The One Who Waits for Me Read online

  The One Who

  Waits for Me

  Lori Copeland

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon

  Cover photos © Masterfile / Alamy / iStockphoto / Shutterstock

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  THE ONE WHO WAITS FOR ME

  Copyright © 2011 by Copeland, Inc.

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  The one who waits for me / Lori Copeland.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-3018-5 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4167-9 (eBook)

  1. North Carolina—History—1865—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3553.O6336O55 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  2010050021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 / LB-SK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In Memoriam

  My brother, Joseph Patrick Smart

  1936–2011

  My aunt, Madge Pottenger Martin

  1914–2011

  Willow and Ditto,

  two very special cats who gave

  amazing love to their owner

  1988–2010

  1994–2010

  I am God, and there is none like me.

  ISAIAH 46:9

  Contents

  In Memoriam

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Love Blooms in Winter

  Other Books by Lori Copeland

  Harvest House Website

  Prologue

  Roanoke, Virginia, summer, 1865

  You can’t be serious,” Pierce said. “If we take the west road, it’ll take days longer to get there.”

  “Serious as a rusty nail,” replied Preach. He stood back and traced the narrow line on the map running from Richmond to North Carolina with a lean, tanned finger. The men stood in the dirt road with a hot sun baking their backs. “I agree it’s the longer route, but the roads are better kept and we’ll make faster time.”

  More discussion broke out among the men: Second Lieutenant Samuel “Preach” Madison, twenty-six, and First Lieutenant Gray Eagle, reportedly the finest scout in the 212th Company. Gray Eagle was twenty-five and Cherokee. Both men had fought for the Confederacy. Captain Pierce Montgomery, twenty-four, had fought for the Union, though neither Preach nor Gray Eagle held it against him.

  The war was declared over last spring when General Robert E. Lee surrendered on April 9, but it wasn’t until General Stand Watie rode into Doaksville on June 23 that the last Confederate officer surrendered his command. The shaky cease-fire held, but the stench of war still permeated the soft Southern air.

  The soldiers had met some two hundred miles back at a crossroads. Pierce and Gray Eagle had ridden the first hundred miles together, and when the pair bumped into Preach at a trading post, he accepted the invitation to join them on the long trek home.

  Everywhere the men looked they saw a country struggling with upheaval and plagued with instability as newly freed slaves sought to find work and shelter for their families. The old adage “safety in numbers” rang true, and the men heeded common sense.

  Straightening, Pierce flashed a white grin sheathed in sun-bronzed features. “So what say ye, gentleman? Do we choose the shorter route with admittedly bad roads and more rivers and streams to cross, or do we take the west trail that’s longer but with supposedly fewer headaches?”

  Preach removed his hat and studied the map again. “Trust me. We’ll make faster time if we ride west.”

  Pierce shook his head. “And I say we take the shortest route available. Let’s just get home.”

  Gray Eagle stepped up, his black eyes solemn. Tall and heavily muscled from long hours in the saddle, he was a striking man. “Shall we flip a coin?” The Native American’s precise English was in stark contrast to his looks. Taught by his white mother, the Confederate scout had the highest education among the group.

  “Well, I suppose that’s fair,” Pierce conceded. “But I still say the shorter way is better.”

  Removing a coin from his leather pouch, Gray Eagle rested it in his hand. “Who calls?”

  “The captain,” Preach said.

  Pierce shook his head. “I thought we’d agreed that the war is over. I was ‘captain’ on the field. Here I’m just Pierce.”

  “Sorry.” Preach’s white teeth gleamed in his glistening mahogany features. “A man gets used to takin’ orders, and it sorta feels like mutiny not to let a superior officer lead.”

  Shaking his head again, Pierce said, “Flip the coin. I call heads.”

  Gray Eagle looked at the other two. “Heads, we take the shorter route with bad roads and more rivers to cross. Tails, we take the longer route but make better time.”

  The black man grinned. “Either way, I shore do want to get home as fast as possible. I can taste those hot biscuits baking in the oven now. Flaky and dripping with butter and blackstrap molasses. Umm, umm.”

  None of them had seen butter in years. Or hot anything.

  Their eyes were focused on Gray Eagle’s nut brown hand as the Cherokee tossed the coin. It twirled in the air, over and over, and then landed in his palm. Closing his fingers over it, his normally serious features broke and he smiled. “What will it be? Heads or tails?”

  “Just look at it,” Pierce said, snappishly. He removed a bandana from around his neck and mopped at the sweat now rolling down his temples.

  Gray Eagle’s eyes twinkled. “Oh? Is the captain anxious to get home? Got a lady waiting for him?”

