The sound of advancing hoofbeats should have shaken the ground. Yet, they moved quietly, reverently it seemed, a cavalcade of Union soldiers bearing their wounded.

Charlotte Reed Portland’s first inkling that her Tennessee home was about to be invaded intruded as she taught a delicate embroidery stitch to her two sisters-in-law. Seated in the parlor, butter-yellow sunlight streaming in through the windows on a hot and windless day, Charlotte heard the excited voice of a servant, heard the hurried footfalls a moment before her nine-year-old son burst through the French doors, cowlick standing on end.

“Mama, the Yankees are coming!”

At Benjamin’s breathless announcement, Charlotte stiffened, her fingers tight on the embroidery hoop.

She had known they would come, an army of men at war with her adopted state, in need of horses and food to fortify the Union. What they didn’t understand, or perhaps didn’t care, was that the Confederacy had need of the same supplies. Even now, the small, out-of-the-way town of Honey Ridge was strained beneath the burden.

So, of course, the Federals would come here, to Peach Orchard Farm, home to three generations of Portlands, including her husband, Edgar, and their son. Though hardly a plantation, they were self-sufficient in corn and wheat, fruit and livestock, and a handful of slaves.

Please, Almighty God, do not allow them to take everything.

Her two younger sisters-in-law regarded her above their needlework with wide, hazel eyes, mouths dropped. Their milk-bathed complexions had gone chalky. As mistress of the house and an ancient twenty-seven, the responsibility for their well-being and that of the house and servants rested upon Charlotte’s shoulders.

“Miz Charlotte, you want I should go to the mill for Mr. Portland?” This from Pierce, the yardman, the whites of his eyes startling in his dark, sweat-gleamed face. A good man, a trustworthy and loyal servant.

Afraid the quiver in her throat would burst free and betray her angst, Charlotte nodded, breathing in for composure.

“Please do, Pierce,” she managed, her British accent stronger when she was nervous, an accent her husband had once found charming. “I’ll go out to greet them.”

With deliberate poise, she put aside the embroidery hoop and rose, smoothing damp palms over her green day gown. Fear vibrated in her stomach.

Edgar would not be pleased at an interruption, whether from her or the hated Yankees, but they’d heard the gunfire in the near distance early this morning. A battle, or perhaps only a skirmish; it did not matter which. Men would die. She’d prayed the war would not touch her household.

But now it had.

Charlotte could hide most feelings beneath a false serenity, a gift she’d found essential here in the American South, where differences were suspect, human beings were sold and traded and her husband ruled with a cold look.

“Josie. Patience,” she said to the younger women. “Lock yourselves in your rooms. Take Benjamin with you. Neither come outside nor look out the windows. Do not show yourselves in any way.”

With rigid posture and a sweep of full skirts, she moved out onto the long, pillared veranda, gripped the whitewashed railing and waited. Normally, she loved the scene from the porch, the double row of magnolias along the curving driveway, the expanse of peach orchard to the north. Yet, today her knees trembled and she saw only the advancing army—a straight military line of blue and gold and rows of men astride their mounts. The Union flag, stars and stripes aloft on the front steed, rippled slightly.

She’d heard the horror stories. The armies of the north came to pillage and destroy, but God help her, with her last breath she would defend her family and this home. From the moment Edgar had brought her here, a nervous bride of sixteen, she’d fallen in love with the house in a way she’d never been able to love the man. The house and her son were enough.

Sweat trickled beneath her collar and yet she waited, outwardly composed, searching for a sign of humanity among the enemy.

As the army moved closer, down the winding lane from road to house beneath the magnolia shade, Charlotte saw the lines of weariness on young soldiers’ faces, the blood on uniforms, the litters and foot soldiers bearing the wounded. It was a small company, not a great army as she’d first thought. In the haunted faces of barely men, the war came, bringing with it a sense that nothing would ever be the same again at Peach Orchard Farm.

With a heavy heart, made heavier by the knowledge that whether by choice or by chance she was their enemy, Charlotte stepped from the porch onto the grass and made her way forward as the horses and men drew to a stop. Dust swirled up from the hooves into her nose. There was a shimmery stillness in the air, as though the house, too, held its breath.

The apparent leader of the troops, a man of erect bearing with an air of authority, touched his heels to a sweaty gray. Charlotte stood unflinching as he approached. He was young, as they all seemed to be. Perhaps her age. And whether friend or foe, he looked dashing in his blue waistcoat with the gold bars on the shoulders and the matching gold stripe down the Union blue trousers. Dashing and handsome, though dusty and strained from God only knew what, with brown hair, a strong jaw dusted with tidy brown whiskers and a lean build.

