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  “Heaven forbid.” He produced the bottle like a magician, and she took a swig from it. “Ah, that’s better. Well, we better get this show on the road. I want to hit Natchitoches before dark.”

  As they pushed on over the rough highway, she said, “Willie told me a few things about this area. She’s quite literary, you know. Supposedly Harriet Beecher Stowe modeled Simon Legree on someone from around here. And Kate Chopin lived nearby for a while.”

  Eric looked down at his fingernails. “Even I know Simon Legree. But who’s Kate Chopin?”

  “The author of a scandalous novel called The Awakening.”

  He seemed skeptical. “I never read novels. What made it scandalous?”

  “She showed that women experience passion.”

  “That’s nothing new.” Eric ran a hand through his blond hair, then lit another Lucky Strike. “I’ve caused a lot of women to feel passion.”

  “Uh-huh. Chopin gives the inside story of an unhappy marriage. Her book’s about the wife of a New Orleans businessman and her torrid affair with a younger man. I hate the ending.”

  “She goes back to her husband?”

  “She commits suicide. I wanted her to meet the woman of her dreams and live happily ever after.”

  Eric snickered. “You’re a romantic. Never going to happen. What else did Willie tell you?”

  “Just that a freed slave inherited her former master’s entire plantation near here. He’d fathered a lot of her children, and one of their sons ended up with the place.”

  “A colored woman and her half-breed offspring owning a big plantation? That’s where I draw the line.” Eric took a big drink from the bottle. “Coloreds need to know their place and stay there.”

  Her spine stiffened. “What about Willie?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s an octoroon and used to own one of the biggest houses in Storyville.”

  “She’s just a whore. She doesn’t count.”

  “A lot of the high-society women in New Orleans used to send scouts to see what she was wearing so they could get in on the latest fashions. She counted to them.”

  “Fashions? Huh. They’re silly.” Eric picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and flicked it out the window.

  “Is driving four hundred miles and changing a flat tire silly?”

  “No.” He stared straight ahead.

  “Is driving an ambulance in France silly?”

  “No.”

  “Is agitating for women’s right to vote silly? You know I picketed in Washington this past fall before I went home.”

  One side of Eric’s mouth twitched. “I don’t doubt that. And most men really think that’s silly.”

  “Are you like most men?”

  He faced her, his expression serious. “In some ways I am. Being away from home all these years has made me a little more open-minded, but I’m still a country boy at heart.”

  “Well, I hope your heart isn’t too country. If it is, you may have to stay in New Hope by yourself.”

  “What about that annulment?”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  He held up his hands. “I’ll give it to you. Let’s go get Pop settled. Then we’ll drive back to New Orleans before it rains so hard we can’t make it.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” She hoped she didn’t regret this little adventure.

  *

  Molly pulled on her heavy work gloves. If she jammed one of her hands into an old board with a nail in it under all this mess on the barn’s dirt floor, she might not be able to play for church Sunday. She couldn’t bear to miss accompanying the special trio she’d been coaching since Christmas.

  The manure-coated hay almost gagged her, especially after Mother Russell had glared at her throughout breakfast. If Patrick hadn’t chirped like a cricket during the entire meal, it would have seemed like a funeral.

  She had tried to ignore Mother Russell’s hateful glances and forced herself to eat a few bites of egg and biscuit. She’d tried a little ham, but it almost gagged her. She could still hear that poor pig squeal and see the blood on Mother Russell’s and Mr. James’s clothes when they slaughtered it last fall.

  Her stomach felt even more upset now, and she didn’t know where to start looking for the diamond. It could be anywhere, especially since Mr. James hadn’t cleaned up his mess after he shucked dried corn for the horses yesterday.

  After what seemed like hours, Mother Russell spoke up. “Did you notice any chickens in here while you were milking?” She was down on her hands and knees brushing hay and cornhusks every which way.

  The dust tickled Molly’s nose and she sneezed. She wished she could be inside practicing the piano. “No. I was too busy trying to pacify Nellie.”

  “Judging by these droppings, they were in here not long ago. If I’m right, one of ’em decided to have a big diamond for breakfast while we were inside eating her eggs.” Mother Russell looked disgusted. “I can’t find a thing with all this mess on the floor. I bet my right arm a chicken ate it.”

  She should feel more upset than she did. What was wrong with her? After all, Mr. James paid a lot for that ring and acted so proud of it when he slipped it on her finger, both times. At first she’d been excited because she wouldn’t be an old maid. She’d been old—almost twenty-three—and a lot of her college friends had been married for years and had housefuls of children.

  Before she’d met him, she’d been majoring in music at a Methodist university near Austin. Being a preacher’s daughter, she could go almost for free. But after three years at the university she couldn’t ignore the facts any longer. Her parents were struggling financially. She had to get a job and support herself, not selfishly rely on them to buy her clothes and let her become even more cultured.

  “Mother Russell, I don’t think we’ll find my diamond. We’ve searched high and low. It’s just not here.”

  She hoped she’d convinced Mother Russell that losing the ring had upset her. But the longer she looked and didn’t find it, the better she felt.

