Historical Fiction
Date Published: Sept. 29 2024
Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.
Three women, Callie, Lillian, and Lydia faced an adversary that would
change their lives forever. He resided in the only home that Callie had ever
known, ensnaring her into his vicious web of dominance and cruelty. His
insatiable thirst for exacting fear soon traps Lillian and Lydia in his
household. In due course, his own demise takes him down the road of no
return.
EXCERPT
Author’s Note
Locked in silence. During the early to mid-1920s, women were forced to keep silent about domestic violence, unwanted pregnancies, or sexual abuse. They were hidden or sent away, but mostly, they stayed with no relief and no way out. As blankets of extreme poverty lay upon the Appalachian Mountains, women’s mental and physical survival relied heavily on their will to live.
This book is based on true events of three women living in a time when there were no shelters, no crisis center, no groups to meet with, or counselors to call to help heal their troubled dreams or the scars that took root in their souls. Their circumstances forced each woman on a journey of brutality, resilience, love, and forgiveness, and united them in ways they could not have foreseen.
Callie was strong-willed and determined. Her home was in the hills of East Tennessee, where her mother died with the birth of another sibling. Lillian, a young girl of eighteen, grew up in the western mountains of North Carolina during the Great Influenza Epidemic that took her father’s life and left her mother and sisters anguishing in poverty. Lydia, who had been briefly abandoned during the beginning of her life, tried to fit in with her new surroundings, though her appearance was strikingly different from Callie. It was Lillian’s love story that brought the three together and led to a blueprint for endurance and survival.
Callie
1917
The flames were fading to embers, and the night laid heavy on my shoulders, carrying a weight of which no child should be asked to bear. Failing to anticipate the shrill sound that pierced my tender ears and eventually my broken heart, I reached for the poker and angrily jabbed at the blackness of the fire, sensing the miseries that were coming. I sat motionless, gripped with fear, until only a flicker remained, and without thought I threw another split of wood on top of the smoldering cinders, daring the flame to die. Dread twisted my gut as her pleading screams exposed her helplessness, causing tears to pool in my eyes and spill down my frantic face.
Before the creak of the door sounded, his voice bellowed, and I shot off the chair.
“You lazy piece of shit!” he shouted. “Git me some water.”
Now, I knew I wasn’t lazy, because Mama had taught me a lot about managing the household. I cooked and scrubbed the cabin floor on my hands and knees. The garden rows were clean. The weeds were hoed out almost as soon as they broke ground. I looked after the young’uns and pretty near did everything she did.
Papa, with his dark brown, crinkled eyes sunk in a face of weathered skin, scowled. There had never been any attempt to hide his feelings beneath that haystack of burnished beard. Now his roughened hands flailed like a scarecrow in the garden, trying to keep the scavengers away. I knew when to mind my own business and keep myself from his reach if I could. Anger and frustration raged within his soul on this night when the death angel slipped through the cracks of our home, snatching life away from us and stripping Papa of his persistent control.
I grabbed the bucket and flew out the door. My tattered nightgown and bare feet were accustomed to the wind, although it whipped around my legs as cold and calculating as a queen bee’s deadly sting. The dry season was upon us, and we started rationing water from the cistern last month. I pumped the handle and prayed there would be enough to lessen Mama’s fever, and soon the weighted pot challenged my strength. One last boost, and I hooked the slopping water pot over the fire, spilling so slightly a little on my garment.
As I ladled the boiling water into the bowl, a chill passed through the warming room, and awareness perked every part of my soul. Silence slipped in and stole the air out of my breath, and my eyes glazed over, numbing me to the blistered burn on my hand. But I continued to carry the pan of water toward the still-barred door. It was of dire importance that I delivered the water. I could save her.
Papa stormed out of the room, oblivious to my presence. The smell and sight of the bloodied bed overpowered me, lurching me backward. Her eyes were closed, but the steady rise and fall of her chest offered new hope that she would survive the birth. Her newborn boy lay swaddled beside her. Still! His soul had left him before he could start living. Mama had already born my three older brothers and two younger sisters, who slept soundly in the attic.