“Ma’am.” He removed his hat, a navy blue with gold-crossed cannons above the bill. “I’m Captain William Gadsden of the United States Army. Is your husband in residence?”

A simple question, made necessary by the fact that most males in Tennessee had long since donned uniform of one color or another and gone off to fight. She knew Edgar’s deferment shamed him, made him bitter.

“A servant was sent to fetch him. What is the purpose of your visit? We are a simple farm of women and children and a handful of servants.” She refused to call them slaves. Many were as close as family and some, she suspected, might actually be.

Old Hub, whose only job these days was care of the chickens, hobbled around the house to stand beside her, a devoted if bent and feeble guard. His loyalty and courage buoyed her own.

The captain motioned toward the soldiers. “We have wounded.”

“I see that, sir. I’m sorry for your losses.” And truly she was. This American war was futile and cruel.

The captain twisted in the saddle with a slight creak of leather and raised a hand toward his troops. “Company, dismount.”

In poorly synchronized fashion, the battle-ragged soldiers slid from their saddles while a handful of ground troops broke rank and surged toward the veranda.

“Wait!” Charlotte held out a trembling hand as though she possessed the power to stop an armed military. “What is it you want? Food? Bandages?”

Before Captain Gadsden could answer, a commotion ensued on the line. Charlotte watched with growing horror as a soldier tumbled to the hoof-packed earth and lay still.

“George!” Sword tapping at his side, Captain Will Gadsden hurried toward the fallen. Another soldier knelt on one knee in the lane of Peach Orchard Farm and held an open palm above the fallen comrade’s mouth before he pressed an ear to the unmoving chest. He, hardly a man at all, looked up into the face of the waiting officer, his expression stricken. “George is dead, sir.”

The captain dropped his head. His chest lifted in a hard sigh. He placed a hand on the soldier’s shoulder and paid a quiet moment of respect. The company fell silent, the quiet broken only by the jingle of harness and the puff of equine nostrils.

The reaction touched Charlotte. The captain had a good and caring heart.

But the thought had barely formed when William Gadsden whirled on his boot heels in a decisive about-face. With a voice of authority, he stared straight ahead and said, “With apologies, ma’am, it is my duty to inform you that your residence is hereby commandeered for the good of the Union.” He lifted a gloved hand. “Men, move in!”

* * *

Will watched the color drain from the woman’s delicate features. She was pretty with her fair hair and precise British clip, for he was sure it was England and not Massachusetts he heard on her tongue. His heart squeezed with regret. Genteel and lovely, a woman of grace should not be affected by the evils of war, a woman like his sisters and mother. How he missed home on days like today when nothing but carnage lay in his wake.

He dismounted and approached the woman, removed his hat. “Ma’am, we require your home as a temporary hospital for our wounded. We’ll also need supplies, food and rest, but my men have strict orders to bring no harm to your home or family. We will take only what we need.”

Her chin lifted higher. “And how much do you need? We, too, have people to feed. I cannot allow you to rob my family.”

She was in no position to argue or even to barter, but like a slender oak, she stood her ground, not in anger but with fierce determination. Admiration stirred inside Will. “I will see that you have enough. You have my word.”

A man’s word was often all he had left in this savage war. His word and his honor. Will was determined to return home to Ohio with both unsullied.

Already his men swarmed the elegant home and he felt duty-bound to set a watch on their behavior. Though most were good soldiers, they’d long been away from the social graces of home. He wanted no trouble, would stand for none. Some companies, he knew, took the spoils of war, but he struggled enough with the decision to commandeer homes and take needed food and horses.

The woman’s expression softened, though her posture remained rigid and watchful. She gave a short nod. “Thank you.”

The old slave who’d crept around the side of the house and stood bent and twisted at her side spoke up. His furrowed black face shone with sweat and worry and age. “Miss Charlotte, Mr. Portland is comin’.”

Her head jerked toward the line of magnolias and then back to Will. It was the closest she’d come to showing disquiet, as if the husband’s presence made things worse instead of better.

She quickly regained her poise, a trait he both admired and respected. Then, as if inviting a neighbor to tea, she motioned toward the porch. “May I impose upon you to meet with my husband in the parlor? It is far cooler inside. Hub will show you the way.”

Before Will could respond, the surgeon called his name and motioned from the doorway leading into the house. Doc had wasted no time setting up, a necessary deed considering the nature and number of injuries from this morning’s skirmish.

“Stokes is asking for you, sir.”

Stokes. A good man, grievously wounded. Only God, not a surgeon, could get him through the night.

