block of wood on the broad stump. He lifted the ax and swung it down, splitting it with the first swing. Then he set up a much larger block of wood on the stump, tapping an iron wedge into the wood with the flat end of the ax. He then picked up the sledge hammer and brought it down on the wedge, which sank into the wood. He swung the hammer again and the block of wood split in two.

Celia had seen men split wood before, but never was she so fascinated before. His shirt was clinging to him, and it was already darkening with a patch of sweat down the middle of his back. She really shouldn’t be watching the play of muscles around his shoulders as he swung the sledge hammer.

“Who is that?”

Celia jumped and spun around, her hand over her heart as she gasped for breath. “Oh. Lizzie.” A guilty burn crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

Lizzie gave her a quizzical look. “Why do you have that gun?”

“This?” Celia had forgotten she was still holding Daddy’s rifle. “Oh. I heard someone outside and didn’t know who it was. But it’s just Dr. Beverly.” She stepped away from the window, trying to look nonchalant. “I’ll go put it away.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Splitting wood.” She shrugged, as though the town doctor splitting wood in their yard was the most ordinary thing.

“Oh, that is so sweet.” Lizzie peeked out the window.

Yes it was. Very sweet.

She put away the gun and then came back to help Lizzie with breakfast. She knew how to make the dough for the biscuits now, so she started getting out the flour and butter while Lizzie built a fire in the stove, but she had to force herself not to look out the window.

She tore her gaze away. Again. What would Lizzie think?

Celia finished mixing the biscuit dough, but when she turned to get the rolling pin, which was only inches from the window, she looked out.

Truett brought the ax down on a smaller piece of wood. The pieces flew in two directions. He leaned the ax against the wood pile and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he bent over and began gathering the pieces of wood. When he started to turn in the direction of the house, she whirled away from the window, forgetting the rolling pin. She had to scrunch down and snake her hand across the counter so he wouldn’t see her through the window—if he happened to be looking.

“Celia?” Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Lizzie frowned.

“I just don’t want Truett to see me.”

“You don’t want him to see you staring at him, you mean.” Lizzie laughed. “Celia Wilcox, tell the truth. You like him.”

“Lizzie, stop. I don’t”—she dropped her voice to a hiss— “like him!” She finished the statement as an angry whisper. Then her conscience smote her. “All right, maybe I like him, just like you and Will and Tempie and Harley like him. We all like him. Now will you please stop talking about it?”

“Whatever you say, Celia.”

Lizzie grinned. Celia huffed at her. There was no use arguing. Besides, her feelings for Truett Beverly were nothing she wanted to discuss, even with herself. She was going back to Nashville, and the sooner the better.

“But I do think you should go offer the poor man a dipper of water.” Lizzie was turned toward the stove so Celia couldn’t see her expression.

“I’m not even dressed!”

“Well, go get dressed. You don’t want him to see you in your nightgown, do you?”

“Of course not!” Celia yanked her wrapper tighter around her waist. She turned and stomped to the bedroom to get her clothes. Just to prove to Lizzie that she didn’t care, she picked out her ugliest work dress.

Should she really go outside and offer Truett water? Part of her thought it was the nice thing to do, but part of her just couldn’t do it. He would think she was flirting with him! Wasn’t it Rebecca in the Bible who snagged herself a husband by offering to draw water? She was sure Truett had read that story, too. No, Lizzie was just trying to play matchmaker again. He could get his own water.

When they finished preparing breakfast, Lizzie stood in the back door and called out to Truett. “Will you come in and eat with us?”

Celia stood back as far as she could from the window. Truett straightened and looked back at Lizzie. His hair was dark with sweat and curled against his temples. “Thank you, Lizzie, but I’ll grab a bite at home. I’m about finished up here. I need to get to the office.” He smiled and his eyes sparkled in the sun.

“I’ll wrap you up a biscuit anyway. Celia makes good biscuits.”

