The Woods Behind the Mercantile
Chapter 1
The Woods Behind the Mercantile
Mount Vernon, Illinois
1866
Rebecca
I stood at the edge of the woods and let the sobs come.
There was no dignity in grief. I had learned that before, when my mother died, and again when Papa followed her, leaving the mercantile too quiet and the house too full of memories. But this grief was different. This grief tore through me like something with claws.
Marguerite was gone.
My dearest friend. My only true sister in all but blood. The girl who had shared secrets with me behind hymnals at church, who had laughed with me over burnt biscuits, who had promised that if her baby was a girl, she would name her Rebecca.
Rebecca.
I pressed both hands over my mouth, but the sound came anyway.
The child was gone too.
The baby girl who should have come into the world pink and squalling, wrapped in soft cotton, placed in Marguerite’s arms while everyone smiled and thanked the Lord for His mercy. It was meant to be a day of rejoicing. A glorious day. A beginning.
Instead, it had ended in death.
Cold, silent, frigid death.
The sun had already slipped below the tree line, leaving the western sky bruised purple and gold. A soft breeze moved through the pines and carried the scent of lilac from somewhere nearby. It should have comforted me. Marguerite had loved lilacs. She said they smelled like spring deciding to forgive winter.
But I could not feel forgiven.
I could barely feel anything except the ache in my chest and the damp chill settling through my dress.
Dr. Luke Webster had stood in the doorway with his sleeves rolled to the elbows and sorrow in his eyes. He had told us there was nothing more he could have done. He said some things were in God’s hands. He said the Lord had seen fit to take Marguerite and the baby home.
Home.
I had wanted to ask him what kind of home required so much taking.
But I did not say it.
A Christian woman did not speak against the Lord. A Christian woman bowed her head, folded her hands, and accepted what Providence allowed.
At least, that was what I had been taught.
But standing there in the shadow of the trees with my best friend lying cold behind me, I could not accept it.
Marguerite had been young. Strong. So full of life that even sorrow seemed to bend around her. She had survived a hard marriage with a smile that never quite gave up. She had endured more than anyone knew, and perhaps more than I could bear to think on.
And now she was gone.
Everyone I had ever loved had been taken from me.
Mama.
Papa.
Marguerite.
I lowered myself onto a fallen log and gripped the rough bark beneath my fingers. I could still see Marguerite’s face from that morning, pale and damp with pain, but smiling when I came into the room.
“If it is a girl,” she had whispered, “I shall call her Rebecca.”
I had laughed then, though my heart had been trembling with worry.
“You must not do such a thing,” I told her. “One of me is more than enough trouble for this town.”
She had squeezed my hand.
“I should like her to be brave like you.”
Brave.
The word broke something inside me all over again.
I was not brave. I had not saved her. I had not stopped Horace from turning her life into something small and frightened. I had seen the bruises beneath her sleeves. I had heard the excuses. I had watched her flinch when his boots struck the porch.
And I had done nothing that mattered.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me.
I froze.
For one blessed second, I thought it might be Patches. My dog had been shadowing me all day, keeping far enough back to give me space, close enough that I never truly felt alone. She was faithful that way. Loyal in a manner most people only pretended to be.
But then I heard it again.
Not paws.
Boots.
Heavy boots crunching along the gravel path, slow and deliberate.
I stood at once and wiped my cheeks with the heels of my hands. My breath caught so sharply that it hurt. I did not need to turn around to know who it was. Some fears had a sound, and I knew this one as surely as I knew the bell over the mercantile door.
Horace Whitehead.
