The Rain Sparrow

  Though sadly neglected, the abandoned mill had charm. Surrounded by lush overgrown plants, the wood and natural rock structure perched on the edge of a creek with a clear, rocky bottom and a small frothy waterfall. The property intrigued him, especially given the dreams he’d been having.

  “Then they won’t mind if we explore?”

  “This place gets explored all the time. Kids trying to scare each other, hikers, picnickers, ghost hunters.”

  “Ghost hunters? Hmm.”

  She gave a tiny squeak. “Don’t try to scare me in there.”

  “Would I do that?” he asked with such studied innocence that Carrie bumped his shoulder with hers.

  “Proceed with caution,” she said.

  In a dangerous tone, he warned, “And a machete.”

  “Hayden!” She shrank back, and he laughed, pleased to see her teasing again.

  The dilapidated building was gray with age. Grass grew into the cracks left by missing boards. The waterwheel stood silent and still, the sluice box filled with leaves, dirt and broken limbs. The heavy wooden doors leading into the main section of the three-story structure hung on one hinge, unlocked.

  Carrie shuddered as they stepped inside the dim confines of the once-productive mill. “I understand where the ghost stories get started.”

  “See what I mean about the machete?” he asked and laughed again when she made a mean face at him. “Watch your step here.”

  He assisted her over a gap in the floor.

  “Sure you want to explore this place?” Cautiously, she gazed around. “The whole structure looks pretty shaky. Not to mention creepy.”

  He gave his best evil eyebrow pump. “Absolutely.”

  Old equipment he couldn’t identify lay about, rusted and broken. A series of interesting cupboards rose through the ceiling into the upper floor, and the remnants of the horizontal grinding wheel, a giant of a thing on a raised dais, took up one end of the room. Much of the interior had been stripped over the years, and only a few damaged remnants of the past remained. A small room, probably once an office, opened to the left, rickety stairs to the right and, directly in front of them, a dirt-coated window looked out at the creek.

  An eerie sensation crept over Hayden, slow and spidery and suggestive. He imagined Abram trotting down those steps and Thaddeus standing in the door of the little office, meal flour coating his white apron and dark hair.

  Was this the gristmill he’d dreamed about? Had seeing the mill from afar somehow stirred his imagination and sent his subconscious into overdrive?

  He’d feel saner if that was the case.

  But Thaddeus had been a real person, not a figment of a writer’s dreams. And how could Hayden possibly know about a man who’d lived nearly 150 years ago?

  “I wonder what’s through that door,” Carrie said.

  Hayden barely glanced before answering. “The loading dock and storehouse.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “You sound so positive. Have you been here before?”

  Blood pounded in his temples. “Only a guess.”

  But he knew. Exactly as he knew how bolting machines had once stretched in long canvas conveyers across one end of the upstairs.

  No, that was crazy thinking. Crazy.

  He sucked in a troubled breath of musty air, trembling inside. Crazy was the scariest word he knew.

  What was happening to his mind?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Here lies an honest miller and that is Strange.

  —Epitaph in Essex churchyard

  1867

  JOSIE HATED TO SWEAT, but running the corn sheller at the mill was far cooler than working in the field, and those had been her choices that morning.

  She jabbed another ear of Bernard Stinson’s corn into the sheller and cranked. Her dress was covered in specks of yellow, and her lips and throat were parched from the dust. She looked a mess, no doubt, and if Thaddeus said one word, she’d chuck a corncob at him.

  He was running the grinding wheels, his nose to the grindstone as he carefully monitored the process to be certain the grain was properly ground without burning. The rumble and whir of the stones ceased, and Josie glanced down the long length of the building to where Thad bent over the enormous bedstone.

  Oscar and Abram were somewhere upstairs. Occasionally she heard the thump and drag of something heavy, probably sacks of meal or corn or chicken feed. She wouldn’t be surprised if Oscar was ogling her backside through the cracks in the floorboards, but if she caught him, she’d poke his eye out with a dry corncob.

