River of Dreams

By Harrison Neese

In 1841 Alabama, Ethan Hayes worked long days hammering red-hot iron. He was good at it, and he knew he was good, but his heart wasn’t in it. With the passing of each day, part of him died; it was only a matter of time before he walked away from the forge and left it all behind.
The death of his mentor sets in motion events that propel him toward his dream. The deranged killer of his mentor follows him across three states, and on the waters of the meandering Mississippi River.
He envisions a woman by his side on his river of dreams, and he believes it could be Cassandra, a beautiful young woman with a mysterious, seductive power over him until he meets Abigail. He struggles with his feelings for these women until he learns of one’s unspeakable past with the killer of his mentor.
Ethan’s dogged grit in facing down his savage and treacherous attacker proves to be his greatest strength, and the reader will be with him as he takes on those who stand between him and his river of dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harrison Neese
• Release date: Feb 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986405006

Harrison Neese

Harrison Neese has published three novels and one genealogy reference book tracing 18th century Spanish immigration to Louisiana. He has always dreamed of writing and spent many years thinking about it before he actually took the plunge. His recent novel, River of Dreams, received a mark of ‘excellent’ in all categories of the 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards

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River of Dreams

Copyright 2013 by Harrison Neese

Published by The HayeCountry Collection

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

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The historical names and events that may appear in this work are presented in fictional situations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter One

The Beginning

Ethan Hayes rested the forge hammer on the anvil and thrust the plow blade back into the fire. His gaze darted worriedly toward the dusty road that lay to the west of town. From his smithery, he could just make out the century old pecan tree that marked the westernmost boundary of Pinetucky. Nothing was moving on the dusty road that meandered its way to the bustling town of Marion. Daylight ebbed away, and the afternoon shadows began to creep across the small Alabama community.

They should be here by now, he thought anxiously. If they’re not back by dusk, I’ll saddle Banjo and. . . .

Unable to concentrate, he grasped the plow blade with his tongs to lay it aside and went outside to wait. His dog, Smithy, raised his head and watched as he walked past. Stretching as he got up, the dog yawned and trotted after him. A mixed breed, he was a large dog with a comparatively long build and strong well developed muscles.

Smithy was always with him. He would lie nearby, or close to the forge in winter, as Ethan worked. Random sprinklings of hot scale sometimes moved him, but not far.

The dark edge of twilight was about to close the day when Smithy’s ears sharpened, and he moved quickly to the edge of the road.

Ethan went to his side. What do you hear, boy?

Smithy stared down the road with his tail up and sweeping back and forth.

Ethan strained to hear the sound of a wagon. Go meet them, boy. Go to Miss Lillie and the girls. Smithy leaped ahead and was off running down the road.

Far down the road, Ethan could make out a cloud of dust. He stood still, straining his eyes down the long rutted road watching the noisy wagon draw closer. He could see her red bonnet. He let out an audible sigh of relief, as the wagon jostled through the deep ruts, drawing nearer to the smithery.

Lillian Wainwright stopped the wagon in front of the shop, and Ethan helped her and the girls down. She was a small and quiet woman, with a touch of paleness in her face, but nonetheless, possessed an inborn grace and strength that carried her through her time of grief.

Ethan felt relieved to see them return safely. I was beginning to worry, Miss Lillie. I felt I should’ve driven you and the girls over to Marion.

Loosening the strings of her bonnet, she pushed it back from her head. Well, it has been a long day, that’s for sure. But with all the work here, I felt you just couldn’t afford to close the shop for a whole day. Besides, I wasn’t sure I would be able to give away my property. But the attorney said, although it’s a bit unusual, it could be done. He will be here next Monday with the deeds for our signatures.

Mixed feelings surged through him as he looked at her intently and shook his head. This is all happening so fast, Miss Lillie. I’m having a time sorting it all out.

She laughed. We’ll talk some more tonight. I have to get supper started, and you’ll be closing for the day shortly. Get in the wagon, girls, we’ve got to get supper for Ethan.

Ethan loved Lillian, as though she was his real mother. From his first day in their home, she’d been kind and seemed to understand how a young boy might feel lost living with strangers.

Everything he knew about manners and how to conduct himself socially had come from her. She followed the teachings of the Primitive Baptists and took him to church faithfully every Sunday.

