Dunaway's Crossing (7 page)

He turned the wagon around and steered it back down the long gravel drive.

C
hapter 7

B
ea Dot had stopped worrying about her hair an hour ago. Will Dunaway must have thought she was a fright. When Netta saw her, she’d surely go running in terror. Perspiration dribbled down her neck and back, her shirt clinging between the shoulder blades. Her poor handkerchief, now dingy from constant use, looked more like a tiny dust rag. Each time a drip of sweat touched her split lip, it stung like it had been swabbed with alcohol. Dabbing it brought little relief.

And poor Will Dunaway drove the wagon at a snail’s pace just to keep from jostling her. Surely he wanted to get home, but on top of prolonging his day, she was letting him think he had knocked her down. Guilt pestered her, but biting her tongue about his misunderstanding was much easier than explaining she’d bumped into him and toppled over her own satchel. The truth wouldn’t explain those god-awful tears, and she wouldn’t dare reveal what sparked them. She’d tried to hold them back, but landing on her rump revived the pain from last night’s heinous episode. Mr. Dunaway must have thought she was as helpless as a gray-haired old lady.

Perhaps she was.

Dingy, sweaty, exhausted from the extended train ride, and dying to get out of that cursed hobble skirt, Bea Dot felt more like a vagabond than a young lady visiting her cousin. The skirt, meant to hide the real reason she walked so slowly, turned out to be the worst idea of the day. She looked silly wearing it in this small Georgia town, especially in this heat.

My stars, this place is nothing but red clay and pine trees
, she thought as she surveyed the environment from atop Will Dunaway’s wagon. She flapped her handkerchief at a pesky horsefly, but it just came right back, buzzing about her head like a bad memory. Eventually the insect lit on her knee, but before she could wave it away, wham! Will Dunaway whacked it with his hat, making Bea Dot cry out in alarm.

With the hat’s brim, he brushed the dead bug off her skirt, then placed the hat back on his head. Speechless, Bea Dot gaped at him, her eyes probably as big around as her open mouth. In a second or two, he noticed her incredulity, then turned bright red. “Oh, dirt! Forgive me, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, flustered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you’d like me to kill that horsefly.”

“That’s all right.” Bea Dot composed herself and replied, “I am glad you killed it. I’m just surprised is all.”
Scared to death
better described how she felt. Living with Ben Ferguson made her expect any blow to be directed at her. She took a deep breath, then exhaled to slow her pounding heart.

She dabbed at her upper lip and forehead again. Her damp handkerchief was almost useless, now turned orange-gray from the Georgia dust and constant handling.

The wagon continued down the red dirt road, the pine trees creeping by, the cicadas’ song creating a crescendo from the woods. Bea Dot had just relaxed again when the wagon thumped into a pothole, jarring her on the hardwood seat and charging pain from her bottom up through her core. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, drawing deep breaths in an attempt to ease the pain. Her eyes burned, and she turned her head away, refusing to let Mr. Dunaway see her cry again. She begged the tears not to come.

“Mrs. Ferguson, are you all right?”

She nodded, inhaled deeply, then uttered a yes, which sounded more like a yelp. In a few moments, she’d gathered herself again, but her heart plummeted when she faced Mr. Dunaway, who looked like he’d shot his best friend.

“Of course you’re sore from your fall,” he said. “I should have thought of that. I’m sorry.”

“Please,” she said, holding up her hand (good heavens, her glove was dirty), “no more apologies, Mr. Dunaway. You’ve been nothing but attentive and generous with your time, and I only regret that I’ve taken up so much of your afternoon.”

He sighed and pulled a bandana from his pocket, which he used to wipe the sweat from his neck. His skin had browned from frequent exposure to the sun, but his green eyes were kind and, thanks to Bea Dot, still full of worry.

“I’ll feel much better if I can make you more comfortable,” he said. He turned, as if the solution to his problem lay in the wagon bed. Then, spying Netta’s rocking chair, his eyes widened. “I have an idea.”

