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    Indian Summer
    Indian Summer
    Indian Summer
    Ebook187 pages3 hours

    Indian Summer

    By Suzanne D. Williams

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    Without another word, he vanished back into the rain, and she stood there, shaking violently, wondering if he felt the drops at all or was instead made from them. A vision formed of mist and soil and sky.

     

    After long correspondence, Ona Privett accepts the marriage proposal of a man she's never met, swept away by the beautiful words he's written of their promising future. But when she arrives, far south at the edge of the Florida wilderness, she discovers the man she intended to marry died within weeks of their last communication.

     

    His son, John Cole, knows nothing about their letters, any pending marriage, or why such a beautiful girl is so determined to stay. Nor does he want the responsibility of a wife, though that was his father's wish. He likes his freedom, spending his days fending for himself, relying only on his horse and the inborne skill of his mother's Native American ancestry.

     

    Yet that ancestry mixes with his father's Caucasian blood to form powerful prejudices in the townspeople. Poisonous bigotry that, despite their growing passion, continues to fuel his doubts. Perhaps, the irresponsible youth he's been isn't strong enough to protect her. And maybe the hatred of those around them will ultimately destroy them both.

     

    A mail-order bride story from best-selling author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSuzanne D. Williams
    Release dateApr 19, 2016
    ISBN9781533779564
    Indian Summer
    Author

    Suzanne D. Williams

    Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.

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      Book preview

      Indian Summer - Suzanne D. Williams

      SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS

      Feel-Good Romance

      © 2016 INDIAN SUMMER by Suzanne D. Williams

      www.feelgoodromance.com

      www.suzannedwilliams.com

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

      Scenes in this story may contain graphic and/or sexual situations not suitable for young or sensitive readers, but are framed by Christian morals and solutions.

      There is [now no distinction in regard to salvation] neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you [who believe] are all one in Christ Jesus [no one can claim a spiritual superiority] (Gal 3:28 AMP).

      CHAPTER 1

      April 3, 1873, Big Prairie, Florida

      A gust of wind captured her skirt, flattening it against young, slender legs, and the scent of rain, metallic, yet earthy, spun around her. She inhaled deep, breathing it in, and raised her gaze from the shack a few yards ahead to a stream of gray clouds boiling up from the horizon. The bark of a dog on the stoop and the accompanying slam of a loose door returned her attention to the house.

      It could barely be called that. Standing, perhaps, twenty foot square, it appeared to be thrown together with whatever wood the homeowner could find. Longer, well-cut boards lay beside weathered scraps peeled from fence posts or barn siding. Crude rectangular shakes covered the roof beams, each randomly placed. The porch, only large enough for a single seat, dipped in the center, as if a large stone had rolled there and given it that shape.

      The butterflies she’d fought the entire trip erupted again, and her throat filled with nervousness. Mashing her palm to her waist, she steadied herself and repeated the truths that had comforted her for the last three months. Though the house was less than she’d pictured it to be, his instructions on travel had proven true. Plus, she’d heard his name repeated in town, although the speaker had seemed rather grave about it. Curious.

      She’d thought he’d pick her up from the station. He hadn’t, so she’d secured a ride with a kind-hearted black man, who hadn’t spoken a word past his initial agreement to bring her here. Admittedly, such a long drive out of town had worried her some. She wasn’t used to living quite so out of touch, but had told herself she was strong and resilient. She’d adapt. This was the best thing for her, to have a husband, every girl’s dream. By coming here, she’d retain her independence and not be locked into servitude, scrubbing floors she didn’t own for wealthy women whose days circumnavigated around where to take tea and which hat to wear.

      The dog bayed, his jowls flapping with the effort, and she lifted her bag, all her worldly possessions crammed into the tiny receptacle, and stumbled forward, the handle digging into the pads of her fingers. At the bottom step, she paused and offered the flat of her hand to the dog. He snuffled it, his whiskers tickling her skin, and thumped his tail twice.

      Good boy. We’ll be friends, you and I.

      She straightened, the introduction she’d rehearsed resting on her tongue. Afternoon, I’m your bride, Ona Privett ... She tried it out, quivering. No, that wouldn’t do. Hello. My name is Ona Privett. We spoke by letter.