Only when she was sick did she miss services, with him and her three small daughters in tow. Lillian’s husband, John, had been a good and decent man. He was liked and respected by everyone that knew him, but as far as Ethan knew, John had never attended the church.

Every pew was full last month for John’s funeral, although Ethan knew some of those attending were there only because of the notoriety and circumstances of John’s death. He’d been found shot in the back about five miles from town.

It was a quiet funeral, interrupted only with the muffled sounds of Lillian's sobs. Ethan sat next to her and their girls. He’d held the smallest in his arms, as Lillian laid her head against his shoulder and quietly cried.

Witnesses had stated John left the Ripley saloon carrying a large sum of poker winnings, but when he was found, his pockets were empty, and his horse was missing. The Perry County Sheriff sent his condolences to Lillian and said he’d be up that way soon. No one was holding his breath waiting for the sheriff since he’d only been to Pinetucky once—when he was running for office.

That night, after supper dishes were dried and put away, Lillian poured Ethan a cup of coffee, then she poured a cup for herself. Sitting opposite him, she said, Ethan, it’s been six years since your mother brought you here, and during that time I’ve considered you a part of our family—in every way, our son. John and I came to love you as you grew into the man you are today.

Ethan nodded his head as he blew on his coffee. He remembered standing on the Wainwright porch, choking back the tears while his mother and her new husband, Henry, left. While he stood there, he recalled arms closing around him as John and Lillian stood beside him until the wagon’s dust had settled.

The girls and I are leaving, she continued, speaking slowly as she searched for words, I’ve made up my mind on it. We’ll be going home to my family in Charleston, South Carolina as soon as I can legally pass this property to you. I’ve always known this time would come, and now it’s almost on us, but it’s the way of life, son—children come into our lives for only a while, and often too soon, they’re gone. You likely haven’t given it much thought, but the time’s come for you to find your life, and if John was still here, it would be you leaving us to begin your life’s work before the forge.

Miss Lillie, I can hardly keep it straight in my mind, but I am grateful for what you’re doing. He leaned toward her and hugged her tightly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The day finally arrived, and Ethan was finished with loading the wagon with Lillian’s trunks. He’d arranged a space for the girls to sit just behind the seat. He heard the front door close, and saw them coming toward the wagon. The girls walked quietly in a single file in front of their mother. He helped them into the wagon, and turned to help her climb up to the wagon seat.

He knew this would be the hardest time for her, and stood back to allow her these last moments alone. Her hand covered her mouth as the tears spilled down her face. It hurt him to stand by so helpless and not be able to help her. A few moments passed, and he gently took her by the shoulders and pulled her toward the wagon.

He whispered, It’s time, Miss Lillie. You don’t want to miss your boat.

With a dispirited and resigned expression on her face, she said, I know. It’s much harder than I imagined. It’s almost like another final goodbye to John.

He settled her on the seat and took his place beside her. Shaking out the lap blanket to protect her skirt from the dust, he said, Excuse me, Miss Lillie.

Still gazing at the home she would never see again, she lifted her arms for him to arrange the blanket over her skirt.

He gathered up the reins, slapped Banjo on his broad back. Giddyup Banjo, take us to the river!

Banjo leaped forward, and they were soon settled into the dusty ruts that would take them all the way to the Marion Landing. They rode in pensive silence for a while.

Glancing at Lillian, he said, It’s not too late for you to change your mind, Miss Lillie. Your girls were all born in Pinetucky, and you and John were some of the first to settle there.

She looked at him and patted his arm with her hand. Thank you, Ethan. I suppose I am leaving much of my life back there, but I’m set on living out my days in Charleston. My family was among the original settlers there, and the girls and I will be surrounded by the people and community that I hold so dear.

She slid closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. But no matter where I am or how long my life shall be, there will always be an empty place in my heart that only you can fill.

Raising her head to look at him, and with tears in her eyes, she said softly, You won’t forget me will you?

The road became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He leaned to kiss her forehead, and said, I can never forget the woman who became my mother. You shall linger in my heart forever.

A week after Lillian and the girls left for North Carolina, Ethan found a note tacked to the front doors of the smithery. He took the note down, and began reading.