“I must see to my men first,” Will said to the woman.

“Very well. I will inform my husband.” Green skirt in her small, delicate hands, Mrs. Portland hurried up the lane.

Will watched her for only a moment before striding to the house and his duty, but the image of brave and pretty Charlotte Portland burned in his mind for a long time after.

Honey Ridge, Tennessee

Present Day

Eli climbed inside Bob Oliver’s blue Accord, a newer model that probably never broke down. Not like the $500 clunker he drove.

His lucky day, the man had said. Given the circumstances and his destination, Eli wasn’t taking any bets. But running into a friendly man was an unexpected stroke of luck. The phone request had been an act of desperation. Even if he’d found a mechanic to come out, he couldn’t have paid him, at least not the full amount. His only hope had been to exchange work for the bill.

“My car is back down the road about a half mile.” He pointed south where the clunker had died on him last night around midnight. Sleeping in the car hadn’t bothered him. He liked being in the open where he could see the stars and feel the fresh air.

“You from around here?” Bob angled his face toward the passenger seat. Morning sun reflected off his black-framed glasses.

“No.”

“Me, either. The wife and I are looking to move this direction, but we hail from Memphis.”

Eli’s stomach dropped into his still-stiff boots. He’d spent seven miserable years in Memphis. Even after six months of freedom, the memory was too sharp for comfort.

Struggling for polite conversation to turn the topic from his least favorite place, Eli blurted the first thing that came to him. “Seems like a nice inn.”

“Peach Orchard? The best. The wife and I drive down here to Julia’s whenever we get a chance. Unless you’re a Civil War buff, nothing much to do but sit around on the porch or walk in the gardens and orchard, maybe fish a little, but that’s why we come. Peace and quiet. Beautiful scenery. And great coffee.” He laughed and drained the remainder of his cup.

Eli continued to relish the best coffee he’d tasted in more than seven years. His mother had made coffee like this, in one of those fancy presses. He wondered if she ever thought about him. He tried not to think about her or of his father or the life he could have had if he’d been a better son. Remembering hurt too much, carried too much shame and remorse.

He sipped at the cup, glad for something in his empty stomach and grateful to the woman at the inn.

Julia. Pretty name for a pretty woman with her honey-blond hair smoothed back into a tail at the nape of her neck and sad blue eyes. He wondered why she’d been crying. But he shouldn’t be thinking about her. Shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to sit down in that sparkling clean kitchen and enjoy breakfast with a woman like her. He didn’t let himself think about women of any kind these days, certainly not a decent one.

“Sweet lady,” Bob was saying as they turned south and approached Eli’s stalled vehicle. “At the end of every visit, she gives us a jar of peach preserves she makes from the orchard. Mighty tasty.”

Eli salivated at the thought of toast and jelly, a reminder that he’d not eaten since yesterday morning long before he’d finished the drywall job, collected his meager pay and left Nashville. To fill his empty belly, he took another mouthful of Julia’s coffee. Bob was right. Great stuff. Smooth and bold, the way Eli used to be.

He stared out the passenger-side window at the rolling landscape, green and flowery with spring. In the near distance he spotted buildings, a surprise. He hadn’t known he was that close to town but now that he thought about it, why would an inn be stuck out in the middle of nowhere?

“Is that your car right up there?” Bob nudged his chin toward a mistreated old Dodge parked at an angle on the side of the road.

He could imagine how a successful man like Bob Oliver must view a rattletrap with rusted fenders and a missing bumper. To the man’s credit, he didn’t react. A kind man. And good. The type of man Eli hadn’t encountered in a long time.

They exited the car and walked to the Accord’s trunk, where Bob removed a set of jumper cables. “Might as well grab the toolbox, too, in case we need it.”

Eli reached for the red metal container and started toward the front of his Dodge.

“How was she acting when she quit?”

“Just quit. The engine’s been sputtering for a hundred miles. I thought the fuel filter might be plugged up.”

“You checked that, I guess.”

“First thing this morning. Blew it out as good as I could. Still nothing.”

“Did she overheat?”

“No, sir. Just quit. The battery is old. It’s probably bad.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Eli stashed his remaining coffee on the floorboard of the Dodge. Then he lifted the hood and braced it open with a stick, amused and interested that a physics teacher had offered to do mechanic work. “Where did you learn about cars?”

“Hobby. When I was a kid, we didn’t have diddly. The only way I could own a vehicle was to rebuild one I’d bought myself. So I did.”

Eli huffed softly. “Sounds familiar.” Though he’d once had the finest vehicles, a beautiful home, a good family. And he’d thrown them all away on stupid choices.