Mama slept too, and I gently wiped the beads of droplets from her forehead. They laid like dew, which had settled on tender leaves after a throbbing sun had scorched them. I tried to absorb every part of her face as I remoistened the thread-bare rag, then wiped down her arms and legs so I could remember her and her teaching us how to be good to each other. My finger traced every line in her face, as though following a map, showing a person direction on which way to go next. Then I followed the edge of her hair, down her cheeks, toward her lips, which uttered no message.
Whispering to her, I touched her so gently, “Mama, tell me. Tell me what I’m supposed to do next.” But she lay there, unmoving.
The door snapped open suddenly and forcefully like branches loaded with ice and snow, causing me to catch my breath in a hold. Papa staggered back into the room, smelling of stale whiskey, and blabbering words of ill-temper.
“What are you doing in here, you sorry…Git out! Are you trying to kill her?”
“No, Papa!” I shrieked. And I ran, leaving Mama alone with him. I stumbled to the attic, where the others slept, and huddled in the darkest corner, unable to suppress my sobs of hopelessness. Somehow, I knew she would be gone before the rooster’s crow.
Earlier in the night, Hazel had awakened from her fitful sleep. She was seven years old and almost as tall as me, but skinner than bird legs.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked. “You’re always trying to do everything by yourself.” Hazel was soft-spoken, but the tenseness of the night enveloped an urgency and impatience that we all felt. She begged to see Mama and promised not to cry. So, I relented and allowed her to do so. We crept into the room where she lay quietly. Papa was pacing on the porch like a mountain cat cornered in a cave.
He had never been a compassionate man. Whether he loved Mama, I couldn’t say for sure. His needs were unimportant now. As Hazel reached out to touch Mama’s trembling hand, she fell into a heap on the floor. I carried her limp body up the steps to her waiting bed, tucking her next to Rachel. A mop head of black curls lay tousled around her four-year-old chubby face. Our older brothers Peter, Baxter, and Stanley lay asleep in a bed on the other side of the room. The only privacy we all had was a quilt thrown over a line, dividing the space. The attic showed no mercy for any human.
I then slipped back to Mama’s bedside. Her eyes fell away as I warmed my cold hand against her feverish brow. She slept for a while, and when she awakened, she tried to speak, but no sound came. Her eyes were covered with sadness, and I was afraid. The sips of cool water I offered, quenched her parched mouth, but the quiver on her lips forced me to turn my head away, for fear that she would see my desperation and longing for her. She must have known her fate as she drifted into a restless sleep again. I pulled my chair closer, watching her chest rise and fall. I willed my breath to the same rhythm, praying that I could breathe more life into her frail body.
There was no doctor. No midwife. No money. I kissed her cheek and said, “Mama, don’t leave me. I need you.”
But this morning, sadness and despair ruled over the cold. My own will was broken, ladened with grief. They had taken her now soulless body before daybreak. All that was left of her and her baby were the blood-stained bed sheets that were witness to a ravage of pain that bound them together.
* * *
The wildflowers lay heavy against one another, sprouting among cracks and crevices, undeterred by a passel of rocks that had owned the land before Papa. I drank in their fragrance as I carefully gathered each one. There was still a crispness in the air, spring was nearby, waiting, teasing us into believing winter storms had passed. I gathered my shawl around me to fend off the bite and walked on toward Mama’s grave. It had been a long, unforgiving year, but we had pulled together. Life in the country was hard and brutal, drudging out a living, with few farming tools and little money. A meager existence was eked out of the unrelenting ground. Now, Mama didn’t have to worry about harvesting the field, canning, and the daily care of the children.
I brushed off the dust that had clung to her tombstone and placed the flowers at the base. That had become my responsibility, along with pacifying Papa, impossible as it was. I sighed, told Mama goodbye again, and headed toward home.