Blacksmith,

I know the man that shot John cuz I was there when he did it. Meet me tonight on the Ripley Road at the grove. I’ll be there at midnight. You won’t see me, but I’ll come out to you. Don’t bring nobody, but bring $100 in gold if you want to know who kilt John.

A Friend

Ethan sat down on a bench and stared at the ground. A few minutes passed, and he hung the closed sign on the door. He rode off to find Jed.

Jedediah Gibson raised horses about five miles north of town. Ethan was itching to go to the grove of pines tonight, but he wasn’t fool enough to go alone. His best friend would know how to handle this, and was just as anxious to find John’s killer.

Everyone but the sheriff knew that Stephen Jones, Alabama’s richest cotton planter, was tied into John’s murder in some way. There had been bad blood between John and Jones for a year over a gambling debt. Jones held an IOU from John, but John claimed Jones cheated, and he could prove it.

On the night he was killed, John had spent most of that day sitting in a game of poker. One of the players was one of Jones’s hired protectors, known only as Quinn. Quinn had a reputation as a loudmouth with a bad temper. He’d gotten in the game early and had been losing most of the day.

Evening turned to night; the game was ending. It looked like John would leave the game with everyone’s money.

Quinn had less than a dollar left to play. He laid his Colt Patterson revolver on the table. His dark eyes were filled with contempt as he stared directly at John. This gun ain’t but a year old, nearly brand new. I’ve only shot it a coupla times; I say it’s good for fifty dollars.

By this time, several onlookers were gathered around the table, and everyone’s eyes shifted to John. He picked up the gun and turned it in his hands before laying it back on the table.

With unconcealed bitterness in his voice, John said, No doubt, this was once a fine gun, but it’s not brand new as you say. The butt end of the grip looks like it’s been used for a hammer. Besides I have no use for a gun like this Everybody knows I never carry a gun.

He inhaled a lung full of air and let it out audibly. I’ll give five dollars for it; one of these other fellows might offer more.

Quinn snatched the gun in less time than an eye-blink and cocked the hammer. As if the movement had been choreographed, the ring of onlookers backed away. The other players at the table joined them.

When he’d grabbed the gun, Quinn had leaped to his feet. Now he was towering over John, who was the only man in the room seated. John’s expression had not changed, even as he stared down the barrel of Quinn’s gun.

The bartender shoved his way through the gawkers. He was a large burly Irishman, short of conversation and temper, and he was carrying a hickory axe handle. He didn’t tolerate fights in his place, and this had suddenly gone beyond the usual barroom brawl. Now the spectator’s eyes followed him as he pushed and shoved his way toward the two men.

Walking up to Quinn, and extending his free hand, he said, Let’s have the gun, now.

Quinn continued to glower at John. In a low whisper, he said, Stay out of this, Irish; you know what’s going on.

Quinn’s words had barely left his lips, and the bartender slammed the axe handle across Quinn’s gun hand. The gun fell to the table, and went off sending a bullet whistling by John and shattering the glass storefront window across the room.

Giving Quinn a dirty look, the bartender said, You’ll not be doing your boss’s evil work in here, I’ve told him that, and I mean it. Tell your boss, he owes me fifty dollars for the window. Now sit back down. He looked at John. Collect your winnings, and head for home. Watch your back trail.

John never made it home. Now someone was claiming he knew who shot him, but the note didn’t ring true to Ethan. Stephen Jones was behind this; he could feel it.

Ethan found his friend Jed sitting on a corral fence watching a rider attempting to break a horse.

I never thought I’d see you riding a fence, Ethan said, laughing.

Grinning from ear to ear, Jed replied, "It’s safer over here. What brings you out this way? Are you drumming up business? You know we do our own farrier work.

Ethan slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the note that had been tacked to the front door of the smithery. He handed it over to Jed. When Jed finished reading, he looked at his friend. I’m surprised Jones has tarried this long; you’ve made enough noise about knowing it was his man who killed John. I told you something like this might happen, when you went to Tuscaloosa to see the governor.

Jed looked back down at the note, rereading it silently. You’re not going, are you? That’s close to where John was killed.

Taking a deep breath, Ethan replied, I thought you might want to ride that way with me tonight.

I’m usually sound asleep at midnight. Besides why is it always me you hunt up to help you out of these scrapes?

