The Fire Within. Lynda Trent
since I was a boy. I used to tell stories to Felicity and her friends all the time.”
“Men don’t write. They build fences and repair barns and hunt for game.”
“Megan, the world is larger than Black Hollow. My father doesn’t do any of those things. Neither do any of my uncles. Who do you think writes books if they’re not written by men and women? Somebody does it and I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be me. Or you, for that matter.
“I can just see me now, writing stories between milking the cow and churning the butter and gathering the eggs. Maybe I could do the illustrations while I scrub the floor.”
“Suit yourself. Far be it from me to convince you to be free.”
She frowned at him. “The world isn’t so accommodating. I’m surprised you’ve grown this old and have not noticed that.”
“The world also isn’t full of nothing but work and responsibilities. If some of us don’t dream and work to fulfill our dreams, we aren’t any better than cattle.”
“Why is it that we end up arguing if we talk more than a few minutes? I’m going to see how supper is coming along.”
“Supper can wait.”
“You talk twice as much as any man I ever saw. I’ll bet Papa hasn’t talked to Mama this much in the past year!”
“Then I feel sorry for your mother.”
“Caleb, not everyone talks all day long. And what’s more, I don’t think your people are as idle as you say they are.”
“They aren’t idle at all. They just have different pursuits.”
She nodded knowingly. “Yes, well, I’m going to pursue supper now.” She left but she couldn’t stop thinking about all he had said.
Could she really write and illustrate a book? She had harbored this dream for so long it was a part of her. Yet when she thought of how to go about it, she reached a dead end. Nobody in Raintree was a book publisher—they didn’t even have a newspaper. How would she ever go about getting a book published, assuming it was good enough for others to want to read it? No, she told herself. Being a writer would just have to be a dream.
But would Caleb write? He seemed certain that he could do it. Did he know how to go about it? Whatever her own experience, Megan knew men and women wrote books because she had read their names on the covers. How did they have time? Perhaps once she had several children to help out with chores, there would be time, but she didn’t want to wait and she hadn’t seen her own mother’s work lessening over the years. Work seemed to expand to fill all the hours of the day no matter how many hands were whittling it down.
The idea of writing never left her all the time she prepared the meal. No matter how hard she tried to tell herself it was a foolish idea, it stuck in her mind.
When she took Caleb’s supper to him, he was lying very still. She knew him well enough by now to know this meant he was in pain. He didn’t mention it but sat up, and she handed him the plate. She admired him for that.
“Will you bring your plate in here and eat with me?”
“I suppose I could do that,” she conceded. She had never had a meal in her life that wasn’t consumed in the kitchen, but who was to know?
She joined him and noticed he had waited for her. “Mama baked the bread,” she said.
“She’s a good cook. So are you.”
Megan smiled. “Mama insisted that Bridget and I learn that even if we never learned anything else. She also taught us to sew.”
“And to read.”
“No, that was one of my aunts. Papa wasn’t too pleased that Bridget and I learned that. Owen was the one who was supposed to be learning to read.”
“Megan, why didn’t Seth write to you instead of to his parents? What’s the real reason?”
She pushed the food around on her plate. “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that all afternoon. He had to realize that I would know the letter came. I can understand him writing his parents instead of me the first time—maybe. But I can’t see a reason at all for him not even mentioning my name in the second letter.”
“Not even a greeting?”
She shook her head. She felt too close to tears to answer aloud.
“I know it doesn’t mean much to you, but I would have written to you.” His voice was softer than she had ever heard it.
Megan’s eyes met his and she found she couldn’t look away.
“I know it’s hard for you to believe, but all Northern men aren’t barbarians, just as all Southern ones aren’t knights in shining armor. I would be more thoughtful of my fiancée than that. Even if it was more or less an arranged marriage.”
She managed to avert her eyes. “Maybe I made a mistake in not letting those soldiers find you that day. Maybe I’m wrong in keeping you here.”
“I’m your pawn in this game of war,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “Remember?”
“I remember. All the same, it may have been a mistake. Maybe I should have let you go on down that road. A Yankee patrol might have found you.”
“Or I might have died of shock or exposure. I left the house thinking there was a regiment in the area. Like you said, I couldn’t hope to walk all the way to Raintree. But I had to try.”
“Did you hurt yourself too badly?” she asked.
He thought for a minute before he answered. “That’s possible. I know I’m hurting more than I was before I tried.”
“You’re a hard man to doctor,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
“I want you to promise me you won’t try anything like that again.”
“I think I’d be a fool not to promise. I’ve had time to think lately. This is the most comfortable, even considering the pain in my leg, that I’ve been in months, maybe years. I think that’s why I thought I had to try to escape.”
“I don’t understand.” She didn’t dare look at him.
“Let’s just say I’m starting to enjoy the company. Perhaps a bit too much.”
She nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. “I guess I should have let you escape after all.” Suddenly she didn’t dare stay in the room with him and she left quickly. He didn’t call after her.
Sitting by the fire to finish her supper, Megan did quite a bit of soul-searching. She couldn’t start to care for Caleb, not even if he were a Confederate. She was promised to Seth, and in the Hollow, that was as binding as marriage vows. Certainly she could never love him or expect him to love her. But could she stop the emotion that was coming to life inside her? Certainly Seth had never made her feel this way, not even that night in the clearing.
Megan was glad no one could read her thoughts.
Chapter Five
From Caleb’s bed in the back room, he could see the fireplace in the main room. In the days he had been in the cabin, he had read most of The Mysteries of Udolpho, counted all the timbers in the walls, the wide planking flooring, and was starting to count the bricks in the fireplace. Megan fascinated him but she was busy most of the day, keeping the small farm and cabin in shape. Even though it was now winter, there were things to be mended and cloth to be sewn.
As he was counting the bricks for the second time, Megan came into his line of vision. She put down the armload of firewood and straightened as if her back were tired. Then she knelt and put a log