  In the days since his arrival, Abram had established himself as a quiet, steady laborer both on the farm and with Thaddeus at the mill. As a former blacksmith apprentice, he and Thad repaired pulleys and cogs and kept the machinery running. The pair had even lifted the stones for dressing—an onerous, dangerous task.

  She hoped the man would stay. He made the load lighter for the rest of them. But so many of the former slaves preferred to ramble, seeking greener pastures.

  She cranked the sheller, heard the corn hit the wooden bin, but her attention remained on Thaddeus. Strong shoulder muscles bulged as he made adjustments to the grindstone and ran his fingers through the fine cornmeal in the trough.

  “Mercy, I’m hot.” Josie dropped the crank handle and went to the water bucket. After a long drink, she filled the dipper and carried it to Thad.

  “You look thirsty.”

  He grinned, his face moist with sweat and pale with meal as he swigged deeply from the dipper. “Be careful, Miss Josie. Drinking from the same dipper as a Yankee might poison you.”

  “I drank first,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll poison you.”

  His grin widened, a devilish glint in his eyes. “You’re looking pretty today.”

  She curtsied. Corn tumbled from the folds of her skirt. She looked hideous and knew it. The scoundrel. “You, sir, are a barbarian with no manners.”

  He laughed. She wanted to do the same but was too stubborn to let him know how stimulating she found their conversations. Instead, she took the dipper and flounced back to the sheller.

  * * *

  JOSIE PORTLAND SURPRISED HIM. He’d thought her vain as well as deeply hostile toward his kind and just about anyone else who was different.

  Yet she was here again today shelling corn for the grinder. Will teased that she trekked across the fields only to torment and admire the millwright, a jest that made Thad feel both uncomfortable and pleased. The days seemed shorter when Josie was in the building.

  His own thoughts troubled him. Was he being disloyal to Amelia to be in constant thought about another woman? Especially one that claimed to despise the very air he breathed.

  Yet she didn’t despise him. He’d daresay she liked him.

  Thoughtful, he went out to the waterwheel to adjust the sluice gate. Did he want her to like him?

  Abram joined him. Thad tensed. Abram was not a complainer, but his dark, nervous eyes and solemn frown indicated that something was wrong. Thad prayed the man was not about to leave Honey Ridge. Though the thought was selfish, given Abram’s desire to find his family, Thad trusted and needed the hardworking freedman.

  “Mr. Thad, sir. I got something I need to tell you.”

  Thad ran his arms through the flow of water, relishing the cool against his hot flesh. “You’re not leaving us, are you, Abram?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. Not unless you say so.” He shifted on his worn boots and glanced toward the adjacent building. “Something’s fretting me fierce. I got to tell you. Don’t want to cause no trouble, though.”

  Relieved that Abram wasn’t leaving, Thad turned to face him. Water dripped from his scarred arms. “Say it.”

  Again Abram glanced toward the doorway. Then, his voice low and co
vered by the splash and rumble of the waterwheel, he said, “Mr. Oscar, he don’t measure the meal right. He got him a sack he fills for hisself and hides back. He tells the customers that’s all the meal their corn made, but that ain’t right. I measured Miz Cower’s myself. Two hundred thirty pounds. He done gave her two hundred. Miz Cower, she got little chilren to feed and no man.”

  Thaddeus frowned, recalling Oscar’s interest in the widow. “Was the two hundred before or after the miller’s toll?”

  “After, sir. I measured the mill’s share like you showed me and sacked it for sale. Miz Cower shoulda got all two thirty.”

  “Maybe the man made a mistake.”

  “Yes, sir. Sure could have. Folks make mistakes.” Abram rubbed thick fingers over his chin. “Mr. Oscar, he sure makes a lot of them.”

  Thad frowned, considering the implications. “You’ve seen him do this before?”

  “Most every time when you or Mr. Will or the customer ain’t watching.”