Watching his friend swing off the railing, Ethan knew he would come. I ask because John was your friend, too and because you know Jones was behind it. John was set up that night; Quinn doesn’t make enough money in a year to have sat in on that game.

It was nearing midnight, and they were about a mile from the stand of pines. Jed pulled up, and said, We’ll leave the road now, and circle around so we can come into the trees from the south.

Ethan nodded, and they rode for a while until they could see the lights of Ripley off in the distance.

That’s Ripley, whispered Jed. We’ll leave our horses here and ‘injun’ up on whoever’s waiting for you.

What’re we going to do when we find him? asked Ethan.

Jed shot him an aggravated glance. I’m supposed to be helping you, remember? Did you bring a gun?

Yep, my Patterson. I thought we might jump whoever it is, and make him tell us who killed John.

Jed took a deep breath. There’ll be two polecats to jump, friend. Both of us know Stephen’s behind this ambush, so we’re going to be dealing with Quinn and Roscoe Turner tonight. He looked at his friend and shrugged his shoulders. Let’s go.

The moon’s light melted away as they entered the woods, and very quickly they were in pitch darkness. Jed took them in the general direction of the road leading to Ripley.

Nearing the edge of the far side, it wasn’t long before they heard a horse snort. They stood rigid and listened, and then a gravelly voice said, Mebbe he ain’t comin. He ain’t stupid like Jones thinks he is, I can tell you.

Another voice added, Nah, and neither was Wainwright, but it didn’t do him no good. He got hisself kilt anyhow.

Jed and Ethan worked their way to within just a few yards of the men. The outline of their dark shapes, and those of the horses they rode, was visible against the rising crescent moon.

Then Ethan said loudly, All right, throw your hands up high, and keep ‘em there!

Startled, the men kicked their horses into a gallop and broke for the clearing. Afoot, Jed and Ethan went after them. The men’s horses were running flat out when Jed and Ethan reached the clearing.

They were riding fast, and already about a hundred yards away. Jed sighted his Hawken rifle on the nearest rider and fired. Horse and rider went down.

Pulling his revolver, Jed cried, C’mon!

They were still out of handgun range, when they saw the rider limping and his cohort coming back for him. Jed and Ethan took several shots as they watched the men ride double toward Ripley.

Let’s get to our horses! Riding double, they can’t outrun us, said Ethan.

All right, but I want to come back this way and take a look at his saddle and horse if we don’t catch ‘em.

Without enough light to follow the men, Jed and Ethan soon turned back to examine the dead horse. The horse was still there, but that was about all.

They doubled back on us and cut the brand out of the hide, and the stirrup leathers are missing, too. Must’ve been initials or something on ‘em, said, Ethan, dejectedly. Maybe we can tell the sheriff what we overheard.

Jed shook his head. We didn’t hear anything that would light a fire under ol’ Ben. He’d just yawn and thank us for the information, and that’d be it.

What about—?

What about what? We just heard two riders, unknown to us, giving their opinions. Just drop it Ethan. I lost a dear friend when John was killed, and you lost a man who was like your father. You’re fighting Stephen, the sheriff, and the governor, too; you’re not going to beat ‘em. I don’t want to bury my best friend, so please go home.

Ethan sighed and looked deep into his friend’s eyes. Maybe you’re right, I’ll get back to my dream of piloting a magnificent steamboat on the Mississippi—how’s that?

Slapping his friend on the back, Jed laughed, and said, You and your steamboats!

After bidding his friend good night near Pinetucky, Ethan set off at a steady lope to his house.

I’m going to let it go. I’ve got to, but for the next few days, if I see any of Stephen’s men limping. . . .

The pealing thunder of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed off the buildings, down the alleys, and through the open doors of Pinetucky. Ethan Hayes was hot—sweaty hot; he’d been hammering iron since daybreak.

If it was made of iron or steel, he could repair it or make another. He was in demand throughout Central Alabama as a master knife maker, but the cornerstone of his business was making and repairing the tools of the farmers.

He was good at this, and he knew it, but his heart just wasn’t in it. For six years, he’d spent his waking hours before the anvil, but he knew he couldn’t do this for the rest of his life. With the passing of each day, part of him died. It was only a matter of time before he walked away from the forge and left it all behind to pursue his dream.

