Home to Hidden Springs

By Nilah Rodgers Turner

Follow Elizabeth’s twenty-five years of trials and tribulations in the raw Republic of Texas near Jefferson and Caddo Lake from 1840 through the American Civil War.
Reared as a sensible, but genteel, Mississippi debutante, she is forced to assume an ahead-of-her-times role. Despite hardships, she builds a successful cotton plantation, yet ends up devastated, penniless, and back where she started—but her spunk, determination, and ambition compel her to begin anew.
Widowed, she marries a sawmill owner who shares her work ethic and builds her a fine plantation home before a tragic accident plunges her into a deep depression. She recovers to face recessions, disasters, epidemics, political, and racial upheavals that cause her arrest and trial for teaching slave children to read and write.
Texas is drawn into the “War of Rebellion,” and her husband joins the Confederate Army while she manages the plantation with little help while waiting and hoping for his return.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nilah Rodgers Turner
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370049615

Nilah Rodgers Turner

Nilah Rodgers Turner’s maiden name is Nilah Blackwell, she attended first grade through graduation in Littlefield, Texas. Her first news writing job was for the then daily Levelland Sun News. After the paper sold she wrote hard news and feature stories for the Lamb County Leader News in Littlefield and feature stories for the Lubbock Avalanche Journal. She sold the first magazine article she wrote to a magazine and this article was included in a hard bound anthology of the best agricultural essays and poems published over 200 years by Progressive Farmer. Her story was included among many notables like Thomas Carlyle and George Washington. With this transfusion of printer’s ink, she joined a writers group and started attending writers conferences and adding to college hours. A Readers Digest subscriber, she read about a helicopter crash on the Pedernales River in Texas. The Readers Digest always included a short note saying they paid $2,500 for Dramas in Real Life. She drove to the area, wrote the article and mailed it. A few days later she got an acceptance. She didn’t know it then, but this was the heyday of freelancing. She wrote and got acceptances from Readers Digest, Good Housekeeping, and Ladies Home Journal. Her writing won first place first from the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Distinguished Service Award from Special Olympics and top honors from the National Kidney Foundation. When her editor at Readers Digest phoned to tell her she was one of only two to sell Readers Digest ten full length stories in one year, the editor added: “and the other writer had a nervous breakdown.” Instead of rejoicing, she wondered if she faced a breakdown if she didn’t slow down. The next Digest included the other winner’s story. The freelance era ended after homes quit selling, and the stock market crashed. Magazines cut employees, and those who weren’t cut, wrote for the magazines. Seeing the end of freelancing, she got her brokers real estate license and opened her real estate office. Later, she bought and sold antiques, and this lead to decorating. She joined a garden club and the Native Plant Society and got her master gardener designation. When she decided not to renew her real estate license, she knew some day she would write novels. "Home to Hidden Springs" is the first. "Tending the Enemy" is available for Preorder and will be released 8-14-2018

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Hidden Springs

Nilah Rodgers Tuner

Copyright © 2018 Nilah Rodgers Turner

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to my wonderful and patient husband, Bill (William B.) Turner, whose computer knowledge saved me from several computer crashes.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART TWO

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Elizabeth’s bucket of haws was half filled when Matt arrived at their favorite swimming hole, shucked his clothes, grabbed the rope hanging from the cypress tree and cannon-balled with a loud splash, making her heart race.

Knowing the thorny hawthorn bushes hid her, Elizabeth continued picking the heart-shaped berries until Matt slithered out of the water and sluiced himself dry. She studied his chiseled body until he started walking toward her. Merciful heavens, if he saw her he might wonder if she watched him naked. To save embarrassment, she lifted her bucket and stepped out of the tall thorny hedge waving and shouting, Morning Matt, fancy meeting you so early.

Matt jerked his head up in surprise.

Pointing to his tousled hair, Elizabeth said, Looks like you took an early morning dip.

I did, and if I’d known you picked berries so early, you could have joined me.

Maybe next time. I’m glad we met because I wanted to remind you I’m opening the cotillion with my barn party Saturday, and I want you for my dance partner.