      By letter. She’d agreed to marry a man, sight unseen, based solely on words printed in the newspaper.

      Man seeks companionship with a young woman twenty to thirty, of Christian upbringing and good character. Owns a small farm in South Florida, where he works cattle and builds fences. Contact Absalom Cole.

      Absalom Cole. He’d described himself as broad-shouldered and able, said he was eager to meet her. She’d considered herself fortunate to be selected. She’d been excited to come and happy on the long train ride here. The new countryside had pleased her, so flat and wide and green.

      But she worried now. What if she wasn’t a good fit for him? She didn’t look like the girls that worked Savannah’s social circles, her figure curvier than was acceptable, cheeks blossomed with too much color. She didn’t own any fancy dresses, nothing that’d impress her spouse-to-be.

      She told herself, she could cook ... and she knew how to clean. She liked to think she’d make a good mother someday. That is, if he was willing.

      Well, standing here won’t get you past this, she said.

      Sitting her bag on the stoop, she approached the front door and knocked. The hinges rattled loosely on the wooden frame, but the door held fast.

      Surely, he hasn’t left.

      Another knock, however, and it appeared he had. No noise came from within and looking across the weed-spattered drive, there was no sign of life except the dog. No cattle. No poultry. The barn, too, appeared abandoned.

      The wind whipped into a frenzy, slanting her hair across her face, and she shook it free, brushing light brown strands over her shoulder.

      In the distance, a milky sheet of rain fell, gradually inch by inch claiming everything before it. Soon, the trees, the road, even the barn disappeared in its mist, and the water-logged sky descended around her, flowing through boards improperly placed to spatter on her cheeks. In the hour that followed, she could do naught but stand in place until she was soaked quite through.

      He rode hard through the rain, the water stinging his eyes, and trusted the horse to know the way. Gripping the animal with his knees, he held his seat firmly minus saddle or harness, a habit formed in his youth. Since he could walk, he’d ridden like this, at one with the earth. On horseback, he blended in, his breaths, his movements, part of those who’d gone before.

      His mother used to talk of her people, who the white man called Seminoles. She’d died when he was seven, making the stories rosy in his mind, but no less powerful. Oft times, the tales returned, especially when he lost himself in the forest. There, stripped of everything manmade, he could almost feel the footsteps, hear the chatter of voices, smell wood fires long-doused.

      In reality, he’d not experienced any of that, but a world far different.

      His father, a white man married to an Indian, had been shunned by all save a handful of folk. Even following her death, prejudice remained stout. It was as if what he’d done would spread to them because it certainly had to his son. His English name, John, helped hide him. But as soon as they realized his parentage, people found a way to put their distance again. He hadn’t had much schooling as a result. No one in town wanted that Indian boy rubbing shoulders with their children.

      His father had been lax in that regard. He’d made only a brief attempt to teach him to read or write, giving up when he’d stubbornly refused. He’d insisted he learn his numbers though. That knowledge had helped him in recent days. Though the house decayed around him, he held no debts, the land his outright. Many didn’t like it, including his neighbor, Delmas Crouch, who’d thrown up a fence, he said, to keep his cattle in. But in John’s thinking, it was more to keep him out.

      He was a stain they couldn’t erase, and he held the sharpness of that inside. Still, he told himself time and again, he needed no one. What he didn’t have in book learning, he’d made up for outdoors. He could hunt and fish better than most, his aim true, his eye focused. He held great pride in his heritage. His dad had loved his mama unconditionally, mourning her long after she was gone, always doing his best to guard her memory.

      The horse chuffed, blowing out heaving breaths, her powerful legs weaving through saw palmetto and long-leaf pine. Leaping a fallen log, she landed firm on the other side and dashed down a slight slope where leaf litter, pine straw, and rain water had formed a murky soup.

      His shirt caught on a limb extended out beyond the others, the seam ripping from its hem almost to the top. However, the slap of the rain on his bare skin only compelled him forward. Ducked low over the horse’s neck, the soggy ground flew beneath him. Through sand, dotted with cactus growing ankle high, across a field of grasses whipping hard on the horse’s withers, and over a creek, dug into sun-bleached limestone, he sailed high, drunk on adrenaline.