He reached into the toolbox for an end wrench and tapped at the battery terminals. “Corroded,” he said with disgust. Like his life. He stuck the wrench in his shirt pocket while he wrestled the cable heads loose.

Bob leaned in for a look. “I think you’ve found your problem. They need a good cleaning, but a wipe down and a jump should get you back on the road.”

Eli scrubbed away at the terminals, using a T-shirt from his duffel bag. “Best I can do out here.”

Bob hooked up the jumper cables while Eli slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. After a few feeble grinds, the engine caught and started. Black smoke curled out the tailpipe as Bob slammed the hood and came around to the driver-side window.

“You have that checked first chance you get.”

“Sure.” When money grows on trees. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thin dime. Pay it forward. That’s all I ask.”

Eli gave a solemn nod. “Thank you, sir.”

“If you get back this direction, stop in and say hello. If you see this Accord in the lot, we’re here.”

“Will do.” Not likely.

Then, with the morning breeze blowing in his face, Eli aimed the Dodge toward town, Opal Kimble and a piece of the past he’d never intended to resurrect.

The town of Honey Ridge was waking up as the old Dodge wheezed and rattled down the double row of buildings that composed the main street and led to a central square. The concrete was darkened from last night’s rain.

A woman washing the display window of Hallie’s Gifts and Cards paused, paper towel in hand to watch him pass. Her stare gave Eli a crawly feeling. He didn’t want to attract attention, here or anywhere.

A man outside the post office hoisted the flag though not a breath of air stirred. Many of the buildings were from another time but neat and well kept, one of them marked with the date 1884 and painted in colorful murals of the past.

As he passed a doughnut shop, the scent floated through his open window. His belly growled.

Eli fished in his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper and the directions Opal had given. Two blocks east of the stoplight he turned down Rosemary Lane, crawling along until he spotted a blue-frame house with peeling paint, an overgrown lawn and two green metal chairs on the front porch. Opal’s house.

The Dodge rattled to a stop at the end of a cracked driveway where a child’s plastic motorcycle lay on its side next to the garage. Eli’s empty belly cramped. His palms grew wet against the steering wheel.

What was he doing here? Every cell in his body urged him to turn tail and run, but for once in his life he didn’t. Couldn’t. He’d done very few responsible things in his thirty-six years, but this was different. He still couldn’t believe the horrible news. Sweet, giggly Mindy who’d fancied herself in love with him was dead—and she’d left behind a child.

With nerves gnawing a hole in his gut, he got out of the car, crossed the yard and stepped quietly onto the porch. It was early. If the car hadn’t broken down he’d have arrived last night. He didn’t see a light. Was Opal still asleep? Maybe he should come back later.

Coward, a voice inside his head whispered.

He released a gust of breath, wiped his sweaty hands down his jeans and reached for the knocker. His shaky hand wouldn’t quite take hold of the tarnished brass. He hovered there, as if the ordinary knocker had the power to change his life. Maybe he should forget this and head back to Nashville, keep trying to find permanent work. The boy never needed to know him. The boy. His son.

He pivoted to leave but stopped in a half-turn, wrestling with his conscience.

Before he could conquer the demons fighting inside his head, the scarred wooden door scraped open, catching on the threshold as if the wood had swollen with recent rain. An old woman with curly white hair and a wrinkled, pinched face leaned on a cane as she peered out at him.

Eli swallowed. “Opal Kimble?”

“Are you Eli?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pushed the storm door open. “About time.”

He entered the house where the scent of food battled with the musty smell of age. Everything about the room was old. Old furniture. A big, boxy television on a roller cart cluttered with papers. Faded photos on the wall of people from another era. He thought of the inn he’d recently left and couldn’t help comparing the two houses. Both were old, filled with history, and yet Julia’s home was bright and inviting.

“Sit.”

Accustomed to taking orders, he complied.

“You want coffee?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

The old woman ignored his statement and left the room, returning with two mugs and a plate of raisin bread. “I figure you haven’t had breakfast this early.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” He required significant restraint to keep from wolfing down the bread like a wild animal. Careful to sip the scalding coffee between bites, he managed to eat without humiliating himself. The coffee was bitter compared to Julia’s. He didn’t care. He’d learned the hard way not to complain.

“Go on and eat all that bread,” the old woman said. “The boy doesn’t like raisins, and I’ve had my fill.”

The boy. The reason he’d come. She’d want money—he was certain of that after seeing her living conditions.

He could feel her watching him so he ate one more slice and stopped, though he could have eaten the entire loaf and still had room for breakfast.