Matt ran a hand through his wet hair. Glad you reminded me, but my steamboat apprenticeship starts earlier on the same day as your barn party. Sorry to miss your opening party, but maritime studies run on the captain’s schedule. I’d planned to come by your place and tell you so you’d have plenty of time to choose my replacement.

Elizabeth felt like the ground shook beneath her. Matt had mentioned apprenticing as a river boat captain in the same glib way she said she hoped her freckles faded. You can’t be gone during the dances and coming out celebrations.

Matt caught her hands. Elizabeth, I’ll be gone two years—not the few weeks during the parties. I’ll be a year completing my apprenticeship, another year before I’m licensed to pilot a steamboat.

Seeing and hearing her disappointment, Matt added, At your barn shindig and even when I’m on a boat on some faraway river, you’ll always be my partner. He dabbed a tear sliding down her cheek and reached for her bucket, whistled at its weight. You’ve been picking haws a long time. I’ll carry your bucket home."

Giving her a mischievous glance, he said, We make a scintillating pair. Since we’re best friends and scintillating, surely you won’t let me leave without a kiss.

Elizabeth laughed. Maybe we should practice kissing before every eligible suitor pursues me Saturday. Their lips met softly, tentatively. Wow! Elizabeth sighed, I can’t wait for our real kiss. Matt, no matter how long you’re gone, I’ll wait for you. Blue jays quarreling overhead apparently kept Matt from hearing.

Remembering Matt naked, she blushed and changed the subject. You’d like my informal barn party –informal at my insistence. Papa will introduce me as a Daughter of the American Revolution candidate at the formal cotillion—complete with white satin dress, with a tad of décolleté, she added playfully. See what you’ll miss, she implied immodesty. Since you’re not going to the formal cotillion, I’m not going.

You’re thinkin about skippin the pompous la-de-da cotillion?

Yes, Matt. And for the same reason you call the cotillion pomp and circumstance la-de-da. With you gone, I won’t have a reason to attend because I’ve already chosen you.

Matt didn’t reply, and she wished she could recall her words. Don’t tell anyone I’m not goin to the gala.

Go, Matt insisted. Cotillion festivities aren’t meant for those whose papas don’t own huge acreages and have quarters filled with dozens of slaves. Scads of young gentlemen with papas owning thousands of acres will pursue you.

Don’t talk nonsense, Matt, and remember I’m looking forward to our real kiss. A sudden image of Matt naked made her blush.

Everyone will think you’re keeping your mind off suitors makin plays for you.

As long as you dance the first, last, and every other dance with me, she laughed.

*

Swarms of Elizabeth’s friends danced to music coming from the barn while Elizabeth’s papa presided over the pit where pork reached perfection.

As soon as Jack Sanger walked away from Matt’s buggy, Matt apologized to Elizabeth. "I’d planned to bring another friend, but Jack heard us.

Now I know why. We were almost here when Jack pulled out a flask, saying ‘for courage.’

Until Jack approached you with an unsteady gait, I didn’t know he’d been drinking—likely for hours. If I’d known, I would’ve dumped him before we got to your lane. Jack’ll likely put on a good show until everything unravels. Elizabeth, don’t get involved with Jack.

She narrowed her eyes. Mind your business, Matt, and I’ll handle mine. Bon voyage best friend. When you’re wearin captains’ stripes, I might listen.

Matt laughed and kept an eye on both Jack and Elizabeth. Heading toward the barn, Jack stumbled before swinging from barn rafter to barn rafter while gazing at Elizabeth with too much attraction.

Matt pulled Elizabeth aside. Elizabeth, behind Jack’s good-ole boy talk and showing off, can’t you see he’s shallow and immature?

Gently, Matt turned Elizabeth toward Jack. He’s swinging from your barn rafters and cracking jokes because he’s drunk. Matt held her hand, even when he felt her pull away. Be glad you won’t have to see him pukin and holdin his head, wonderin what he said or did.

Elizabeth frowned. You’re leaving for two years, and giving me advice?

Elizabeth, a day won’t go by I don’t think of you, no matter what river I’m traveling. Tell me, why do I get the feeling this party is your declaration of independence instead of you hosting the cotillion opening?

