The Rain Sparrow. Linda Goodnight
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stare at him, his squinted gaze taking in Thad’s unshaven face, rumpled clothes and carpetbag.
“Morning.”
“Is this Honey Ridge?”
“What’s left of her.” The man, eyes cautious beneath a wrinkled brow, his brown beard salted with gray, leaned his broom against the wall. “Looks like you’ve been traveling.”
“Yes, sir.” Thad rested a boot on the edge of the boardwalk. “Name’s Thaddeus Eriksson. I’ve come to work at the Portland Grist Mill.”
“Jess Merriman. This is my store.” He jerked a thumb toward the dark entryway behind him. “Gadsden mentioned a cousin millwright.”
“That would be me.”
“From up North?”
Thad tensed. “Yes, sir. Ohio.”
“Well, son, you’re either brave or a fool. The war’s not over to some, but you’ll find welcome at my store. The wife has kin in Pennsylvania.”
Tension seeped out. Thad’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m obliged.”
On the opposite side of the road, a woman exited a milliner’s shop, a basket in hand, and started across in a jaunty, purposeful stride, her head held high, hair as bright as a copper penny gleaming in the sunlight.
He watched her, mesmerized by her energy and hair. She was color to the town’s tired drab, a slender redbird on a bland canvas of dust and unpainted buildings. Even the dull gray of her dress couldn’t hide her vibrancy. Her skin was pale peaches and cream, and her bright hair, though tucked up on the sides, sprang loose in headstrong ringlets along her cheeks and neck.
She was, in short, a stunning beauty.
At that moment, a wagon, going much too rapidly, sped down the dirt thoroughfare. The woman, halfway across, looked up in alarm, too late to get out of the way.
The mules kicked up a dust devil, and the woman cried out. The wagon barreled on past, the driver yelling at the out-of-control mules. Thad dropped his carpetbag and rushed to the woman’s side. She was on the ground, struggling to sit upright.
Thaddeus went to his knees beside her. “Ma’am, are you injured?”
Her chest rose and fell in breathy gasps. Her peach cheeks had turned as red as summer roses. She shook her head. Her bonnet was askew, her ribbons untied.
“I don’t think so. I am, however,” she said with a jut of her chin, “quite furious.”
A smile tugged at Thad’s lips. There was fire beneath that red hair.
“Allow me to assist you.” Without waiting for her reply, he slid both hands around a very narrow waist and easily lifted her to her feet.
She landed with her hands gripping both his arms to steady herself, and he couldn’t help noticing how utterly feminine and fragile she seemed to his superior height. Closer now, her beauty struck him like a blow. He’d not noticed a woman other than Amelia since he was eighteen. Noticing this one disturbed him. He loosened his hold and stepped back. Her hands still rested on his arms, too close, close enough that her rose scent tickled his nose and sent a hot spiral of memory through his body.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, in a drawl as thick and sweet as honey. “You are too kind.”
“Glad to be of service. Looks like the wagon had a runaway.”
“Sterling Bridges couldn’t drive a wagon if his life depended on it, and the silly man doesn’t have the decency of a field rat. He should be flogged. But you, sir, are clearly a gentleman.” She pouted prettily, and Thad had the uncomfortable feeling that she was flirting.
“Your bonnet,” he said, with a pointed glance. The garment skewed toward her left ear, dislodging handfuls of copper hair. Thad battled an overwhelming and altogether undesirable urge to smooth the mesmerizing curls.
To his relief, she released her hold on his arms to straighten her bonnet.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured as she bent to dust her skirt. “Would you look at that?”
The basket she had carried now lay crumpled in the dirt, at least a half-dozen eggs broken and seeping yellow.
“A shame,” he said, though he was tempted to scoop up the raw yolks, dirt and all, and gulp them down. “Let’s see if we can salvage any.”
They crouched together and gingerly picked through the sticky mess. Thad removed his handkerchief. “Use this to wipe off the unbroken ones.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” But she did, and another smile tugged at his mouth.
When at last they’d salvaged thirteen eggs, she said, “You’ve saved my morning, sir, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Thaddeus Eriksson, ma’am.” He handed her the damaged basket. “Just arrived in town. I’ve come to work with my cousin Will at the Portland Grist Mill. Perhaps you could direct me there.”
Her hand flew to her lips. She shrank back. “No!”
Puzzled at her violent reaction, he offered his best smile. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies for the way I must look. I’m a mite rusty around the edges from the long trip but eager to see my cousin again and be of service.”
As if the air had suddenly taken on a nasty smell, she tossed her nose up high. Thad resisted the urge to sniff his armpits.
“No one around here needs your services, Mr. Eriksson. Go back to Ohio.” Giving an insulted toss of her head, she stalked to a wagon parked in front of the milliner.
Thad stood in the middle of the main street with his mouth open and a furrowed brow. Had he mentioned Ohio to her? Had William changed his mind? Was Thad’s skill no longer needed at the mill? Who was she?
When the fiery woman slapped the reins and drove away, wagon rumbling like a distant storm, Thad heard laughter. Turning toward the sound, he saw the apron-clad merchant leaning on his broom, his salt-and-pepper mustache curled above a wide grin.
“Ran into a wildcat, didn’t you, son?”
Embarrassed, Thad dusted his cap against his britches. “What did I do?”
“’Sakes, man, you ought to know by now. It’s not what you did. It’s who you are. Nothing that woman hates more than a Yankee.”
Thad stifled a sigh. “Who is she?”
“That furious little firebrand is Miss Josephine Portland.”
“Portland?” Realization dawned and dread seeped into his tired, hungry body.
“Yes, sir.” Merriman chuckled again and pointed in the direction of the now distant wagon. “If you’re looking for the Portland Mill, just follow her trail of dust.”
The Portland Mill operation was a handsome endeavor. Nestled in a thick green wood with vines growing up the sides of the white-mortared red brick and with the sound of clean creek water bubbling over the wheel, the mill stirred a passion in Thaddeus that nearly erased the hostile meeting with one Miss Josephine Portland.
The woman engendered any number of feelings in him, most of which he didn’t know what to do with. Amusement, annoyance and, though it made him feel disloyal, attraction.
Seeing her again at the farmhouse could prove...interesting. But for now, his focus was his cousin and the gristmill.
With Will grinning at his side and his belly filled with cold corn bread, he roamed through the mill works, pausing to smooth his hands over the fifteen-hundred-pound runner stone, immobile now as the wheel waited for his expertise.
“Who’s been running this place?” He turned to the second cousin