  How strange. When she’d told Mr. James she’d changed her mind about marrying him, she’d felt a little like this. Lighter. Relieved. But he wouldn’t listen when she’d tried to explain her reasons.

  Mother Russell gave her such a disgusted glance she scooted over to another dark corner, hoping to catch a telltale glimmer.

  “Molly, you’re not even looking. Pshaw, gal, don’t you even care about losing the most valuable thing you’ve ever owned?” She spat on the dirt floor. “I’ll be right back. Got to go feed the chickens. Look sharp while I’m gone. We’re wasting time. There’s a heap of ironing waiting, with your name on it, and then you’ve got to get to churning. We’re near ’bout out of butter.”

  Something cracked inside Molly, like an eggshell breaking, and new thoughts began to ooze from it. Half-heartedly searching the ground, she brushed a cow patty, then examined the brown streak of manure on her glove. A diamond wasn’t her most valuable possession. There, that was part of how she’d felt when she’d rejected Mr. James’s proposal.

  She sat down on her milking stool and let a new idea form. Her own self-respect was worth a lot more than the diamond.

  She stood and stripped off her spoiled glove. She’d lost her regard for herself the day she’d given in and told him she’d take his ring back. She hugged her realization close. He’d kept pressuring her and she’d simply gotten tired of saying no. What a coward she’d been.

  She straightened her wrinkled skirt and walked toward the house. But he’d made their future sound so promising—a little house of their own and her very own piano. On their wedding day he’d said, “As soon as we can, Miss Molly, we’ll move into a place in town.”

  Granted, she had her piano and enjoyed her music activities in the community, but they were still living here on this huge farm with Mother Russell, and she was afraid they were here to stay. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it.

  A brand-new feeling
bubbled up inside her. It smelled nothing like manure and felt nothing like the filthy ground in a barn. Multicolored, it gleamed like a rainbow after a storm. She stopped in the backyard and gazed at the bright blue sky and the greening trees.

  She needed to quit regretting the past and make the best of a bad situation. Crawling around in the barn looking for a diamond she didn’t even want certainly wasn’t making her feel any better about herself and the mistake she’d made.

  Almost lighthearted, she hurried into the kitchen and stirred the coals from the fire they’d used to cook breakfast and added some wood. Then she set two flatirons on the stove to heat. She’d finish her chores in record time so she could spend the afternoon playing her piano.

  She should have lost that diamond a long time ago. Mr. James hadn’t even bought the ring for her in the first place.

  Chapter Five

  Molly sat as straight as a pin while she played the opening hymn for the Easter Sunday service. She half listened to the congregation but paid close attention to the handful of talented youngsters she’d coached all year.

  All of a sudden she detected a new sound—a trained, rich alto. Where had it come from?

  She caught herself. She’d missed a note. She shook herself and concentrated on the worn black-and-white keys.

  While waiting to play the next hymn, she glanced over her right shoulder. Some people who never entered the church during the rest of the year always showed up on Easter. Once-a-year Christians, her papa called them. She scanned the worshippers dressed in their Sunday best and spotted a stranger three rows back, sitting next to Eric McCade.

  She tried not to gape. There she sat, a canary among crows, and her black eyes danced as she stared at her.

  She must be Eric’s new wife. What were they doing in New Hope? A woman that stylish belonged in New York or London, not here. They were probably just visiting and wouldn’t stay long.

  When the preacher finally finished his opening prayer, the woman quickly blessed herself, the way Catholics did. She’d heard they worshipped statues and had a priest talk to God for them, though maybe that wasn’t so strange. She used music instead of words to pray.

  Then it was time for the anthem, and she held her breath while her three young singers grouped together in front of the piano. Even while she sat there and directed them, she was aware of the stranger. She accompanied the group softly, trying not to drown them out but to highlight their voices, gratified when they finished without a bobble. Relieved that the performance was over and had been a success, at least in her eyes, she sighed. Now she could start planning the Christmas program.

  Unfortunately, only the young people’s parents paid much attention to their offering. Mother Russell looked as if she was far away and hadn’t heard a note, and most of the others looked bored. Even Mr. James seemed half asleep, though Patrick gazed at her with admiration.

  The preacher kept glancing at the newcomer, obviously distracted. And some of the women in the congregation looked upset. She wished they’d pay that much attention to her music. Didn’t anyone appreciate how difficult her job was? What would they do if she pushed the preacher aside and shouted that music was just as important as the sermon or the prayers?

  Oddly, the woman in yellow had seemed to really listen to her protégés’ anthem. Her obvious appreciation made the long hours of rehearsal for this special Sunday more worthwhile, somehow.

  Her excitement over the musical event subsided and she relaxed a fraction. After the interminable sermon she would have to play her least favorite Easter hymn, “The Old Rugged Cross,” so slow and dreary. Right now she felt like dozing off, but she glanced furtively at the visitor.

  Her straight black hair, cut scandalously short, hung right below her ears, and thick bangs brushed the top of her eyebrows.

  Why were she and Eric here, and what did Mother Russell think about her and her hair, on Easter Sunday of all days?

  Not that she cared. She liked it.