Matt, you know how finances are pinching tobacco growers like our papas. I don’t want my parents throwing money away on frivolous, soon-to-be forgotten coming-out parties when I’ve already chosen you.

Matt didn’t answer, so what did she do? Exactly what Matt warned her against.

Even while her mama made wedding plans for her and Jack, Elizabeth thought about hiding in the woods, watching and listening to people talk instead of marrying Jack.

Even when her papa learned Jack was several years older than Elizabeth and still lived with his parents, he shook his head saying, You’ve always been stubborn, Elizabeth.

Even when her mama said, My heart breaks redoing this dress for your coming out dance for your wedding, Elizabeth’s independence, stubbornness and hard head allowed her to marry Jack when she wanted to wait for Matt.

She wished her papa would say the words ending everything about Jack.

CHAPTER TWO

Five years later on the last day the Republic of Texas would finalize land grants, Elizabeth woke finding Jack gone. Panic seized her and she rushed to Jasmine and Jasper’s cabin. Her papa had given her these two slaves as a wedding present.

Jasmine, get Miley and Griffin ready, you’re going with me to Jefferson to care for Marianne and Cole while I look for Jack to finalize our land grant. Wringing her hands, Elizabeth added, This is the last day we can finalize our land grant. If I can’t find Jack, three years of worry and back breaking work will be wasted. Hurry, and be ready by the time I get the wagon rigged.

Heading toward Jefferson, Elizabeth flapped Aesop’s reins, muttering, I should have listened to Matt about Jack being lazy and undependable.

Lawsy, Lawsy, Jasmine mumbled, shaking her head as she patted her’s and Jasmine’s babies nestled in the pillow padded tub on the wagon floor. Jasmine reached over and cuddled Elizabeth’s Marianne and her Miley sitting on the buckboard between them.

Jasmine knew about Jack’s laziness, drinking and coming in at ungodly hours.

Matt told me not to get involved with Jack, Elizabeth said, snapping her whip above Ace’s head as she stared at the brush arbor where land grants were being finalized. Why didn’t I wait for Matt? Two years of waitin for Matt can’t compare to more than five years of never-ending drudge, worry, and disappoint.

Nearing the site where the Land Board met, she passed trail after trail of buggies, covered wagons and oxen carts. Bedrolls and campfires in every direction told her everyone arrived yesterday, or the day before. Surely Jack was here…Somewhere.

Through arbor openings Elizabeth saw several lines of men under the arbor; outside hundreds more wove through the trees in ragged lines.

Elizabeth slapped a hand across her pounding chest and turned to Jasmine. "Every man in the Republic of Texas must be here. Likely arrived yesterday, or the day before. If Jack planned to spend the night, he would’ve brought our boat receipt, proving we’ve lived in the Texas Republic at least three years.

And he would’ve brought our marriage certificate proving he qualifies for 640 acres. I got these papers out of the document box this morning. Her hands shook as she ran them across her satchel holding roof of her Promised Land.

A man approached, waving papers, laughing and shouting hellos. Mornin ma’am, he said, tipping his hat. Chortling, he waved papers verifying he owned his land. You can pull your wagon in my space when I drive my buggy out.

Much obliged. Sure looks like a crowd.

Hunerds, he answered without lifting his head while securing his patent. In this crowd you’ll have a time findin your husband. He danced a couple of steps and sprang into his buggy.

Guiding Ace into his space, stress jabbed Elizabeth as she slid off the wagon, pulled out her hooped skirt she’d wrapped in a sheet and stowed under the wagon seat.

Jasmine, Elizabeth said, stand in front of me while I work my hoops under my dress. Jasmine arranged Elizabeth’s hoops as her mistress caressed the smooth velvet fabric, reveling in the luxurious feel of the dress she hadn’t had an occasion to wear since arriving in the Texas Republic over three years ago.

I brought water, biscuits and the fried side meat I cooked for Jack’s supper last night. Since he never came home, there’s enough for us and Marianne and Miley. When you feed Griffin, nurse Cole. You can put the quilt under the wagon for the children’s naps.