He drew the horse to a stop, climbed down from the driver’s seat, and went to the tail of the wagon, where he climbed aboard. After shuffling around Bea Dot’s trunk and the many crates, he shifted the rocker to the front of the bed, just behind the driver’s seat. He tied it in place, then patted the gingham cushion. “You can’t rock, but this chair will be much softer.”

Bea Dot smiled at his ingenuity, surprised at his willingness to secure her comfort. She turned to step off the wagon, but he stopped her.

“Wait just a second. I’ll help you.”

In a moment, he was on the ground in front of her. Bea Dot eyed her skirt uncertainly, and he read her thoughts. “Will you permit me to lift you down?”

He held his hands up to her.

“How?”

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” he said. “I’ll take you by the waist—if you don’t mind.”

She hesitated a moment, her nerves buzzing, unsure of how to respond, unaccustomed to having a man ask permission to touch her. The idea provoked caution, even though the source of her hesitation was at home in Savannah.

Bending forward, she placed her hands on Mr. Dunaway’s shoulders. He took her by the waist and lowered her to the ground, and as he did so, her cheek grazed against his stubbled whiskers. He smelled of sweat and leather. Through her light gloves and his plaid cotton shirt, his shoulder muscles rolled under her palms. Heat rose into her face, even though Mr. Dunaway had done nothing untoward.

He walked her to the back of the wagon, where he lifted her onto the bed. After carefully stepping around the trunk and the crates, Bea Dot sat in Netta’s rocker, the cushion and backrest a welcome relief.

He’d climbed aboard the wagon as well, and as he took the reins, she said, “You’re right. This is much better. Thank you, Mr. Dunaway.”

He turned halfway to her as the horse started up again. “You’d do me a favor by calling me Will.”

“Then you must call me Bea Dot,” she replied.

“That’s an unusual name,” he said. After a tick, “I like it.”

Bea Dot smiled. Ben had always said her name was too juvenile. “Mr. Dun—I mean Will—can you tell me about this camp house where we’re going? Will Netta and I be camping?”

“It’s a small log house down by a lake a few miles ahead,” Will explained. “Ralph uses it as a fishing camp, but I’m guessing he’s sent plenty of provisions to make it suitable for you two ladies.”

A small log cabin. One room? Surely Ralph wouldn’t send his wife to live in a house like that. Did the cabin at least have running water? Bea Dot bit her thumbnail. When she’d accepted Netta’s invitation, she’d not packed for two weeks in the woods.

When her stomach growled, she put her hand on her middle. She hadn’t eaten since early that morning before boarding the train.
Please, don’t let Will hear my stomach grumble
, she prayed. She would just die if he felt he had to feed her as well as deliver her to Netta.

When the road curved, the wagon passed a large green field. Overlooking it in the distance stood a two-story house with four square columns. Lovely, but lonely.

“How long have we been traveling?” she asked.

“Almost an hour,” he answered after peering at his watch.

“You’re wearing a wristwatch,” she said. “Isn’t that what the army makes soldiers wear?”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“Are you home from the war?” Some of Bea Dot’s classmates had gone “over there,” but they hadn’t come back yet.

“Yes,” Will answered without turning his head.

“And you’re already home? I hope you weren’t injured.”

He paused while the cicadas sang another chorus. Then, “I mended.”

Bea Dot had to lean forward to hear his reply, but there was no mistaking the reluctance in his voice. She’d never spoken to a Great War veteran, but she’d heard talk about the cold, mud-filled trenches and the machine guns’ rapid fire. Battle in Europe sounded more brutal than anything she could imagine. She changed the subject.

“What’s growing in those fields?”

“You’ve never seen a cotton field before?” Laughter laced his voice.

“That’s cotton? I thought cotton was white.”

“It is white, once the cotton bolls open,” Will explained. “This crop’s not ready to harvest yet.”

Bea Dot watched the crops pass by, like rows of soldiers marching in a parade. “When will they be ready?”