At first, the neighbors came by, bringing freshly made meals and sugar cakes, but no one came now, because of Papa. He ran them off, saying he didn’t need their charity. However, at the supper table, there were only biscuits or cornbread to eat and milk from our cow, to drink. Sometimes, Rachel would get the sniffles at night from the hunger in her belly. We never talked about Mama when Papa was around. He wouldn’t allow it. I followed his command when, in the solitude of our bed, Hazel and Rachel would cry out, longing for her.
“Hush,” I ordered. “It doesn’t do you any good to talk about her. That won’t bring her back.” Whimpering, they would fall into a tumble of nightmares, cradled in my arms, while my thoughts of her holding me the way she used to gave way to exhaustion from the chores of the day.
Rising before the morning sun dried the dewed windows, I gathered wood from the porch as I had on every morning. Hazel and Rachel, blanket wrapped tightly around them before the warmth came from the fire, screamed with both fear and delight when the wood popped and sparked, tossing an ember at their feet. While I went to the smokehouse to cut off a slab of bacon from the quarter of a pig Uncle Haynes had given us, the boys scuttled off to gather some eggs. Outside, I could hear the roughhousing between the three of them, but as soon as they reached the back steps, I could almost feel their backs straightening, and quiet composure ensue. Papa didn’t tolerate any nonsense. His critical tongue and well-worn belt often flailed to the boys and occasionally us girls. Mama had always been our safety net from his ire. Now, there was no one.
Once a month, he hitched Jack, our old mule, to the wagon and rode into town to buy flour and feed. When he was away for the day, I would make sugar cookies and treat Hazel and Rachel to them. They giggled with delight, and after they finished, they chugged down a tin cup of milk. On one occasion, I cut a piece of sackcloth that I had saved, tucked a ball of twine underneath, snipped a small length, and fashioned it to appear as a head. Then I sewed buttons on for the eyes and nose. I hid those makeshift dolls behind my back, taunting them to guess what mystery I held. They squealed and sprung to their feet, grabbing at my arms to see the surprise.
“Git back,” I said, “and I’ll show you.” They snapped back to attention. Then, I thrust the ragged dolls toward them, and they clasped their hands to their cheeks, astonished that they had a treasure to cherish.
“Now,” I told them, “you must tuck them away, upstairs under your pillow. Papa mustn’t know.” They nodded their heads, still in disbelief. We loved each other and they respected me. That brevity of happiness would be my last, for years to come, with no thought in mind that anyone would need to care for me.
Our ramshackle home had provided one room of privacy, with a sleeping space for Mama and Papa. Not counting the open loft, which we referred to as an attic, the main room below served as our gathering place. It was filled with a faded couch, the arms well-worn from previous families, which had been given to us by Uncle Haynes. A rough-hewn table and chairs sat near the makeshift kitchen where shelves were nailed to the wall, holding a few chipped dishes, alongside a cast iron skillet and one pot. The boys often played marbles on the floor at night with Rachel and Hazel horning their way in, and Papa eventually swatting their be-hind. I sat, mending a sock in front of the fireplace, in Mama’s rocking chair, longing for her presence. Those were ordinary nights since Mama left us. But tonight was no ordinary night.
The boys lay snoring in their beds, their heads stuffy from colds as I offered Rachel one last sip of water. I tucked her in again and returned the glass to the kitchen. Papa had retired earlier, but now I saw a glimmer of flickering light between the cracks under the door.
“Papa, are you alright?” I asked, leaning closer, putting my ear close but not willing to knock.
“Come in here,” he replied calmly. It was unlike him. He was sitting on the side of the bed in his dingy nightshirt, which I had washed so many times with lye soap and was shed of any whiteness which remained in the cloth. His hair and beard, left unattended since Mama had died, lay intermingled as one tousled mess.
I learned never to show fear to Papa, because when he raged at the boys, they tried to show courage. But their eyes failed them in their weakness. Now I stood alone before him, in my nightshirt, too. Vulnerable. Did I let it show? My eyes didn’t waver, but my heart pounded while I, standing there, scolded my heart for betraying me. Surely, he could hear!
“You’re staying with me tonight,” he commanded.
“No, Papa, no!” I began to scream before he could clasp his tobacco-fumed hand to my lips. Everything I had taught my heart and mind vanished.