Lizzie slipped back inside, grinning from ear to ear. Celia wanted to snap, “Why should it matter to him if I make good biscuits?” But she held her tongue.

A few minutes later, Truett came to the back door. Celia stood back as Lizzie went outside and begged him again to come in and eat something.

“No thanks, Miss Lizzie, but much obliged anyway.”

She handed him a cloth bag with three biscuits with butter and plum jelly. He thanked her. As she leaned toward him to give him a hug, he clasped her shoulder.

“No, you’ll get yourself all sweaty.”

Celia had to at least thank him. But the picture he made standing there, his hair damp on his forehead, his work shirt clinging to him, and his face ruddy and handsome, like David in the Bible . . . she wasn’t sure she could even speak.

The very idea.

Celia stepped forward until she was standing in the doorway. “Thank you for all the work you did for us this morning.”

Truett gave her a friendly nod. “My pleasure, Miss Celia.”

His eyes lingered on hers and the corners of his mouth quirked higher before he finally turned away. Her stomach fluttered as she gazed after him.

Later that morning, Celia stood by the stool at the back door, washing Tempie’s muddy foot.

Her little sister hadn’t wanted to be left behind when Harley crossed the creek to chase after a lizard. But as soon as her bare foot encountered mud, she started screaming. Celia heard her all the way from the kitchen.

“Tempie, sweetie, please don’t go near the stream again. It’s always muddy around there, and you hate mud. Besides, I don’t want you to get on a snake.”

“Truett said his dog got bit by a rattlesnake and died.” Tempie poked out her lip. “Poor puppy.”

And if one of those rattlesnakes bit you or Harley . . . Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t want to scare the child, so she said, “Just please don’t go out of the yard. Wouldn’t you rather play with your dollies than go traipsing through the woods?”

Tempie’s eyes held a frown, her lip poking out even further. Celia steeled herself against the coming tantrum, but instead, Lizzie burst through the back door.

“Mrs. Beverly and Griff are coming up the lane!”

Celia dried Tempie’s feet with her apron. “There, all clean.”

Tempie ran off to greet their visitors.

Celia’s worry about Griff being unsafe was the only thing that kept her from being glad of the distraction. Visitors were about the only thing that broke the monotony of life in the country. She still daydreamed about the shop she wanted to own in Nashville, but somehow sewing didn’t hold the same charm it once had. She supposed it was because she was always so tired from taking care of Tempie and Harley, the gardening, cooking, cleaning . . .

Celia took off her apron as she went into the house and smoothed back the wisps of hair that had escaped from the tight bun on the back of her head. Her brown gingham dress wasn’t exactly the height of fashion, but she figured it hardly mattered out here. All she needed to fit in perfectly was a matching gingham bonnet.

She watched out the window as Lizzie greeted Mrs. Beverly on the porch, while Griff, who stood head and shoulders taller than his mother, lurked behind her on the steps. Celia shuddered, remembering Griff with the huge gray boulder over his head, preparing to throw it at his petite mother.

Mrs. Beverly’s smile lit up her entire face and changed her appearance so that she hardly looked like the same person who had cowered in fear before her son. Griff’s appearance was also greatly altered. His mouth hung open and he had the look of a shy little boy, which contrasted oddly with his manly size.

Mrs. Beverly hugged Lizzie with one arm, a basket hanging from her other arm. “Oh, you sweet little darlin’! Where’s that precious boy with the hurt leg? I brought him a peach pie and some blackberry jelly.”

Will hobbled into the room behind her and sat down on the couch, propping his leg up on a stool.

Lizzie came in the house, followed by Mrs. Beverly, Tempie, and Griff. Lizzie accepted the cloth-covered basket from Mrs. Beverly and a basket of strawberries from Griff and took them to the kitchen.

Mrs. Beverly bent to hug Tempie, who was clinging to her skirt. “Tempie! What have you been at, you sweet thing?” She straightened and, her arms open wide, came to hug Celia. “And here’s the older sister, as beautiful a young lady as we’ve ever seen around Bethel Springs. How are you, dear?”