“In another month or so. The cotton bolls will open, and then all these fields”—he stretched his arm out toward them—“will look blanketed with snow.” He chuckled a moment before adding, “It’s the only snow this part of the country ever sees.”

Agricultural talk must have put Will at ease. He was in the best mood she’d seen him in all day, so she asked more questions about cotton, peanuts, tobacco, and other Georgia crops. He answered cheerfully and also told her about some of the farming families in the area. By the time the sun had lowered to the tip of the pine trees in the distance, Will seemed to have forgotten any previous mention of war. “Will, I do believe you have stumbled upon an excellent idea. Maybe every wagon should have a rocking chair in the back.”

He laughed. “I’d pursue the idea further if the country weren’t already running out to make Henry Ford wealthier. But if you like your seat, I’ll make your cousin an offer on that rocker so that you can always ride comfortably with me.”

“My friends in Savannah will be so jealous,” she joked. After a pause, she asked, “Will we be at the camp house before dark?”

“Yes, but just before,” he said. “Here’s our turn.”

He steered the wagon into a grove of pines. Bea Dot welcomed the shade and inhaled the scent of evergreen. The cicadas serenaded the two again as the wagon lumped along the two-rutted path. Thank heavens for Netta’s chair. She could not have endured such a bumpy ride otherwise.

She touched her cheek, and her skin nipped back at her.
My face must be red as California’s head rag
, she worried. Fortunately, when she dabbed her lip, the sting had dulled. She could only imagine how dirty her face was. From the looks of her gloves and handkerchief, she must have enough dust on her face to make her dark as California.

Eventually, the cart path rolled down a short hill. Through the pines and undergrowth the sun reflected on water, and through the foliage she noticed the water wasn’t flowing like a river or stream.

“Is that a lake?” she asked from her rocking chair.

“Yes, we’re getting close to the fishing camp now,” he replied.

Eventually, the wagon came to a clearing, and the lake appeared in full view on her left, the water gently lapping on the grassy bank. To her right stood a small wooden house. Stacked bricks served as front steps as well as footings underneath. The walls were weathered and warped, the tin roof brown with rust. Next to it, a small boat rested upside down atop two wooden sawhorses.
Cabin
was too good a term for this structure. It was a shack. Bea Dot hoped to God she wouldn’t have to stay in it more than two or three days.

“Here we are.” Will pulled the horse to a stop, then climbed down from the wagon. Bea Dot stayed seated, staring at the shanty resembling those she’d seen in the Negro sections of Savannah. Will called to her from behind.

“Are you ready? I can help you down now.”

“Oh,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the camp house. “Yes, of course.”

Holding the wagon’s side for balance, she carefully picked her way around Will’s cargo, but at the sound of a rip, she gasped and reached for her skirt. She’d caught one of the gathers in a nail poking out of a crate and ripped a three-inch hole in the front.

“Oh, jiminy,” she said, frowning, wishing she could say something worse.

Will pulled his lips into his mouth, obviously stifling a laugh. “Pardon me for saying so,” he said, “but that rip would be a real tragedy if it were in a more practical skirt. Now that you’ve torn it, I wish you’d let me cut that”—he gestured toward her ankles—“that business at the bottom of it. You’d be able to walk again.”

Her stomach tightened at the thought of cutting up her skirt. But when she studied the raveled edges and realized no seamstress could work her magic to repair it, her shoulders sagged. “Oh, all right.”

She shuffled to the end of the wagon as he bent over. When he straightened, he held up a hunting knife. Alarm cut through her as she hopped back.

“It’s all right,” he soothed her. “I’ll only cut the skirt.”

“You keep a knife in your boot?” Her shoulders relaxed again.

He shrugged. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?”

“I’d wager it’s a sight more comfortable than that skirt.” Palm up, he drew his fingers toward him as he spoke. “Now, if you’ll allow me.”

She stepped to the edge of the wagon, then pulled up the corner of her mouth and turned her gaze to the sky, unable to watch the destruction at her feet. Her skirt tugged downward, and a ripping noise made her cringe. “Oooh! I bought this skirt in Atlanta.”