“Shut up,” he whispered in my ear as his burly hands lifted me onto his and Mama’s bed. “You’re going to do as you’re told.”
I tried to leave. Truly, I did! But I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t let myself. It was the only control I had. I lay there that night, defeated. When I was certain he had fallen asleep, I slipped out of his bed, hating him, and climbed to the sanctuary where Rachel and Hazel, still innocent, lay.
I held them closer than ever before, weeping, knowing that I had relented unwillingly to Mama’s place in Papa’s bed. At morning’s light, I still lay awake, dreading the sight and sour smell of him again. But there was no hiding place. To everyone else at the breakfast table, it was just another day, but my heart was hardened, and silence and anger brewed inside. Darkness would come too soon and snatch my sanity once more.
The nights were his, and the walls within held a secret. A secret my feet were unable to run away from. A secret that ripped my soul. Now, he had also taken Mama from me, for I could no longer bear a visit to her grave. I was ashamed because she knew.
Lillian
Hopelessness, an unwelcome intruder, lived in towns, as well as the countryside. It affected both the rich and the poor. My papa and five-year-old sister lay gravely ill for days, with consciousness ebbing and eventually claiming another two victims. Trees were cut, planed, and nailed, shaping the wood into a coffin, one for Papa and one for Lila. Neighbors and family members often bartered to pay. We, on the other hand, had nothing to barter. All we had to offer were our hands and feet, to work off the debt, clean homes, or sell baked goods. Papa and Lila had been buried on the cemetery hill. With snow brushing our chapped faces, Mama, my sisters, and I mourned our loss. Few family and friends came, distancing themselves for fear of the same fate. Now, we had to set aside our grief and survive and make a living any way we could.
Word traveled through the hills and hollers, of gossip and tragedies, but good news also trickled through as well. We heard that the Youngren family, who lived a good day and a half night’s walk away, needed a housekeeper and a keeper of the children. Without hesitation, the day after we heard, I quickly pressed the best of my two dresses, twirled my long black hair neatly into a bun, pinched my cheeks until the skin flowed pink, and headed down the dusty road.
I left by the light of the full moon, as it was still ordering the stars about. It lit my way. By the time I arrived at mid-noon, two other older women of ages whose wisps of hair had started graying around the curve of a woman’s face were standing just inside the foyer, waiting their turn. Their hands were empty, but I had taken the time to make a caramel pie, knowing my young age would be held against me for lack of experience. I hoped to show Mrs. Youngern that I could cook. When they saw my basket, I quickly thrust it behind my back. Their wistful faces frowned, realizing they had not taken advantage of the moment. I turned my head away, pretending not to notice their displeasure.
Each one, in turn, was questioned and left without satisfaction. I dared not meet their stare as they left, keeping my eyes downward toward a loose thread on the sleeve of my dress that I fiddled with. Now I had to step forward and prove myself to be more efficient than the others. But leaving that early without breakfast caused my stomach to churn and growl like a starving animal. With the pie still in hand, I thrust my elbows toward that noisy beast. So hard that it stopped complaining, just as Mrs. Youngern approached me.
Graciously, she invited me into the parlor and offered me a seat.
“And what is your name, young lady?” she asked.
“L-Lillian,” I stuttered. The hairs on my arms began stiffening, and my hands started to shake, losing my self-confidence.
“May I offer you a drink of water?” She must have noticed the color leaving my face. A brief nod was all I could offer. She returned with a glass of sweet tea instead.
“I thought you might need a little sugar. Did you have food today?”
I sipped on the tea. “Yes, ma’am. I had a full breakfast.”
I had no habit of lying, but before my tongue could be tied, that lie just slipped out. She didn’t challenge me, and I wasn’t about to admit I had used near the last bit of flour and sugar for her. Now, I wondered if she thought me such a weakling that I wouldn’t be able to do the job required of me in her household.
“What do you have there?” She looked down at my hands clinging to the baked good, wrapped in cloth. I had forgotten it was still in my possession.