When he’d finished, he sat back in the faded chair and waited, feeling a little better now that he’d had nourishment. She’d summoned him, demanded he come. Let her carry the conversation.

Opal, now seated across from him in a green lift-recliner, leaned forward, her fingers curled around the cane like bird claws. “You knew about the boy?”

“Mindy wrote to me.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I thought it was for the best.” He lifted his palms in a helpless gesture. “Under the circumstances.”

“She said he’s your son.”

“He could be.” The news of Mindy’s pregnancy, received in a letter not long after his incarceration, had hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d felt like the lowlife he’d become. He and Mindy had only been together one long, hot summer before the trial that changed everything, and he’d always been cautious about relationships. But nothing was foolproof.

“Mindy wouldn’t lie. She was dying.”

Eli closed his eyes for a second. How could lively Mindy be dead? “I didn’t know until yesterday. She was too young.”

“Cancer knows no age, young man.” Opal raised her coffee and sipped, watching him with hawk eyes. After a few uncomfortable seconds, she went on. “When she knew the end was coming, she brought him to me, her only living relative. I love the child as I loved his mama. I want what’s best for him.”

Eli breathed a sigh of relief. She loved the boy. She’d take good care of him. “I’ll send money when I can.”

“Money?” Her tone sharpened.

“Child support.”

She tilted closer until he thought she’d tumble from her chair. “Child support?”

Was the woman hard of hearing? “I’m…not working much yet—” A painful admission though he’d long ago lost his pride. “When I do, I’ll send all I can.”

“I’m not asking for your money, Eli Donovan.”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to see me? Child support?”

With a shove of her cane, Opal pushed to a stand and tottered toward him, a dangerous expression on her wrinkled face. “Look at me. I’m eighty-four years old. I have congestive heart failure and diabetes. I can barely toddle around with this stupid cane.”

Dread started at the bottom of Eli’s feet and worked up through his chest and into his brain. Like a wild stallion, his flight instinct kicked in. He knew what was coming. Knew and couldn’t stop her.

“Mindy wanted you to take the boy. You’re his father.” Opal stuck a bony finger in his face. “She expected you to raise him.”

Eli bolted from the chair. “Are you nuts? Do you know where I’ve been all of his life?”

She pointed the cane at his chest. “You’re out now. And you have a son to care for.”

“I don’t belong around kids. I’m not even sure it’s legal.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s your blood.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t take care of a child.”

A flash of Jessica’s face, bloated and white, floated through his head. Floated the way she had, facedown in the water, while he’d rocked to Michael Jackson through his Sony Walkman headphones.

“I don’t have a home or a steady job and no one wants to hire an ex-con. I’m at the beck and call of a parole officer who doesn’t like me much.” He rammed splayed fingers through his hair, panicked. “I can’t even take a leak without checking in first!”

“Stop raising your voice in my house. Do you want him to hear?”

His heart pounded as if he’d been the one under water too long. “Look, Opal, let’s be reasonable. What you’re asking is impossible. You don’t know me. I’m an ex-con. I am not father material. I wouldn’t know what to do with a kid.”

“Do you think any parent knows anything when their child is born? You’ll learn like everybody else.”

“Impossible.” He couldn’t take responsibility for anyone, especially a child. Dear God, she didn’t know what she was asking!

“Do you know what will become of the boy when I die?”

He shook his head. “Another relative, I suppose.”

“You got family that will take him? Love him?”

The ball of ice in Eli’s chest became an iceberg. “No.”

“All right, then. You’re his only other relative. He’ll go into foster care, into the system.” She spit the last word like profanity.

“Anywhere is better than with me. There are plenty of good foster parents who care for kids.”

“Mindy never wanted that for her baby.”

“I’m sorry, Opal. I can’t do this.” He stalked to the door, torn asunder but certain he was not a fit man to father a child. Ever. “I’ll send money as soon as I can.”

“Mindy defended you. She said you were a good man.” Opal’s thin lips curled. “She was wrong.”

“Yes. She was.” Tormented by the truth, Eli stormed out of the house, across the overgrown yard and into the safe confines of his car. Breathless, his chest aching, he cranked the Dodge, and was out on the streets of Honey Ridge in seconds.

At the corner, Eli stopped at the stop sign and leaned his head on the steering wheel. He was shaking worse than he had on his first day in prison.

He was the worst possible parent for a little boy, a man who had nothing to offer, a man with no future and an ugly past.

Responsibility tightened around his neck like a noose. He had a son. A son who needed him.

And he didn’t even know his name.

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