      He came to a halt, at last, at the edge of the barn. Twilight had captured the space, casting purple fingers into shadowy places. Sliding off the horse’s rump, he sent her scurrying beneath the eaves and strode across the weed-strewn ground toward the front porch.

      A figure on the stoop brought him to a halt. He shook his head, sending his long brown locks flying, and stiffened his arms. He’d expected no one.

      A woman spoke atop the rain, her voice pearled with fright. A-are you Absalom Cole?

      Absalom Cole, his father. John approached closer, giving no thought to his disheveled appearance.

      The girl, age twenty at best, spread curled lashes around hazel-colored eyes. She was drenched, her hair stuck to her cheeks, her dress embracing every luscious curve. He stared unabashed, roaming over the length of her leg, apparent through her skirt, to the tuck of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, and flex of her throat.

      He’s not here, John replied, confusion replacing his interest. How did ...?

      Amos brought me, she said, but I thought Mr. Cole would come himself.

      John walked closer still, and she swallowed hard, licking pink lips.

      I ... I ... came because of his letters, she said.

      Letters? He knew nothing about letters, though his father had written a lot to someone toward the end.

      The girl nodded. My name’s Ona Privett. Perhaps he told you of me? He wrote ... described his farm, sent me money for the train.

      You came on the train? John asked.

      Despite her sodden state, she smelled of flowers.

      C-can we go in? She cast her gaze toward the door. I’m sure when he arrives he’ll explain.

      However, John remained in place, in spite of her request. His dad would not return, but had died three weeks before. My father’s passed away.

      The girl startled, curling her arms around herself. P-passed away? He can’t be ... Then in the next breath, You’re his son?

      John, he replied. Why would he write to you?

      This time, she held back, when she replied, seconds later, speaking almost in a whisper. He ran an advertisement in the paper and selected me as his bride.

      Ona perched her bottom in a rickety chair, the uneven legs tilted awkwardly to the left, but attempted not to look like it, holding her head high, her chin uplifted.

      The inside of the house was in better shape than the exterior, though it had a few leaks that dripped incessantly. The furniture looked handmade, and crudely done, but was for the most part, sturdy. It lacked, however, any feminine touch, every surface dusty and minus a woman’s delicate charm.

      John added to her discomfort without meaning to. For one thing, he was exceedingly handsome ... and currently half clothed. His arms bulged in sleeves pulled taut on what remained of his shirt. The left-hand seam had been shorn, exposing a fine cut of muscle and thickness of his chest ... more naked skin on a man than she’d ever seen.

      He appeared not to notice or care, which only enhanced the roam of her eye over compact thighs, dark locks grown shoulder length, and a strong jaw, clean-shaven. His complexion was swarthy, as if he’d soaked in the sun too long, but his features spoke of something deeper-seated.

      Word of his father’s death struck her mum.

      I can’t think why he’d write you, John said. He’s been ailing for months, the last three in particular, at the end of his life.

      A dying man had written her asking for a wife? It made no sense.

      I have proof, she said. She rose and unclasped her bag, at the bottom of it removing a stack of correspondence an inch thick. She held it toward him, but he did little more than glance.

      He had no need of a wife. He was dedicated to my mother, long dead.

      But he did, she said. Recalling a piece of their writing, she flipped through the damp envelopes, selecting one. She removed the watery pages, spreading them in her lap. Right here. This one is dated just before I left. He said, ‘I feel you are exactly what I need, that you’ll be the woman’s hand lacking here, and know I’ve chosen wisely in asking you to come. The future is bright now, my hope secure.’ Once more, she offered it to him.

      This time, he took it, but his face flushed pink, and it hit her, stronger than the deluge outdoors. John Cole couldn’t read. This thought stabbed her strongly.

      Why not? she asked in her next breath. His father was able. Hadn’t he seen to having his son taught? She didn’t ask and was given no time to think on it further.

      John folded the letter and returned it to her. My father has been ill for a very long time, the last three months putting his affairs in order. He saw the house and the land was mine and that no one could take it from me ...

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