Celia smiled. “I’m very well, thank you. Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Oh, no, dear, don’t trouble yourself.” She ignored the chairs and grasped Celia’s hand. “I want to apologize for not coming by sooner. I’m your neighbor and it was remiss of me not to welcome you.” She wrinkled her forehead. “You don’t know how sorry I am about your poor father, the dear man. And now your mother’s health . . . Well, if you need any blessed thing you just call on me. And I mean that.”

Mrs. Beverly’s eye caught Will lying on the horsehair couch. “Oh, Will. You precious thing. Just look at that leg.” She went to him and patted his cheek and peered into his face. “Your color is good. Any medicines you want, you just let me know and I’ll get them from Truett. I’ll make sure he checks on you regularly.”

Mrs. Beverly sank down on an upholstered chair. Griff, seeing his mother wasn’t going anywhere, turned with slumping shoulders and shuffled back out the front door. Through the window Celia watched him sit on the edge of the porch where Harley was playing with some wooden soldiers and horses. Harley gave Griff some of his men and horses and they started playing.

Tempie skipped to her dolls and tea set in a corner of the room and talked quietly to them, taking up the little chipped plates then setting them out again in front of her inanimate friends.

Lizzie came back in and sat on the other side of Celia.

“Sweet little Lizzie.” Mrs. Beverly reached out her hand, and Lizzie hurried over and gave her another hug. “She’s such an angel, the way she took over the household after your father, bless his soul, went to heaven. Don’t you think so, Celia?”

“Yes, ma’am. I admire my sister and brother very much.” Lizzie and Will had shown a lot of maturity. Unlike me, who stayed away at my job and let the full burden fall on my younger siblings. Was Mrs. Beverly thinking the same thing?

“And you, my dear, giving up your employment and dream of opening a dress shop to come and take care of your family . . .” She smiled sadly at Celia, then shook her head.

Celia shifted in her chair. Should she try to explain to the woman that she hadn’t given up, that she still intended to go back? But that was uncertain now, although Celia was still hoping to find a way.

Mrs. Beverly continued. “We all must make sacrifices for our families. You may not know this, Miss Celia, but Mr. Beverly, ever since the war, has been living with his brother in Columbia, Tennessee, helping him run his brick manufacturing business. You’ll meet Mr. Beverly. He comes home every so often. Mr. Beverly and his brother, William Beverly, both have good heads for business, which is fortunate for us, I suppose. After the war, things were so altered.”

Mrs. Beverly frowned almost imperceptibly, then flashed a wide smile. “But ‘all things work together for good to them that love God.’ And Mr. Beverly comes home whenever he can, bless him.” She lowered her voice. “Griff doesn’t like to make the trip to Columbia. It quite unsettles him. So we make out with Truett’s help. Families do what they have to do to take care of each other.”

Celia peeked out the screen door for a glimpse of Griff. He was still sitting with Harley as they played with their toy men and horses. Griff’s voice drifted through the door to Celia. She listened to try to make out what he was saying.

“It’s the hooded horseman! Bang, bang! Take that, mean old sheriff!”

Harley’s voice answered with, “I’ll get you, hooded horseman! You can’t get away from me! Bang, bang! You’re dead!”

“And how is your mother, the poor dear?” Mrs. Beverly said, drawing her attention away from Griff and Harley.

“She is well in body, I believe, though not so well in mind. Speaking of Mother, let me go get her. She’s sitting in the kitchen. I’m sure some company will do her good.” Celia went hurrying through the hallway to the kitchen. In a coaxing voice, she urged her mother to get up and come to the parlor to visit with Mrs. Beverly. They made their way as quickly as her mother’s shuffling, slippered feet would take her into the room. Celia sat her in the most comfortable chair, and then took her place again. Mrs. Beverly went over and spoke kindly to her, holding her hands as she patiently re-introduced herself, repeating her name. Then she came back to her chair near Celia’s.