  Dread settled into the pit of Thad’s stomach. The last thing he needed was trouble. Already many of the local farmers looked askance at a Union man running what most considered their gristmill. He’d known Oscar had an eye for the ladies, but he hadn’t expected him to be a thief.

  “You did the right thing by bringing this to me, Abram. Don’t say anything to Oscar. I’ll keep a watch.”

  “Yes, sir.” Abram started to turn and the paused. “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “Miss Lizzy, she come over yesterday for some grits.” He glanced out at the tumbling falls as if searching for the right words amid the foaming waters. “He said some things to her.”

  The hackles stood up on Thad’s neck. “What did he say?”

  “Things a man ought not to say to a good woman like Miss Lizzy. First off, I thought maybe she liked him, too. They was standing real close, so I didn’t hear all the words, but I heard her tell him to leave her be. He laughed and made a grab for her. Jerked her up kind of close. She gave him a push and then she hurried off real fast like as if he scared her.” Abram’s mouth worked, and when he spoke again his voice was deathly quiet. “I ain’t never hit a white man—”

  Fear shot through Thad. He put a hand to Abram’s powerful upper arm. “Don’t start now. They’d hang you. I’ll take care of this. You have my word.”

  Abram held his gaze for several seconds as if determining his credibility. Then he nodded and headed back inside.

  Thad stood at the waterwheel pondering. The clackety rumbling rhythm melded with the splash and roar of the falls. His insides churned, too, as he considered the best course of action. A hornets’ nest of trouble had just burst open, and he was the man in charge.

  He made his way back inside to the grindstones and settled in to finish his job. If what Abram said was true, he’d find out soon enough.

  * * *

  OPPORTUNITY KNOCKED THE next day when a farmer, his wife and four sons arrived to collect their ground corn. Thad pretended to be busy and sent Abram out to shut the sluice gate. He wanted the ex-slave as far away from suspicion as possible. Josie was bagging corncobs to take home to the hogs when Oscar strutted out to meet the farmer.

  Thad quietly made his way up the stairs to the loft and stood inside the opened doorway out of sight. Voices drifted upward. He listened to the cordial exchanges and watched Oscar tote the white cotton sacks to the wagon. Seeing or hearing nothing out of the ordinary, Thad was about to turn away when the farmer’s voice rose in protest.

  Thad stepped into the opening and gazed down. Baker stood on the loading porch, while the woman and children waited in the wagon. Mrs. Baker appeared mildly concerned, and the children watched in open curiosity as Baker and the hired man talked.

  “Look here, Baker.” Oscar shoved a paper at the farmer. “Says right here how much your corn weighed. Take out the miller’s share and this is what’s left.”

  “Don’t look right to me, Pitts.” Baker lifted his hat and scratched behind his ear. “But I never was too good at figures. If you say that’s all, I reckon I calculated wrong.”

  Oscar clapped him on the back. “We been doing business for years, Baker. Would Portland Mill cheat a good customer like you?”

  “No, no, I reckon not.”

  Would Portland Mill cheat a good customer? That was the question Thad needed to answer.

  He bounded down the stairs, past a startled Josie, who watched him nearly stumble over Tabby in his haste. He heard her giggle behind him but was in no mood to tease. If Oscar truly was shortchanging this customer, his cheating stopped now.

  “Is there a problem with the order, Mr. Baker?” he asked as he stepped out onto the loading dock.

  Baker glanced from Thad to Oscar and back again. “Well—”

  Oscar gave Thad a cocky smirk. “Everything is fine, boss man. Go on back to your grindstones. Mr. Baker is all fixed up and ready to leave.”

  “Is that right?” Thad remained outwardly calm, casual but determined. If Pitts had nothing to hide, he shouldn’t mind the interruption. “Mind if I have a look at your sale bill, Mr. Baker?”

  “’Preciate it, Mr. Eriksson.” Baker handed over the sales slip.