Missy Lizzie, Jasmine said, "use these small wool pads I brung you. You don’t want to ruin that fancy dress. Not to mention how leaks would shame you. A purty woman wadin into a sea of men aint fittin. Aint fittin atall, but when you set your mind to do something, you gonna foller through, stead of listenin to your head.

"Since we wuz kids, I been watchin you jump into things you should’ve put more thinkin in fore you leaped. Lawsy, how I wish you was here with Masa Matt. Masa Matt got a head on his shoulders, stead of hot air, and Masa Matt’d never try makin it big without workin. Masa Matt wouldn’t stay out all night drinkin, neither.

Scuse me, Missy Lizzie, but I been thinkin these hurtin thoughts ever minute comin here, and my words jus spilled.

Elizabeth should scold Jasmine, but they’d grown up as friends without considering the color of their skin, and there was something sweet about their long friendship.

Walking toward the arbor, men wearing work-worn, but clean clothes told Elizabeth she was over-dressed. She passed a tall woman wearing a calico dress, hanging clothes on a rope stretched between an oak and black gum tree.

Brought my laundry to wash while waitin for my husband to finalize our grant, the woman said. Looks like plenty of drying time, she said as Elizabeth squeezed past.

You’re lucky, Elizabeth answered, wishing she knew Jack’s whereabouts.

Down the line of wagons and buggies, the smell of frying side meat assailed her. She didn’t eat supper yesterday, because Jack’s not coming home left her too nervous to swallow. Deep in the night she woke from a troubled sleep finding Jack hadn’t come home, making her so anxious she only nibbled around the edge of a biscuit while driving her wagon to Jefferson. The aroma of frying side meat made her weak.

Searching for Jack’s old slouch hat, his rambling gait or spotted mare, she wanted to cry. She’d never seen so many people in one place, not even at Mississippi’s biggest outdoor revival in Jackson. She wondered if she would ever find Jack in this crowd. If she located Jack. What a big word, if, when the rest of her life depended on these two letters. If Jack didn’t finalize their grant today, their generous acreage would vanish forever—leave nothing to show for more than three years of lean living, constant work and worry in this Texas Republic.

A man stationed at an arbor opening motioned her out of the sun.

Thank you kindly, she said. Sideling past lines of men, she surveyed everyone. Not seeing Jack, she slid into the next to last line facing Land Board members seated behind long tables made from wide planks nailed to sawhorse legs. Almost stepping on the toes of the man behind her, Elizabeth mumbled, Excuse me.

Desperate to hold a place for Jack, she had cut in front of this tall man with wiry hair springing out of his scalp like porcupine quills, his jug ears looking like handles on a pitcher.

Dampness frizzed her hair, and a slit in the tent cast a ray of blazing sun on her fiery tassels. At five feet, and wearing high-topped shoes, she couldn’t tip her cotton scales past a hundred pounds and looked like a twelve year-old.

I’m Homer Demel, the tall man introduced himself, and added, and I’m sorry.

Thank you, she said, wondering why the man said he was sorry. I’m Elizabeth Sanger, and I’m glad I didn’t wag my baby and little daughter through this crowd. Babies and toddlers can’t stay still or quiet.

Right. Me and my wife have four young’uns. Your husband? Sickness or an accident? he stumbled over his question.

I’m not sure. Of all nights, why didn’t Jack come home? Apparently didn’t ride to the tent arbor for this final meeting. A recurring thought unraveled her. When Jack left yesterday, he headed to one of the whiskey stills in the cypress filled Caddo Lake, or to one of the saloons in the Badlands—the lawless stretch of land straddling the Republic and Louisiana.

Waking and finding Jack gone, she was terrified, fearing her husband had been killed by bandits.

Mr. Demel cleared his throat, said, You seem to be takin things well.

She nodded. Tryin. Every time a man ducks under the arbor, I look to see if he’s my husband.

Mr. Demel shook his head. Life must be hard with a baby and toddler.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. For over three years I’ve imagined getting our land grant finalized, thinking I’d watch, crazy happy, as my husband rode to Jefferson. I never dreamed I’d be the one finalizing our section.

Her remark startled her. She couldn’t finalize their land grant. Jack better get here fast and take her place. Their future and the rest of their lives depended on this final step.

