Dunaway's Crossing by Nancy Brandon

his hand, and she grasped it for support and pulled up her skirt the few inches it would allow. With some effort, she managed to step onto the crate and hoist herself up. As she sat gingerly on the wooden seat, she winced, and Will winced with her at the reminder of his clumsy blunder.
    “I’ll just be a minute,” he said after returning the crate to the wagon bed. Then, taking the steps two at a time, he returned to the baggage cart. He pushed the trunk and satchel to the platform steps and handed the satchel to Mrs. Ferguson, who placed it at her feet as he went back to get the trunk. He lifted it onto his shoulder and thanked heavens to feel only a small stitch at his side as he walked down the steps and to the wagon before lowering it on the bed. He situated it between a can of kerosene and a bag of oats. Other sundry crates stood guard at either side. After climbing to the seat himself, he took the reins and clucked his tongue while tapping the horse’s rump with the leather straps. Slowly he drove Mrs. Ferguson through town.
    “Have you visited Pineview before?” he asked awkwardly. He hated small talk.
    “No, it’s my first visit,” she said, more to her gloves than to him.
    “Well, then,” he said as he turned onto Pineview’s main street, “this is Bay Street, although I don’t know why we call it that. We’re nowhere near the water.” He laughed clumsily, but she didn’t join him. Then he pointed to his right. “And there’s our bank, our pharmacy, our hardware store. Oh, and our newspaper office.”
    Mrs. Ferguson nodded as he pointed out Pineview’s other landmarks, dotting his explanations with a polite, “Oh, how nice,” or “I see.” She asked no questions. Why should she? What did Pineview have to interest a high society lady from Savannah? Still, Will felt like a stable boy trying to impress a princess.
    Finally, after passing the Pineview Grain and Feed and a whitewashed Baptist church, to which Mrs. Ferguson reacted with, “Oh, yes. How lovely,” Will turned the wagon down a residential street lined with white clapboard houses adorned with green shutters and gingerbread. At the end of the street, on a larger lot with a long, rutted drive, stood a white house with a wrap-around porch. A small addition to one side bore a sign, “Ralph Coolidge, M.D.” He drove the wagon to the front yard, then pulled on the reins with a quiet “Whoa.”
    “Oh, my.” Mrs. Ferguson’s polite countenance gave way to one of genuine admiration at the sight of her cousin’s home. “What a splendid front porch,” she said as she rose slowly, holding on to the back rest for balance. “But why is that chair there?”
    Will followed the line of Mrs. Ferguson’s pointed finger to the bottom of the Coolidge’s front steps where a maple rocker waited with green and white cushions. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe Netta wanted some fresh air? She’s confined herself until the baby arrives.”
    “Yes, she told me that,” Mrs. Ferguson said, still standing. Her skin had begun to pink in the late afternoon sun. “But with all those comfy chairs on the porch and that swing, I’d think she’d want to sit in one of them.”
    “Ma’am, I’m as puzzled as you are.” Will shook his head. “Maybe we should ask Netta.”
    He stood to dismount the wagon and help Mrs. Ferguson down. But before he could put one foot on the ground, the screen door opened onto the porch, and Ralph Coolidge emerged, assuming a wide stance, hands on hips, at the top of the front steps. His loosened tie and rolled up shirt sleeves revealed an unusually busy day.
    “Don’t come any closer, Will.” Ralph held up his palm like a patrol officer ordering someone to halt.
    Perplexed, Will returned to his seat. He looked at Mrs. Ferguson, who remained standing, her forehead slightly furrowed. Thin locks of hair at her neck had dampened with perspiration. She glanced questioningly at Will, and then waved at the