As effusive as Mrs. Beverly was, Celia sensed a sincerity in her that was not unlike her son’s. She couldn’t help but like Truett’s mother.

Mrs. Beverly spoke quietly. “I’m so sorry. I do hope she will learn to cast her sorrow on the Lord. It is hard.” Mrs. Beverly nodded and a faraway look came into her gaze. “I lost two sons in the war. I don’t know if you knew. Truett and Griff had two older brothers. But they’re gone now.” Her voice became thin and quiet as she spoke the last sentence.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Celia’s heart clenched. Truett couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, Will’s age, when the war ended.

“You know,” Mrs. Beverly brightened, smiling again, “Will reminds me so much of Truett at that age. He even has the same blond hair and blue eyes. So handsome. Truett was such a good boy, always looking after Griff. Griff is actually older than Truett, but Truett’s always had to watch out for him, ever since the accident.”

Mrs. Beverly clasped one hand over her chest. “Listen to me, jabbering on. I’ll be forgot what it was I came to tell you.”

She paused and smiled, looking first at Lizzie and then at Celia.

Lizzie leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Just something for you young folks.” She leaned forward, too, whispering conspiratorially. “We’re having a dance at the big cotton warehouse in Bethel Springs next Saturday. Won’t that be fun?”

“A dance! Hurray!” Lizzie jumped out of her seat and laughed.

Celia raised her eyebrows. Lizzie had never been to a dance before, and Celia wasn’t so sure she was ready for one now, at only fourteen.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Beverly smiled at Celia. “Our country dances aren’t so formal as the ones in Nashville. Children of all ages come and have lemonade and cake and pie and play games. The older ladies watch over them. It’s all very proper. More like a picnic, actually.”

“Oh. But Mother is still in mourning. Are you sure it’s proper?”

Mrs. Beverly squeezed her hand. “It’s been six months. No one would think anything of you young people coming to the party. And of course, your mother must come, too, to watch the little ones.”

As a widow, Mama’s full mourning period lasted longer. For at least a year she would be expected to wear black, with a veil covering her face in public, and would not be expected to attend social events. But apparently Mrs. Beverly felt the Fourth of July dance was an exception. Or perhaps formal mourning practices were not as adhered to in the informal setting of Bethel Springs.

“Now the dance is going to be July third, that’s a week from this Saturday. The Fourth of July is on a Sunday this year, so we’re just going to celebrate The Glorious Fourth a day early.”

Lizzie clapped her hands and Tempie joined in, squealing with laughter, even though she probably had no idea what she was clapping about. Even Will was smiling.

Mrs. Beverly rose from her chair. “I’d better run along. I need to go tell Mrs. Prichard and Ruby and, oh, just a whole host of people that I haven’t told yet. I’ll see all of you there.” She chucked Tempie under chin on the way out, making the child giggle.

That evening in the lamplight, Celia sat at the desk in the corner, penning a letter to the horse farm in Kentucky where her father had bought the four broodmares and one stallion, asking if they’d buy three of the mares back. One mare was still missing. And the stallion that had kicked Daddy. A cold chill slithered down her spine just thinking about that horse. She was glad he was lost, since she’d rather not have to look on the creature that had killed her father and caused her family so much grief.

Having finished her letter, Celia took out her sewing. The fabric was a fine muslin, striped with a pattern of tiny flowers. She imagined the lady who would wear it someday.

“Celia?”

She looked up at Lizzie, who sat nearby with her embroidery in her lap. She had stopped stitching and was staring at her with a tiny smile. Uh-oh. What was she thinking about? From the look on her face . . .

“What did you think of Truett’s mother, Mrs. Beverly?”

“I thought she was the most effusive, most demonstrative woman I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, Celia! How could you say that?” Lizzie’s look of horror rebuked her. “She’s very sweet. I love her. She’s good and kind and always thinking of others. Admit that you liked her.” Lizzie’s voice was stern—especially for Lizzie.