Ethan had been working twelve to fourteen hours a day, and today was no different. Sweat dropped from his nose and chin as his muscular arm brought the hammer to bear on the hot iron. Shirtless, he wore a heavy, tanned leather apron for protection from the forge heat and burning sparks.

He wasn’t handsome in the way people would generally think of handsome, but he certainly wasn’t plain. With his deep blue eyes, and beckoning smile, he drew the county’s single young women to him like bees to honey. A head taller than most men, he was a powerfully built man from the years of bending, lifting, and hammering iron.

For generations, the men in his family had been well-known blacksmiths, and everyone expected him to carry on the tradition. His father had been a master blacksmith, and his father before him.

There had been other men before them, but Ethan had known his father and grandfather, and watched them labor at the anvil. The three pound hammer he held had been crafted many years ago by his grandfather before he’d come to America. The five hundred pound anvil and most of the other tools he used every day had also belonged to his grandfather.

He wrestled with the question of what his father and grandfather would do in his place. Both of them had seemed perfectly happy and satisfied in their professions, and at times, he could almost hear his grandfather whistling as he hammered. But none of that could help him now.

When he was fourteen years old his mother, left him in the care of the Wainwright family to serve an apprenticeship under John Wainwright, Pinetucky’s Master Blacksmith.

But he was tired of pounding iron. He was looking ahead to his next ride on the steamboat, Mobile Lady, where he would spend almost all his waking hours on the Texas deck watching the pilot steer that magnificent vessel.

Now his dreams, more often than not, were of being a pilot, standing in the pilothouse shouting orders to the boiler room below, and steering his boat through the snags and dangers of the vast Mississippi River.

He could see himself dressed in a navy top coat with four rows of braided gold piping at the cuffs, and sporting a matching billed cap, fringed in gold piping. In his dreams, he always wore that cap at a jaunty angle over his left ear.

At twenty, standing before the anvil in the place of his mentor, he was unaware changes were coming that would take the hammer from his hand and lead him to his river of dreams.

Abigail Moore sat before her dresser mirror while her mother, Bess, secured the braided chignon at the nape of her neck.

Abigail was eighteen, the oldest of five children, and she was in love with Ethan. She’d been twelve and he fourteen when they sat near each other in the one-room Perry County Schoolhouse. Although only a row separated them, he’d never acknowledged she existed. By the end of that school term, he’d left to apprentice for Mr. Wainwright, so he had no way of knowing the gangly and awkward girl with feet too large for her skinny body, and pigtails that stuck out like cow horns was now a confident and poised young woman.

While her mother curled her flowing auburn tresses, Abigail said, Mother, are we going to this year’s 4th of July celebration?

Pausing to look into her daughter’s emerald green eyes in the mirror, she said, Abigail, your papa’s on the planning committee and has been for the past ten years. Why would you ask such a question?

Ignoring her mother’s question, she asked, "Do you think Ethan will be there?

Bess smiled. Don’t be so addle-headed, girl. I was a mother of two children at your age. You’ve had this notion about Ethan longer than I can remember. Perry County’s small enough that he’d be courting you if he were interested. You need to grow out of whatever childish notions you have over him, and look elsewhere. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself a spinster before you can turn around good.

Abigail jumped to her feet, and turned around to face her mother. Mama, I am not addle-headed, and this is no schoolgirl notion from my childhood! I love Ethan, and I’ll marry him before this year is out.

Sit back down dear, I’m almost finished. Abigail hesitated a second, but then sat down again, trying to appear dignified and unruffled after her unsophisticated outburst.

Pinning an elegant jeweled ribbon over her daughter’s plaited bun, Bess stepped back, and said, There, do you like it?

Tersely, Abigail responded, Yes, of course I do. Thank you.

Bess gazed into the mirror at this beautiful young woman. Their eyes met for a moment.

Abigail was the first to speak. What is it Mama? You look sad.

Averting her gaze, Bess busied herself putting away the combs and brushes. For the first time, she felt obliged to apologize to one of her children.

Finally, she said, It’s nothing. It’s just that sometimes I forget you’re not a little girl anymore; will you forgive me?

Chapter Two

A Beginning – An Ending

That evening, Bess watched her daughter go dreamily through the motions of drying the supper dishes. Abigail had almost finished the chore. All through supper, she had hardly uttered a sound. She wished there was some magic elixir that would settle her daughter’s heart.

