“We’re heading into Defiance, Ohio, right now, chile. Our secret’s safe. You’ve been offered a sanctuary. And as MadAnthony up here once proclaimed to our old Kentucky general and governor, the Honorable Charles Scott,I defy the English,Indians,and all the devils of hell to take it.”
She reached over, fumbled for my palm, and clasped tight. “My folks always said the mothers of our mountains will watch over us. I’ve got the mantle now. When it passes to you, be ready to carry it for the baby. For now, just rest, Cussy.”
In the darkness I squeezed back and suddenly felt the ol’ woman’s courage, and my dear Honey and Loretta’s spirits. The mothers, daughters, and granddaughters of Kaintuck’s vigilant mountains lifted from the librarian’s fiery temperament and latched hold. A defiance strengthened her knotty grip, and I know’d somehow she’d fight all the devils in hell to protect her watch.
Forty-Seven
Defiance, Ohio, 1953
Secrets were guarded.
Mrs. Claxton had kept her word when she dropped me off four months ago.
From inside the boardinghouse, I peered out the curtain, then ran into the boot room. “He’s finally here, Miss Rose. Just in time for Thanksgiving!”
“Don’t youdarebe going out there in that snowstorm, Angeline Moffit.” She used the name on my official baptismal and library records. “The walks are downright slippery! Get back in here. You could fall and break your neck—”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised Mrs. Claxton’s sister, grateful for her generosity these past months. As soon as I had arrived in July, she’d given me a job cleaning the seven-room house and keeping her rental records in exchange for a clean room and a small weekly wage.
Only two blocks from the Carnegie Library and the confluence of the Auglaize and Maumee Rivers, the charming lodging she’d named the Rose & Shine was popular with motorists of all kinds. We’d welcomed weary businessmen traveling to and from Chicago, Detroit, and Toledo and parents visiting their young’uns at the local college.
For one week in October, the rooms had been packed withfamilies. I was surprised to learn they were Kentucky folks who visited every year to honor the three hundred soldiers buried at the Old Kentucky Burial Grounds in Defiance. Rose would spoil them with hearty meals using recipes from back home in Fishtrap while I’d marvel over the long trip they’d made to commemorate their fallen ancestors.
Like those in Louisville, most up here seemed to pay little attention to my peculiarity. Didn’t feel the need to leave a room when I entered, nor give wide berth in passing on the street. A curious glance lasted only a moment before they cast their eyes back to the task at hand.
Miss Rose called out again, fussing.
Excited, I shoveled my feet into the boots.
She wagged her head. “It’s dangerous out there in this weather. Put on your coat and mittens. Here, take this hat—Come back here, young lady, and put on these woolen mittens!”
I tugged and pulled on the hat and coat, and ran out into the falling snow, away from her scolding tongue.
Howling November winds curled around empty snowy streets as he made his way to me, hobbling up the walk with a crooked stick.
“I’ve tended to all my affairs and come to take care of my woman.My bride,” the first words I’d heard from him since our last morning together in Thousandsticks.
“Jackson,” I cried out, and flung my arms around his neck. “You’re finally here.”
“Cussy Mary.” He stepped back to get a good look at me. Jackson’s voice grew thick and gravelly. “Finally.Half of me has been missing for far too long.”
He threw down the stick and pulled me close, dropping hungry kisses over my face and lips.
Opening my coat, he knelt onto the cold, snowy ground and brushed his lips across my belly, a low whirr hitched to his weary voice. “How much longer?”
“Near Christmas, the best we can tell.” I reached for his hand and helped pull him up.
He latched hold of me, steadying us as he pulled out papers from his coat.
With trembling hands, I read his official release letter, which was dated over a month ago, and glanced at the city newspaper clipping from July 14. A single sentence had been cobbled for my obituary.
On Saturday July 11th, a state inmate was struck by an automobile on Walnut Street and later succumbed to their injuries at Louisville General Hospital.
Jackson removed his hat and shook off the snow, puffs of cold breaths whisking into his words. “I visited Honey and told her you were safe, reminded our daughter she must not speak to anyone about you or where you’re at—anything that’s happened. She’s smart and sends her love. Don’t fret. And lastly, you’ll be happy to hear I sold the Thousandsticks homestead for a fair price.”
At this, an ache clouded our joyful reunion. I had longed for us to all be united and began to wonder if I would ever see Honey again.
Jackson sensed the change of mood and gathered my hands in his. “There’s not a day that I don’t ache for our daughter and home. We must be careful until I get us safely back one day.”