“I never said I didn’t like her. In spite of her effusiveness, she was sincere and sweet. I liked her. Satisfied?”

“Yes.” Lizzie smiled, a bit too smugly. She took up her embroidery again. “Mrs. Beverly would make a wonderful mother-in-law, don’t you think?”

Celia sighed. “I do like Mrs. Beverly and I’m thankful she’s been so kind to all of you, but I’m tired of you talking to me about Truett.” Celia stood and walked to the window and looked out. There was nothing to see, and it was dark anyway, so she paced back to stand near Lizzie.

“He may be a good man and might make a good husband, if I were after one. But you know I could never be content sitting home, waiting for my man to come home so I could cook for him. I couldn’t bear to listen to him tell me all his opinions just so I could adopt them.” She gestured at the ceiling, wishing she could make Lizzie understand the churning inside her. And yet, perhaps it was best she didn’t. Perhaps if Lizzie knew how she felt, she might not like her anymore. But something compelled her to keep trying.

“And I don’t want to live here. I’d go crazy! I miss the noise of town and the people hurrying around me. Here, no one hurries. There’s nowhere to go! Can you honestly see me married to a doctor, living out here, fighting with Mrs. Beverly over who was going to give Truett the first kiss when he arrives home?”

“Oh, Celia!” Lizzie threw her head back to look at the ceiling. “You’re impossible!”

“Maybe I am, but I just don’t want to be like Mama. She was happy and content to take care of the house and hurry to the door the moment Daddy came home. I’m just not made that way. I don’t want my life to be over when I marry. Or have my husband die and wish I was dead too.”

Part of her longed to be married and to have that closeness, but then she imagined being married and something happening to her husband, a sudden illness or accident, sending her into the mental state Mother was currently in. Why would she do that to herself, when she could be doing what she really loved—creating new dresses, designing new patterns, setting up her own shop, keeping the books—succeeding! Why would she want to end her life before it had begun? Why were men the only ones who should strive for success?

Her heart was pounding. She pressed a hand to her eyes and took a deep breath.

“All right, Celia,” Lizzie said quietly. “But don’t blame me when you end up a lonely old maid.”

Celia pursed her lips. “Look here, Elizabeth Wilcox. I have nothing against marriage. I will probably get married someday. But I have things I want to do first, exciting, significant things.”

“That’s fine. But will you come to the dance next Saturday? Will you dance with someone if they ask you? It won’t endanger your plans if you dance a few times.”

Celia looked through lowered eyelashes at Lizzie. “For your information, I like to dance. But maybe nobody will ask me. Young men never asked me to dance at home.”

She didn’t really like talking about this, but she would like to know why she’d never been popular with the young men of her family’s acquaintance. Other girls—some rather homely—garnered half a dozen marriage proposals by the time they were Celia’s age. She’d never had one.

“Mother always said I intimidate men, scare them off. But maybe I’m just not pretty enough.”

“You’re beautiful!”

Men did seem to stare at her on the street when she passed them, and young men sometimes became tongue-tied when they were first introduced to her. But they never came around to court her. Not one.

“I think Mother was right.” Lizzie sat up straighter. “You do scare them off. But not because you’re not pretty. It’s because you’re beautiful and smart, you know exactly what you want. And they know it’s not them. You don’t make them feel important, and men like to feel important.”

“Listen to you, so wise.” Celia smiled. “And only fourteen.”

Lizzie threw a ball of embroidery thread at her.

Celia laughed. “I mean it!”

“Well, I mean it, too. I know you don’t want any man who’d be afraid of you. But Truett Beverly isn’t afraid of you, is he?”

“Fine.” It could never be, wasn’t meant to be, so she wished Lizzie would stop talking about it. “If you’ll stop pushing Truett Beverly at me morning, noon, and night, if he asks me, I’ll dance with him. All right?”

“All right.” Lizzie looked down, but Celia could see she was smiling.

Why did she feel like she’d just been tricked?