“A caramel pie for you,” I said.
“Did you make this?” she asked, taking it from me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered. She smiled and thanked me.
“How thoughtful. It smells delicious. We will serve it at supper tonight. Come with me, and I’ll put the pie away while I show you the house.”
Although she had born eight children, which was not uncommon in the hills, her porcelain skin had been spared the sun and wind of the harsh winters. Mr. Youngren had been able to provide for her and his family, more comfortably than most. We, along with all our other neighbors, had heard of him and the log mill, which he owned. It was thriving in a destitute community. And so far, they had been spared the fever and death that surrounded the rest of us.
The two-story home, a white clapboard, resided on a knoll a distance from the town. The wrap-around porch beckoned to summers of rocking chairs and lemonade and ladies with handheld fans cooling the sweat on their brows. With eight children, every inch of space was used, both upstairs and down, as I noted when Mrs. Youngren showed me their home. It was clean as a whistle, with finely carved furniture gracing each room. She took me upstairs where large rooms were fitted with beds, three beds to a room. The youngest, she said, was still being held in a crib in her and the mister’s bedroom.
“But our oldest boy, Hugh, sleeps when he’s here on the third floor. Says it’s nice and quiet. He works hard and deserves it. Won’t take you up there now. He’s sleeping. Getting ready to go on a big trip for his papa. He’ll leave at daybreak tomorrow and won’t be back for a while.”
Before I could ponder on the steps to the third floor, Mrs. Youngren turned purposely, asking, “And what experience have you with children?”
I responded easily, “My younger sister, who recently passed…I helped Mama care for her since birth, and I cared for her when she fell ill with a fever. I know when a child is starting an earache or the stomach is swollen with waste. I know how to get rid of both. We never had a doctor, so we learned to heal ourselves with the herbs we grew. The fever was too much, though. I understand that the fever was too much, even if we’d had the doctor’s medicine.”
I wondered in that moment if I had said enough, or too much. But she nodded, and we walked on, ending up in the kitchen.
“Five of our older children go to school,” she continued. “They are responsible for their care. But pack lunches, only for the three youngest. After the older children have left, the younger ones, even though one is four, need attending. I will be taking them out during the day to visit relatives, and while I’m gone, you will have time for household chores. As you can see, there are always things to do. Sundays are for church. So that would be your day off. You can either stay here,” she pointed to a room off the kitchen, “or go home to your family. Oh, but please prepare something that I can heat quickly. Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” I replied, suddenly realizing she was offering me a place in her family.
Mr. Youngren had fetched a driver to return me to my home, where I collected some belongings and returned the following day. It was the uproarious and chaotic environment that unsettled my former solitude.
I eventually was able to put a name to a face, except for one, the oldest, who was away from home. Four girls and three boys, not including the one I hadn’t met. I savored the early morning’s stillness, kneading dough for biscuits, popping them in the oven, and then sipping strong black coffee, while they baked—a reprieve from the rest of the hectic day.
There was never a doubt when they woke, for the shuffling footsteps and creaks from the ceiling gave them away. They ran and stomped and rattled the stairway, trying to beat the others to the kitchen.
“Hmm, something smells good,” they said as they clamored for a seat that they knew wasn’t their own. The mister and missus followed closely behind them, correcting the bad behavior.
“Children!” the mister said. “Stop with your rowdiness this minute.” That’s all it took for them to straighten their backs and stiffen their lips.
Two weeks passed quickly, and the family’s kindness and patience, while learning their ways, had been comforting. Tickled toes and smudged cookie faces rewarded me with giggles and grins, momentarily forgetting the impoverishment and sadness that I left behind. My relief, not without guilt, came from knowing that my sisters and mother were fed from the money I was able to send. Work was so sparse that neither had found an offer to help provide.