  “No lady. Just a fine piece of land.” Despite the heat, he couldn’t help grinning. “Bought me a small tract not far from my pa’s plantation.” Pierce
patted the vest pocket where he kept the deed close. He had spent every last cent he had in the world on that land. He was going to eventually build a home, raise a few cattle, a little cotton, and maybe consider taking a wife—some fine filly with a longing to serve her man. Grow fat and lazy. He’d had a bellyful of fighting. He was never going to lift a hand in violence for the rest of his life. A man could shoot him in the back, and he wouldn’t return fire. He’d lie down and die with a sigh of peace, that was how sick he was of turmoil. Once he got to his land, he was going to sit back and drink pitcher after pitcher of sweet tea, something he hadn’t enjoyed in years.

  Preach couldn’t help smiling as well. “I’m with you, sir. I can’t wait to smell the magnolia blossoms in the front yard and eat Ma’s sweet potato pies. How come you bought that passel of land, Captain? Didn’t you say your pa has thousands of acres?”

  “That’s Pa’s land. I want my own.” Pierce patted his pocket one more time for reassurance. In a few days he’d see his land. Pa would most likely be upset that his son had bought property nearby without consulting him first, but when Pierce had seen the advertisement for the acreage in the Savannah Daily News and Herald, he’d wired the money and became a landowner faster than a loose woman could wink her eye.

  “Same goes for me,” Peach said. “A roof to call my own. I can’t wait to sleep in a decent bed.”

  “And take a bath,” Pierce added. “Hot water and clean towels.”

  “Sissies,” Gray Eagle said. “Clean beds, hot food. Didn’t the war make men out of you?”

  “Look at the coin!” the other two shouted.

  Grinning, Gray Eagle began, “Now, gentlemen. You’re—”

  Pierce reached for the scout’s hand and pried open his palm. Three pairs of eyes focused on the coin.

  Tails.

  Pierce groaned. “Flip again.”

  “Sorry. We ride west.” Gray Eagle slid the coin back into his pouch. “Don’t worry. We probably won’t be delayed more than a couple of days at most.”

  Saddling up, Preach said, “You could take the shorter route, Captain. A coin flip doesn’t mean we have to stick together.”

  “You certainly could go your own way…if you were a fool.” Grinning, Gray Eagle reined in beside his friends. “Which you aren’t. Right, brother?”

  Sometimes Pierce wondered, but he knew the wisdom of the scout’s words. He’d counted the hours till he’d be back home since he’d ridden away five years ago, and it irked him to waste even a day. Delay was pure aggravation. Tightening his hold on the reins, he said quietly, “Okay, but we pick up the pace. If the roads are better and we have fewer rivers to ford, we should be able to make it in the same amount of time.”

  Preach frowned. “You’re sure anxious to be home.”

  “I thought you were too.”

  “I am, but a couple of days isn’t going to sour the milk.”

  Pierce nudged his mare’s flanks. “No, but there’s no point in delaying.”

  Nodding, Preach shifted in his saddle leather. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

  Pierce fell in behind the two men and the group started off again.

  Home.

  Peace and quiet. Thank You, God.

  He was sure he’d seen the last of misery.

  One

  Joanie?”

  Beth’s sister stirred, coughing.

  Beth gently shook Joanie’s shoulder again, and the young woman opened her eyes, confusion shining in their depths.

  “Pa?”

  “He passed a few minutes ago. Trella will be waiting for us.”

  Joanie lifted her wrist to her mouth and smothered sudden sobbing. “I’m scared, Beth.”

  “So am I. Dress quickly.”

  The young woman slid out of bed, her bare feet touching the dirt-packed floor. Outside, the familiar sound of pond frogs nearly drowned out soft movements, though there was no need to be silent any more. Ma had preceded Pa in death two days ago. Beth and Joanie had been waiting, praying for the hour of Pa’s death to come swiftly. Together, they lifted their father’s silent form and gently carried him out the front door. He was a slight man, easy to carry. Beth’s heart broke as they took him to the shallow grave they had dug the day before. Ma’s fever had taken her swiftly. Pa had held on for as long as he could. Beth could still hear his voice in her ear: “Take care of your sister, little Beth.” He didn’t have to remind her that there was no protection at all now to save either of them from Uncle Walt and his son, Bear. Beth had known all of her life that one day she and Joanie would have to escape this place—a place of misery.

  It was her father’s stubborn act that started the situation Beth and Joanie were immersed in. Pa had hid the plantation deed from his brother and refused to tell him where it was. Their land had belonged to a Jornigan for two hundred years, but Walt claimed that because he was the older brother and allowed Pa to live on his land the deed belonged to him. Pa was a proud man and had no respect for his brother, though his family depended on Walt for a roof over their heads and food on their table. For meager wages they worked Walt’s fields, picked his cotton, and suffered his tyranny along with the other workers. Pa took the location of the hidden deed to his grave—almost. Walt probably figured Beth knew where it was because Pa always favored her. And she did, but she would die before she shared the location with her vile uncle.