  *

  Before the service began, Mrs. Russell swiveled around in her pew and spotted the stranger. “Hannah,” she murmured to her daughter, who lived down the road from her and James. “Looks like Eric McCade’s brought his new wife home for a visit.”

  Hannah shielded her mouth. “She better watch out. All the men are staring at her with their tongues hanging out, and their wives look ready to murder her.”

  Slim pickings, she thought. The good ones had run away to war, including her youngest, Clyde. Sure glad James was too old to go.

  She sat there in the front row between James and Hannah, pleating and unpleating the stiff serge of her newest long black skirt. Had to look her best on Easter Sunday, especially since the preacher was coming to dinner.

  “Did you ever see the likes? Eric married him a doozy.” She whispered so nobody but Hannah could hear her.

  Hannah held her hand before her mouth again. “That cropped-off hair’s disgraceful.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath, aiming to mind her own business.

  Who’d have thought she’d ever be seventy years old and live to see Calvin and all but three of their eight children in their graves? Still in all, her life had been a real honest-to-goodness adventure.

  But Lord have mercy, she was worn out. Why, thirty years ago she could be up near all night tending a neighbor with malaria or helping his wife birth a child. Then the next morning she’d jump out of bed before the rooster crowed and roust the farmhands. Most of ’em lazy as sin, but after her kids either died or married and farmed their own spreads, she had to rely on hired help.

  If only Calvin hadn’t passed away so young—not that long after they’d settled in Texas. But thank God James had stayed with her all these years.

  Damn Yankees! If it hadn’t been for them she might be back in the lap of luxury in Georgia instead of pioneering here in East Texas. If the South had won the War, like they should’ve, she’d definitely be in high cotton right now instead of sitting here all worn out and not getting any younger.

  She’d climbed out of bed this morning at first light, like always. By the time that lay-a-bed Molly even thought about stirring, she’d made dressing to go with one of their old roosters she’d boiled all yesterday afternoon.

  While Molly finally milked the cow, she’d fixed a big breakfast for the four of them. Then she’d cooked four different side dishes to go with the chicken and dressing for Sunday dinner. Even made a chocolate pie.

  What was she gonna do in her old age? Molly couldn’t even produce but one grandchild to help around the place.

  She squirmed in her pew and shooed a fly away from her nose. She’d spent her life buying up acreage and building her place to be one of the best in the county. But it still took hard work to keep it up, and James had to choose an unfit wife.

  Lord have mercy. He’d have done better to pick that short-haired creature in the yellow dress. At least she looked like she had some get-up-and-go.

  *

  Jesus H. Christ! What had she gotten herself into?

  The farm wives around Jaq glared at her as she sat on the rough bench in the third row of the strange little church. She couldn’t help it if their husbands had given her the eye when she and Eric walked in.

  She drummed her fingers for a while. Then she elbowed Eric and tilted her head at the preacher, whose eyes were burning at her from behind the pulpit. “What’s his problem?” she whispered, but Eric just shrugged.

  The preacher rose and read the scripture for the day, still looking at her more than anybody else. Most men were so obvious. In New Orleans and Washington and London, strange guys had stopped on the street and gawked at her.

  She’d cut her hair, damn it, so they wouldn’t pay attention to her. And she was taller than a lot of them. She’d thought that’d help. Hell. They kept right on.

  It was worse in France and Belgium, even with her wearing bloody khaki and being near the front lines. She’d kept a big wrench next to her cot, though she’d never
expected to use it. She deserved better after hauling their broken bodies away from the trenches.

  The soldiers would yell, “Hey, Jaq, get your ass over here. It’s about time you showed up.” Some of them treated her like one of the boys—when they were too shot up to walk. But even then they flirted with her.

  Being in Europe wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Dodging bombs and watching men die. Scratching lice. Didn’t take her long to figure things out. After several months, she’d wanted out, back home to the States. Killing Henry, even if it had been an accident, was the last straw. But she never thought she’d end up here.

  She glanced at Eric, who seemed a million miles away. Good thing she was wearing kid gloves or she’d stick a splinter in one of her drumming fingers. She needed to find something to distract her.

  She noticed the Easter lilies, dogwood, and fern sitting in front of the pulpit, but she couldn’t get her mind off the damn war. When she had to stay still like this, everything she saw reminded her of it.

  The sermon bored her. Why had she let Eric talk her into coming?

  She glanced at the people sitting nearby. Everybody looked so rigid and wooden, so suspicious and unfriendly. Then she noticed the redhead playing hymns on a battered upright piano.

  Suddenly she remembered standing beside her ambulance in France on a cool, clear night last summer. The smoke and noise from the distant artillery had finally subsided, and she’d welcomed the silence. She’d stood there long enough to finish a cigarette and gaze at the stars that penetrated the haze. That was one of the only moments during her stay in wartime Europe when she’d felt at peace.

  Why had this country pianist made her remember that moment?

  She stared at the woman’s long fingers. They appeared elegant and capable, and she stroked the keys like she was making love to them. Pressing gently yet firmly, she seemed to know what each key was capable of and to be able to tease every ounce of beauty from it. And she didn’t even act like she was aware of her own ability.