Mr. Youngren, in his graciousness, demanded the children respect me, and when necessary, obey me. He left soon after breakfast, his back a little stooped, pulling on the same black hat that hung on the hall tree. Shades of sandy blond hair protruded from underneath, still giving him a youthful glance of his earlier years, though the brutal seasons of sweltering heat and the blighting cold had gnarled his fingers. His pointing finger was missing on the right hand, caused from a moment of distraction while feeding a piece of wood through the saw’s blade at the mill. At least, that’s what the oldest girl, Evelyn, whispered to me when he left one morning. I often saw him wince in pain, and in the evening, Mrs. Youngren would prepare a liniment for his comfort. And yet, the mill was all he knew. What he wanted. Even though he was the owner, it owned him, and the toll on his health was evident.
While serving supper, I couldn’t help but overhear the comings and goings of their lives. A confrontation at school, and an ensuing fight with another boy, had left the middle boy, Aaron, with a black eye. A light reprimand came from Mrs. Youngren to avoid such childishness, but a stronger response came from Mr. Youngren on how to defend oneself. The children “eyed” each other with a smile or a nod, depending on whose side they were taking.
But there was also news of illness and death from other families. The flu had not claimed a death in this family, but it had ravaged two of the younger children, Mae and Shirley. Fortunately, they had survived.
March held an aloofness, tempting us into believing it was spring. I cherished the nights in my room, squirreled away, hearing only my voice, reading from a borrowed book in their library. A welcome escape to lands I would never visit. Stories that were unimaginably told. Although I had little education, reading would be my gateway to learning. My dreams lay within each page. On this particular day, the sun streamed through the windows, spilling onto the floor and warming my cold, soap-drenched hands. After each meal, another meal lay discarded in bits and pieces on the floor. The remnants of sticky molasses dissolved as I scrubbed on my hands and knees. I hummed a song that Mama had taught me, although I couldn’t recall the name of it. Engrossed in my daily task, I brushed a wisp of hair from my face, all the while suddenly aware that I wasn’t alone. I looked up and was so startled that I knocked the pail of water over, flooding the floor, and trying to stand slipped in the soapy mess. I knew instantly who it was.
Mr. Youngren usually left talk of work on the front doorstep, casting the ill temper of the men aside. One night, though, I overheard him comforting the missus about their oldest boy, who had taken an order of lumber up north. She expressed concern that the trip was too long and dangerous for an eighteen-year-old, but he put his arm around her and reassured her that he had proven to be responsible and dependable, showing leadership at the mill.
Now, in the doorway, stood a tall spit of a boy, casually leaning against it, with legs and arms crossed. His tousled sandy hair was slicked back, head lowered, peering through blue eyes that pierced me like a paring knife. Not only his presence but his self-assured posture rattled me into an undignified rag doll, my flopping arms and disjointed legs grasping for a table, a chair. Anything of substance. But instead, he had eloquently as a shooting star at midnight caught my flailing body. As quickly as he had caught me, I pushed him away, flushed and disheveled, my heart pounding. But he stood smugly, as though he had captured and rescued a fallen bird. Anger and embarrassment stewed in me like a boiling pot on the stove.
“You must be Lillian,” he said, taking the bucket from my hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What was the song you were humming? I didn’t recognize it.”
I had already grabbed the mop, attempting to regain what pride I had left, but he had taken it from me and started mopping up the mess that was his causing.
“It was nothing,” I said, reluctant to share anything personal about myself.
“Well,” he said, “maybe sometime you could sing it for me. I’d like to hear it. You have a pretty voice.”
“Thank you,” I replied as I straightened the table and chairs, putting everything in order once again. My face was still flushed with heat. I hoped he would leave.
“I’m Hugh,” he continued, grabbing a leftover biscuit and a cup of black coffee.
“I gathered,” I said with my back turned away, washing the remaining dishes, not taking a backward glance. I scrubbed harder on the skillet where I’d almost scorched the morning gravy. He sat at the table and talked endlessly, as though taking the presumption that he had known me for my lifetime.
“I’m the oldest, you know.”
I looked at him, annoyed. “I know.”
It was of no importance to him as he continued, “Papa’s turning the mill over to me. Well, eventually. He said he trusted me. That’s important, isn’t it?”
He waited for me to answer. I rinsed out the skillet and began to dry it, turning to him. “It’s one of the most important things you can give to a person.”
