train ride, and dying to get out of that cursed hobble skirt, Bea Dot felt more like a vagabond than a young lady visiting her cousin. The skirt, meant to hide the real reason she walked so slowly, turned out to be the worst idea of the day. She looked silly wearing it in this small Georgia town, especially in this heat.
My stars, this place is nothing but red clay and pine trees
, she thought as she surveyed the environment from atop Will Dunaway’s wagon. She flapped her handkerchief at a pesky horsefly, but it just came right back, buzzing about her head like a bad memory. Eventually the insect lit on her knee, and before she could wave it away, wham! Will Dunaway whacked it with his hat, making Bea Dot cry out in alarm.
With the hat’s brim, he brushed the dead bug off her skirt, then placed the hat back on his head. Speechless, Bea Dot gaped at him, her eyes probably as big around as her open mouth. In a second or two, he noticed her incredulity, then turned bright red. “Oh, dirt! Forgive me, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, flustered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you’d like me to kill that horse fly.”
“That’s all right.” Bea Dot composed herself and replied, “I am glad you killed it. I’m just surprised is all.” Scared to death better described how she felt. Living with Ben Ferguson made her expect any blow to be directed at her. She took a deep breath, then exhaled, to slow her pounding heart.
She dabbed at her upper lip and forehead again. Her damp handkerchief almost useless, now turned orange gray from the Georgia dust and constant handling.
The wagon continued down the red dirt road, the pine trees creeping by, the cicadas’ song rising to a crescendo from the woods. Bea Dot had just relaxed again when the wagon thumped into a pot hole, jarring her on the hard wood seat and charging pain from her bottom up through her core. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, drawing deep breaths in attempt to ease the pain. Her eyes burned, and she turned her head away, refusing to let Mr. Dunaway see her cry again. She begged the tears not to come.
“Mrs. Ferguson, are you all right?”
She nodded, inhaled deeply, then uttered a yes, which sounded more like a yelp. In a few moments, she’d gathered herself again, but her heart plummeted when she faced Mr. Dunaway, who looked like he’d shot his best friend.
“Of course you’re sore from your fall,” he said. “I should have thought of that. I’m sorry.”
“Please,” she said, holding up her hand (Good heavens, her glove was dirty), “no more apologies, Mr. Dunaway. You’ve been nothing but attentive and generous with your time, and I only regret that I’ve taken up so much of your afternoon.”
He sighed and pulled a bandana from his pocket, which he used to wipe the sweat from his neck. His skin had browned from frequent exposure to the sun, but his green eyes were kind, and, thanks to Bea Dot, still full of worry.
“I’ll feel much better if I can make you more comfortable,” he said. He turned, as if the solution to his problem lay in the wagon bed. Then, spying Netta’s rocking chair, his eyes widened. “I have an idea.”
He drew the horse to a stop, climbed down from the driver’s seat and went to the tail of the wagon, where he climbed aboard. After shuffling around Bea Dot’s trunk and the many crates, he shifted the rocker to the front of the bed, just behind the driver’s seat. He tied it in place, then patted the gingham cushion. “You can’t rock, but this chair will be much softer.”
Bea Dot smiled at his ingenuity, surprised at his willingness to secure her comfort. She turned to step off the wagon, but he stopped her.
“Wait just a second. I’ll help you.”
In a moment, he was on the ground in front of her. Bea Dot eyed her skirt uncertainly, and he read her thoughts. “Will you permit me to lift you down?”
He held his hands up to her.
“How?”
“Put your hands on my
My stars, this place is nothing but red clay and pine trees
, she thought as she surveyed the environment from atop Will Dunaway’s wagon. She flapped her handkerchief at a pesky horsefly, but it just came right back, buzzing about her head like a bad memory. Eventually the insect lit on her knee, and before she could wave it away, wham! Will Dunaway whacked it with his hat, making Bea Dot cry out in alarm.
With the hat’s brim, he brushed the dead bug off her skirt, then placed the hat back on his head. Speechless, Bea Dot gaped at him, her eyes probably as big around as her open mouth. In a second or two, he noticed her incredulity, then turned bright red. “Oh, dirt! Forgive me, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, flustered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you’d like me to kill that horse fly.”
“That’s all right.” Bea Dot composed herself and replied, “I am glad you killed it. I’m just surprised is all.” Scared to death better described how she felt. Living with Ben Ferguson made her expect any blow to be directed at her. She took a deep breath, then exhaled, to slow her pounding heart.
She dabbed at her upper lip and forehead again. Her damp handkerchief almost useless, now turned orange gray from the Georgia dust and constant handling.
The wagon continued down the red dirt road, the pine trees creeping by, the cicadas’ song rising to a crescendo from the woods. Bea Dot had just relaxed again when the wagon thumped into a pot hole, jarring her on the hard wood seat and charging pain from her bottom up through her core. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, drawing deep breaths in attempt to ease the pain. Her eyes burned, and she turned her head away, refusing to let Mr. Dunaway see her cry again. She begged the tears not to come.
“Mrs. Ferguson, are you all right?”
She nodded, inhaled deeply, then uttered a yes, which sounded more like a yelp. In a few moments, she’d gathered herself again, but her heart plummeted when she faced Mr. Dunaway, who looked like he’d shot his best friend.
“Of course you’re sore from your fall,” he said. “I should have thought of that. I’m sorry.”
“Please,” she said, holding up her hand (Good heavens, her glove was dirty), “no more apologies, Mr. Dunaway. You’ve been nothing but attentive and generous with your time, and I only regret that I’ve taken up so much of your afternoon.”
He sighed and pulled a bandana from his pocket, which he used to wipe the sweat from his neck. His skin had browned from frequent exposure to the sun, but his green eyes were kind, and, thanks to Bea Dot, still full of worry.
“I’ll feel much better if I can make you more comfortable,” he said. He turned, as if the solution to his problem lay in the wagon bed. Then, spying Netta’s rocking chair, his eyes widened. “I have an idea.”
He drew the horse to a stop, climbed down from the driver’s seat and went to the tail of the wagon, where he climbed aboard. After shuffling around Bea Dot’s trunk and the many crates, he shifted the rocker to the front of the bed, just behind the driver’s seat. He tied it in place, then patted the gingham cushion. “You can’t rock, but this chair will be much softer.”
Bea Dot smiled at his ingenuity, surprised at his willingness to secure her comfort. She turned to step off the wagon, but he stopped her.
“Wait just a second. I’ll help you.”
In a moment, he was on the ground in front of her. Bea Dot eyed her skirt uncertainly, and he read her thoughts. “Will you permit me to lift you down?”
He held his hands up to her.
“How?”
“Put your hands on my
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