  Oscar’s confidence faltered. “Now, see here—”

  Thad tuned him out as he studied over the figures. He’d measured the incoming grain himself and measured it again after grinding. At the figures before him, his heart dropped into his belly. He didn’t need the conflict, but hardworking farmers trying to recover from years of war deserved fair treatment.

  “I think Mr. Baker’s short a sack, Oscar. Go ahead and get that for him.”

  Oscar shook his head, face darkening, feet planted firmly on the weathered boards. “He’s not short.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes now and then.” Thad kept his voice cordial and controlled, though his insides tumbled like the waterwheel. “We wouldn’t want good customers to leave with bad feelings. A sack of meal won’t break us. Get it.”

  “But—”

  He aimed a sharp, steady stare at the hired man. “Now, Pitts.”

  Jaw tight and face mottled, Pitts did as he was told while Thad carried on an easy conversation with the farmer about crops and weather and anything else he could think of. Let the man believe this was truly a onetime error. He didn’t want word to circulate that Portland Grist Mill overcharged customers.

  Seething and silent, Oscar returned and dumped the extra bag into the farmer’s wagon, then stood back, meaty fists on his hips.

  With a genial nod, Thad thanked the customer and waited until the loaded wagon was out of earshot before he turned on his hired hand.

  “You intentionally held back, didn’t you?”

  “Ppff. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Thad stared him down. Only thing he despised worse than a thief was a liar. “The truth, Pitts.”

  Oscar shrugged carelessly. “So what if I did? It’s part of doing business. A miller takes a share.”

  “You’re not the miller.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ve been here a lot longer than you, Eriksson. I got a right to that grain. Customers don’t miss a little here and there, but the extra makes a big difference to me.”

  “How long have you been stealing from our customers?”

  “Taking a share ain’t stealing.” The square jaw tightened. “It’s part of doing business. Most folks don’t even notice.”

  “Baker noticed.”

  “Old Baker’s a skinflint. Probably counts the corn kernels.”

  Thad’s blood hummed like a beehive, ready to burst loose in a hot swarm. He opened and closed his fists, drawing in a deep breath of composure. His mind had been made up long before he’d come down the stairs. He’d never liked Pitts, didn’t like the way he ogled women or
his insubordinate attitude, but he’d had no reason to fire him. Now he did.

  “You’re not needed here anymore, Pitts. Take your thieving ways and go home. Don’t come back.”

  “You’re firing me?” Oscar’s eyes bugged, incredulous. “Over a handful of cornmeal?”

  “A handful?”

  The man broadened his stance, spreading his feet like an eager pugilist. His fists tightened at his side. “You can’t run this mill without me.”

  Thaddeus braced himself. He didn’t want to fight, but he wouldn’t back down. “We’ll manage.”

  “We? Gadsden ain’t never here anymore.” His beady eyes flickered toward the open doorway. Abram stood in the shadows. “You don’t mean the likes of him.”

  “He’s a free man and an honest one who’s not afraid to earn his pay.”

  Oscar’s voice rose. “You ain’t hiring him over me.”

  “I will if he’ll accept the job.” The answer surprised him. He hadn’t given a thought to who would take Oscar’s position, but now that Abram came to mind, he warmed to the idea.

  Fury reddened Oscar’s face. “Gadsden will have something to say about this. He’s the boss of this outfit. Not you.”

  “Then go on over and talk to him. Remember to tell him about the grain you stole from elderly neighbors, widows and friends. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Pitts’s mouth worked. Hatred shot out of his glare as potent as cannon fire.

  “You’ll pay for this, Eriksson.” He hawked and spat, then wiped his hand across his lips. “You’ll be sorry you ever messed with Oscar Pitts.”

  * * *

  LONG AFTER PITTS stomped off down the road, dusk gathered along the banks of the creek and hovered like a thin gray curtain over the fields. Josie finished the last of the corn and, shoulders aching, went out to the creek to wash away the meal dust. Thaddeus was already there, doing the same.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed.” She’d overheard the confrontation.