  By the light of the waning moon the women made short work of placing the corpse in the grave and then filling the hole with dirt. Finished, they stood back and Joanie bowed her head in prayer. “Dear Father, thank You for taking Ma and Pa away from this world. I know they’re with You now, and I promise we won’t cry.” Hot tears streaming down both women’s cheeks belied her words.

  Returning to the shanty, Joanie removed her nightshirt and put on boy’s clothes. Dressed in similar denim trousers and a dark shirt, Beth turned and picked up the oil lamp and poured the liquid carefully around the one-room shanty. Yesterday she had packed Ma’s best dishes and quilts and dragged them to the root cellar. It was useless effort. She would never be back here, but she couldn’t bear the thought of fire consuming Ma’s few pretty things. She glanced over her shoulder when the stench of fuel heightened Joanie’s cough. The struggle to breathe had been a constant companion since her younger sister’s birth.

  Many nights Beth lay tense and fearful, certain that come light Joanie would be gone. Now that Ma and Pa were dead, Joanie was the one thing left on this earth that held meaning for Beth. She put down the lamp on the table. Walking over to Joanie, she buttoned the last button on her sister’s shirt and tugged her hat brim lower.

  “Do you have everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go outside and wait.”

  Nodding, Joanie paused briefly beside the bed where Pa’s tall frame had been earlier. She hesitantly reached out and touched the empty spot. “May you rest in peace, Pa.”

  Moonlight shone through the one glass pane facing the south. Beth shook her head. “He was a good man. It’s hard to believe Uncle Walt had the same mother and father.”

  Joanie’s breath caught. “Pa was so good and Walt is so… evil.”

  “If it were up to me, he would be lying in that grave outside the window, not Pa.”

  Beth tried to recall one single time in her life when Walt Jornigan had ever shown an ounce of mercy to anyone. Certainly not to his wife when she was alive. Certainly not to Beth or Joanie. If Joanie was right and there was a God, what would Walt say when he faced Him? She shook the thought aside. She had no compassion for the man or reverence for the God her sister believed in and worshipped.

  “We have to go now, Joanie.”

  “Yes.” She picked up her Bible from the little table beside the rocking chair and then followed Beth outside the shanty, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Pausing, Joanie bent and succumbed to a coughing spasm. Beth helplessly waited, hoping her sister could make the anticipated trip through the cotton fields. The women had planned for days
now to escape if Ma and Pa both passed.

  Beth asked gently, “Can you do this?”

  Joanie held up a restraining hand. “Just need…a minute.”

  Beth wasn’t certain that they could wait long; time was short. Dawn would be breaking soon, and then Walt would discover that Pa had died and the sisters were missing. But they had to leave. Joanie’s asthma was getting worse. Each gasping breath left her drained and hopeless, and Walt refused to let her see a doctor.

  When Joanie had mentioned the notice in a discarded Savannah newspaper advertising a piece of land, Beth knew she had to buy the property and provide a home for Joanie. Pa had allowed her and Joanie to keep the wage Uncle Walt paid monthly. Over the years they had saved enough to survive, and the owner was practically giving the small acreage away. They wouldn’t be able to build a permanent structure on their land until she found work, but she and Joanie would own their own place where no one could control them. Beth planned to eventually buy a cow and a few setting hens. At first they could live in a tent—Beth’s eyes roamed the small shanty. It would be better than how they lived now.

  Joanie’s spasm passed and she glanced up. “Okay. You…can do it now.”

  Beth struck a match.

  She glanced at Joanie. The young woman nodded and clutched her Bible to her chest. Beth had found it in one of the cotton picker’s beds after he had moved on and given it to Joanie. Her sister had kept the Bible hidden from sight for fear that Walt would spot it on one of his weekly visits. Beth had known, as Joanie had, that if their uncle had found it he’d have had extra reason to hand out his daily lashing. Joanie kept the deed to their new land between its pages.

  After pitching the lighted match into the cabin, Beth quickly closed the heavy door. Stepping to the window, she watched the puddles of kerosene ignite one by one. In just minutes flames were licking the walls and gobbling up the dry tinder. A peculiar sense of relief came over her when she saw tendrils of fire racing through the room, latching onto the front curtain and encompassing the bed.

  “Don’t watch.” Joanie slipped her hand into Beth’s. “We have to hurry before Uncle Walt spots the flames.”