Then Daniel came bursting in from the parlor with his banjo. Hurry up, sis. Papa has his guitar, and we need you and Betsy to sing. C'mon, the dishes will dry later.

Abigail hesitated, and then threw the dishcloth on the table and ran off behind her brother.

Bess sighed as she watched them race to the parlor.

The next morning during breakfast, Abigail asked, Papa, have you repaired the wheel on the wagon?

Before he answered, Joshua looked at his wife. No, I haven’t Abby. Why do you ask?

Mama and I are going to Colson’s today. While we’re there, I could leave the wagon at the smithery to be fixed.

Her brother, Daniel, who was eighteen months younger, said, You don’t even know how to hitch the horse, and you probably don’t know where the smithery is—ha! You’re funny!

Abigail glared at her brother as her father said, That’s enough Daniel. Your sister is volunteering to do something that you should’ve offered to do. Looking at his daughter, he added, I appreciate your kind offer Abby, but what would people think of me if my daughter was taking care of our wagon? I’ll take it to Ethan today.

Abigail looked glumly at her plate. But, Papa, I’m—

Joshua, her mother interrupted, you’re already committed to building the brush arbor for next week’s meetings, and you can’t be in Marion and Pinetucky at the same time. Abigail and I will take care of the wagon wheel.

Joshua recognized there was more to this conversation than the state of a wagon wheel. You’re right, Mama, he said. So, while you’re at the smithery, ask Ethan to make me two pounds of nails; he knows the size.

Daniel stuck his tongue out at his sister, catching the eye of his father. And you, Daniel, hitch the horse for your mother and sister when they’re ready.

After Abigail and her younger sisters had put the breakfast dishes away, Bess sent Daniel to hitch the horse and to bring the wagon to the front of the house.

Abigail touched her mother’s arm. Mama, I don’t want everybody tagging along.

I understand perfectly, dear. I’m not as old as you think. You can let us off at the store, and meet us there after you leave the wagon. Just make sure you don’t forget your father’s order of nails.

Oh Mama, you’re so wonderful. Thank you.

Well, go to your room, and fix your hair. Wait—get your sisters dressed, and I’ll meet you in your room in a few minutes. I’ll do your hair with one of those pretty ribbons you have.

It was about an hour before Bess had Betsy, Dottie, and Samuel into the wagon, and Abigail out of her room. The four of them would head off to Pinetucky, and Daniel and his father would head off to Marion.

The sun was partially hidden by a patchwork of fluffy clouds as Abigail came to a stop in front of the smithery. She could hear the musical pinging of the anvil. As she stepped down from the wagon, the hem of her skirt caught on the arm of the seat.

Instinctively pulling her skirt, she heard a ripping sound. The move threw her off balance as her feet touched the ground, and she fell backward, landing hard in a sitting position. Exasperated with herself, she hurriedly tried to stand, but it was too late.

Ethan had come outside to see who had stopped at his shop, and he was standing beside her. She thought she would faint. Forgetting she was still sitting in the dust, she just stared up at him. He was smiling, and she hoped she was too.

He stood there shirtless, with the long leather apron covering him from chest to boots. Much taller than she remembered, he was lean and muscular with strong looking arms and shoulders, and his long black hair was gathered in a single plait down his back.

He knelt beside her, bringing him close—much too close. She felt flushed looking into his beautiful blue eyes. She wanted to move back a bit, but she was afraid he might follow, and that wouldn’t do at all. Besides, she couldn’t just slide around in the dirt. She felt she was caught in an emotional whirlwind, and her mouth was inexplicably dry.

Extending his hand, he asked, Are you hurt, Miss?

His smile and masculine voice was unsettling and set her heart aflutter. No. . . No, I’m not hurt. I’m just mortified. My skirt hem caught on something as I was stepping down from the wagon, and suddenly I found myself sitting here.

May I help you to your feet? Do you think you can stand?

He was still smiling, and his eyes were still blue, but she managed to stammer out, Y—Yes, please. I believe I can.

He took her hand and elbow as she brought her feet together. Her legs felt wobbly as she stood, and she smiled, grateful he had not released her hand. She felt his callused palm and fingers, yet his touch was soft and reassuring to her. Pulling her hand from his, she shook her skirt. To her relief, he faced away while she dusted the seat