Prologue

“A Builder for Bronwyn”

Decatur, Illinois

April 1865

Ian Taggart clutched the bundle an elderly woman tucked into his arm and shuffled forward. Up ahead, the mouth-watering aroma of fried chicken and biscuits mingled with the warm spring air, making him lightheaded. He stumbled, crashing into the line of soldiers that stretched out along the length of the train depot.

“Hold on there, soldier,” someone called out. A moment later, several hands reached out to him, attempting to keep him upright.

“Get him out of the sun,” A swish of skirts accompanied a feminine voice barking out the order, and immediately those same hands shuffled him to a bench inside the depot. If he had the strength, he would have smiled at the woman’s officious directive. There was something in her tone that reminded him of his mama. A sob crawled up his throat. Though he missed her desperately, he was glad she was finally at peace, and away from the clutches of his father.

Surprisingly cool inside the sprawling brick building, Ian dropped his head between his knees. Taking in steady gulps of air, he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth several times until the spots before his eyes stopped dancing. Slowly, he leaned back and rested his head against the wall. Memories of how he got to this point flipped through his mind like a child’s zoetrope in a dizzying forward motion.

The wheatfield in Gettysburg. Minié balls striking the trees like hail stones all around him. A bullet striking and passing through his arm. Yankees surrounding him. The prison at Point Lookout in Maryland. The train ride to Elmira. The Shohola train wreck. The march by torchlight to Elmira Prison.

A moan slipped from his lips as he pushed these thoughts away. The war was over. And with it came freedom, though he recognized the fact that as a Southerner he’d always be viewed as the enemy. He also knew he needed to find work if he wanted to survive.

“You’ll feel better once you drink this and get some food in your belly, son.”

Ian opened his eyes and focused on the planked ceiling before he eased his head forward. The aroma of chicken and biscuits was stronger now, sending his stomach into a swirl again.

“Would you like coffee or milk? I brought both.”

The woman’s tone was kinder when she spoke this time. As dearly as he loved coffee, the memory of the swill he’d been forced to swallow at Elmira turned his stomach. “I’ll take the milk,” he said, finally facing his champion in calico.

He reasoned that if he’d known his grandmothers, one or both might have resembled the woman sitting next to him. While not exactly plump, she possessed a stout figure. Dressed in a serviceable cotton dress and sturdy black shoes, she wore a black cockade on her bodice adorned with a daguerreotype of a soldier. He’d seen enough of those to realize she’d probably lost a loved one in the war. Hidden beneath a simple straw bonnet trimmed with a frayed grosgrain ribbon, a few silver curls framed her face.

“Somehow I guessed you’d choose milk. I don’t imagine they gave you anything to drink that even closely resembles coffee in Elmira,” she said, draping a cloth napkin over his dirty, tattered trousers before handing him a tin plate. He noted her hands, wrinkled with age and nicked with years of work. He was certain those hands could soothe and calm better than any salve a doctor might prescribe.

“How’d you know I was at Elmira?”

A veil of sadness dimmed her bright blue eyes. “When a train from the northeast filled with Southern boys like you arrive in Decatur, it’s coming from Elmira. Just as a train from the south, filled with federals in much the same condition as you arrive, we know it’s coming from Libby Prison, the Florence Stockade, or…Andersonville.”

Tamping down the urge to tuck into the food, he put out his hand. “I’d consider it an honor, ma’am if you’d pray over the food with me.”

Her gnarled fingers clasped his with predictable strength. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, son.”

Ian listened with heartfelt gratitude that he’d reached this place of grace. “Lord, allow this boy acceptance of all things in his life and give him peace that passes all understanding. Fill him with Your promises and show him Your perfect will. Bless this food to our use and us to thy service. And keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed Ian. A little bit of heaven filled his mouth as he bit into the biscuit and sighed. “Glad you didn’t offer me hardtack, ma’am. The Yankees thought they were doing us a favor by giving us a “worm castle”. Begging your pardon, ma’am…it’s what we called it at Point Lookout. It wasn’t uncommon for us boys to find the surface of our coffee swimming with weevils after we’d broken up the hardtack and soaked it.”

Understanding his meaning, her brows nearly reached her hairline. “That’s simply scandalous! It seems that along with every other propriety thrown by the wayside these last four years, Christian values were trampled on as well.”

“It was war, ma’am.” Not knowing what else to say, Ian dropped the denuded chicken bone onto the plate and wiped his fingers. “Thanks for the food, ma’am—”

“I’m Josepha Blake,” she interrupted. “Most folks call me Josie. And you are?”

Ian smiled, realizing it was the first time in quite a while he recalled doing it. “Sergeant Ian Taggart, 7th Virginia Infantry,” he drawled, reminding himself he’d need to shuck the accent if he hoped to find work.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ian Taggart.” She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Are you intent on returning to your kin in Virginia?”

With his mother safe in a plain coffin, and his father—hopefully, in Hades, there was no one and nothing left for him there. “No, Mrs. Blake. I’m headed north…or west wherever the wind blows and wherever I can find work.”

“Call me Josie,” she insisted, refilling his glass with the remainder of the milk. She pushed a piece of cake toward him. “And what kind of work is it that you do, Ian.”

“Carpentry. I enjoyed building chairs, tables, and the like with my hands. Someday, I hope to make my own house.” There were too many memories back in Richmond—most of them to miserable to dwell on. He hoped Josie would pursue a different topic other than his life before the war. As if the Lord heard his plea, the train whistle gave a long, piercing blast.

He rose slowly, testing his balance. With his belly full, he found himself steady on his feet and held out a hand to Josie. “I guess that’s my cue to board. Miz Josie, thank you for your kindness and the food. If I ever find myself in Decatur again, I’ll—”

“Building, you say? I have an idea. Come with me, Ian.” She tugged on his hand and led him across the depot floor and through a set of batwing doors to the telegraph office. “Afternoon, Horace. My friend, Ian here, is looking for work. You still got last Tuesday’s edition of the Weekly Gazette?”

The telegrapher spun in his swivel chair and plucked a wrinkled sheaf of paper from the middle of a pile. “Here ya go, young fella. Lots of soldiers will be looking for work. Ya might have better luck further west.”

Josie smoothed the wrinkles before she scanned the paper “There,” she tapped an advert with her fingernail then slid it toward him.

Ian backed away from the counter as if the newspaper were a nest of rattlers ready to strike.

“Is there something wrong, Ian?” Miss Josie curled her gnarled fingers around his wrist.

“I’d be beholden to you if you could read it. The words are swimmin’ in front of my eyes. I guess I’m not as strong as I thought.”

“Husband Wanted. Age 30-40 Must have building experience, be dependable, and strong of body, mind, and spirit to withstand Minnesota climes. Education is preferred but not necessary. Must possess a neat appearance and understand a woman’s feelings. Apply to B. Stewart, c/o Stewart Woodsmiths, Whispering Pines, Minnesota.”

“Well, you do need to spruce yourself up a bit,” she noted when she finished reading. But once we get some food in you, give you a few chores to build up your muscles, and a Sunday or two or three spent with the Lord, all will be good.” She tapped the advert once again. “You certainly have all the qualifications, Ian.”

All but one came a small voice deep inside him.