“Thee doesn’t believe in miracles then?”
Matthew was about to say he didn’t, and then he recalled all he’d witnessed today. “I haven’t for a long time,” he said finally. “Is it a miracle or coincidence that my cousin was one of the men you nursed at Gettysburg?”
“I call it providence,” Verity answered.
“Providence?” Matt asked.
“Yes. God knew that I would come here to Fiddler’s Grove to open this school for freed slaves.”
Matt wished Verity wouldn’t wear such a deep-brimmed bonnet. He wanted to watch her vivid expressions. For a woman who radiated peace, she felt and showed everything vibrantly.
As she continued to speak of the providence that brought them to this place, her voice grew stronger with the passion that he loved in her. And hated. Don’t care so much, Verity. That’s the way to pain. He wanted so much more for her.
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, September 1866
Verity Hardy loathed the man, God forgive her. She stood looking down at her late husband’s cousin, she on the top step of her wide porch, he on the bottom. The unusually hot autumn sun burned just beyond the scant shade of the roof. Her black mourning dress soaked up the heat that buffeted her in waves, suffocating and singeing her skin. The man had been haranguing her for nearly a quarter of an hour and she didn’t know how much more she could take.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this insane plan.” Urriah Hardy wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and glared at her, his jowly face reddening. He held the reins of his handsome gelding, fidgeting just behind him.
Pressing a hankie to her upper lip, she looked past him to the golden fields beyond. Memories of wounded soldiers—their agonized screams and soul-deep moans—shuddered through Verity. She’d never forget those bloody July days three years ago. She couldn’t let them count for naught. Still, her deep uncertainty made her hands tremble. She clasped them together so he wouldn’t see this sign of weakness. “Thee knows,” she said in a final attempt at politeness, “I’ve packed everything, and we leave at dawn.”
“You’re a fool, woman. That renter you’ve found won’t make a go of it. He lost his own farm.”
Yes, because he was drafted into the Union Army and thy younger brother, the banker, wouldn’t give him more time to pay the mortgage. “That’s really none of thy business,” she murmured, adding a warning note to her tone.
“You should have rented to me. I’m family.”
His reference to family stung her like rock salt. Urriah had cheated on every business deal she’d ever known him to make. “So thee could have cheated me instead?”
After the brazen words popped out of her mouth, conscience stung Verity instantly. Judge not, lest ye be judged. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—take back the words. She stood her ground, her face hot and set.
He swore at her, vulgar and profane, something no man had ever done in her presence.
Her frayed temper ripped open. “I don’t expect thee to understand,” she shot back with a disdain she couldn’t hide. “Not a coward who bought his way out of the draft.”
For a moment he rocked on his toes and she thought he might climb the steps to strike her. Instead, an evil, gloating leer engulfed his ugly face. “Well, since you won’t listen to reason, I guess you’ll just have to take what comes, down in Dixie. You’ll be lucky if the Rebs just run you out of town on a rail. If they lynch you, I’ll inherit the land and you know it.” He chuckled in a mean way and turned his back to her. “The day a woman bests me will be the day hell freezes over,” he taunted as he mounted his horse.
His parting shot drew her down the steps and into the dusty lane. “I’ve made out a will and thee’s not the beneficiary!” she called after him. “Roger’s father inherits the land as guardian of Beth.”