He put the cup down and looked up at me, laying his arm over the back of the chair. “Not only with people,” he began, “but also with animals and things.”
My curiosity was raised. “What things?” I asked.
“Well, things like the rain will come, and the sun will follow. Sometimes a rainbow, if we’re lucky. And trust in hope and love.” His words were as warm as mittens on a cold day. His ability to put me at ease unnerved me even more, and when he left, he took the morning with him, empty as a ghost who no longer felt the need to linger. His touch was a memory now, and when he caught me, it ran a fervency through my soul.
Breakfasts and suppers now gave new meaning to casual greetings and stolen glances. He began arriving in the kitchen early before the others awakened. It was there that we talked, and I began to become at ease with our conversations. They conflicted with both joy and fear, and I dared my longing heart to betray me, to any improprieties. He continued to work in the mill, not returning until long after supper. Every night, I left his dinner in the warming drawer and usually was retired to my room before he came home. But when that happened, a knock came to my door, and a whisper traveled through it.
“Thank you, Lillian, for keeping my supper warm.”
At first, I never answered, hoping he would think I had fallen asleep. But I’m sure my light slipped under the doorway, and he knew. After a time, I laid against the door when he knocked and answered him. “You’re welcome.”
He stood there for a moment before his steps faded away.
Ever since the first time I saw him, I could feel him watching me, even when I couldn’t see him. He would come home for lunch now, instead of eating in town. And he lingered at his papa’s desk, writing proposals and figuring costs for the mill. He sometimes labored over that the entire afternoon. But when Mrs. Youngren left with the younger children in tow, he put aside the business at hand and returned to his mischievous ways. I had become accustomed to his shenanigans and was unable to suppress a squirrelly smile when one was loosed.
It was when he stood straight above me in the barn’s loft that I let out a squeal worthy of a piglet’s voice, grabbing the milk bucket before Josie the cow kicked it over. Hands on my hips and scolding words on my lips didn’t faze him as he jumped down. He belted out a laugh and took the bucket from my hands. My legs weakened and my arms fell to their sides when he placed his hands on my shoulders, taking a moment to feel the tremble in my arms. Then, cupping his hands to my face, he leaned toward me, his lips soft as newborn skin. They touched mine, and I lost all sense of reason, my mind spinning, blurring reality. He pulled me to him, and I wrapped my arms around him, my longing for him undenied. Lost in the moment of loving him, wanting him. I stepped back, breathless, my body weighted with his touch, not knowing what to say. Fear paralyzed me as my head snapped toward the open barn door that someone saw us. But no one was there. Only a wayward chicken in search of her brood.
“Wait, Lillian,” I heard him say as I ran toward the house. But I didn’t dare look back, my heart in a twitch of confusion.
If I wasn’t in the house or barn, he knew where to find me—on the knoll, under a sprawling oak tree yet bloomed, not caring if the sun had warmed the earth. Book in hand. Or the time when I snuggled my face between freshly washed sheets, smelling the sunshine within them, when he, in a moment of surprise, crept behind me, seeing only my feet between the hangings, and pulled the sheet off the line, wrapping me in it, and with a swoop, bound me, helpless, covering my mouth with his hand, so the tortured sound would not arouse any suspicion. And times when he took his fingers and closed my eyes, allowing his hand to glide down my face and lips. I would bite him playfully until he released me, us tumbling to the ground. He tickled me unmercifully.
His intrusions became welcome, and I often lay my book aside during my reading time and listened to his dreams and ambitions. Touch became painful as our hearts longed for each other. His kisses burned when my tears became salt, knowing he would soon be leaving. I wondered, lying in bed at night, two floors above me, if he was awake as well in a rumble of thoughts fighting against each other. I wondered if I should leave.
* * *
About the Author
Sharon is a first-time author, retired nurse, mother, and grandmother. She
grew up in the Appalachian Mountains and writes with a deep appreciation and
admiration for women who live there. She chronicles the life of each
character so her readers can be inspired by and benefit from their
remarkable stories.
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