She held her place, shocked she prattled about private matters with a stranger. She dismissed her worries thinking she’d never see this man again. Nothing surpassed getting their grant finalized.

Without completing the land grant today, their land, cabins and barn would be lost. Buckets of tears couldn’t salvage her land grant. Looking for Jack, she clenched her arms and held her place.

Where did you live before coming to the Republic? Mr. Demel asked.

Mississippi, she said, not trusting herself to say more. She didn’t make strangers privy to her misery or cry in public, but she’d slept only an hour—two hours at most—leaving her edgy and rattled.

Mr. Demel cleared his throat. Someday you can go back to Mississippi.

I’m staying here, she answered with uncharacteristic vehemence. After all my parents endured during the depression, I’d never burden them with three more to feed and clothe. Not seeing Jack and her patience gone, she added, Without proof I own my land, I’ll lose my plantation.

I’m not sure you understand the problems you’ll face.

I’ve confronted plenty.

I’m sure you have.

Where do you live? she asked, changing the subject. She didn’t need consolation, she needed Jack to get his behind here and finalize their grant. Only men and widows were eligible for land grants. Why didn’t she listen to Matt?

You familiar with the Big Cypress? Mr. Demel asked. She nodded. Me, my missus and our four young’uns live about three miles from here near the Cypress Bayou.

Good heavens! Elizabeth stammered, louder than intended. The Demels lived about a mile from her cabin, and sooner or later they’d meet and learn she wasn’t a widow. She hoped this man wouldn’t remember her, but dismissed her ridiculous idea.

Both of them stood out like boulders on flat land. Homer Demel’s gruff features were unforgettable. Her papa would say he looked like somebody beat him with an ugly stick, or a dog kept him under the porch all night.

Mr. Demel’s face reddened, and she knew why he assumed she wanted to go back to Mississippi. She may as well be a widow—she was the only woman among hundreds of men getting their grants finalized. Women accompanying their husbands cooked and watched children. Being alone confirmed her widowed status, but she had to hold Jack’s place.

Someone standing behind them groused, What in Sam Hill’s a woman doin here? The complainer sounded like Jack, who didn’t credit her with a lick of business sense, didn’t want her asking questions or offering suggestions.

Her towering neighbor spun and addressed the complainer in a low voice she couldn’t hear. The complainer blanched, turned and talked to the man behind him.

Turning back, Mr. Demel said, My offer to help is still open.

I’m fine, thank you, she said, wishing she hadn’t given him the impression she was widowed. The man seated at the table shoved his chair back, rose, and everyone stepped forward. Passing, he clasped his grant to his chest.

Relieved, yet alarmed, her turn neared, Elizabeth looked past the openings, said, We don’t have long to wait. At the back, more settlers swarmed under the arbor, triggering scuffling and shoving. Elizabeth held her place, scanned the crowd for Jack, willing the line to hurry.

Seeing her search the crowd, her neighbor stammered, Would it help if I told you how nice you look? His ears reddened and he rubbed his hands as though scorched.

She sympathized with his embarrassment. This morning when I grabbed my silvered glass, a stranger with drained eyes stared back, she grimaced. Damp weather makes my hair unmanageable. She flipped at a dangling curl. Thank you for your encouraging words. Talking to him did keep her from dwelling on Jack’s absence.

Next! the man behind the table repeated, and motioned.

The word next jolted her as though she stood on wet ground near a lightning strike. Desperate, she turned in a circle, searching for Jack—hurting like a mule kicked her shins.

*

During an early lull, Daniel Denton ran a hand through his thick hair, straightened his long legs under the table and watched the crowd. The day fresh as a mowed meadow, he reflected on the things people would say or do to get a section of this rich land. In his five years on the Land Board, claims had been filed on the biggest portion of land in this area containing some of the best cotton land in the Texas Republic.

He sensed the crowd’s urgency, watched, intrigued by a pretty girl wearing green. If widowed, she’d wear black. Her hoops dipped, revealing ivory high-topped shoes. Loose strands of red hair spiraled over her ears and down her back. She pursed her lips and blew up at a dangling curl.

He smiled and noticed others watched her. Before issuing certificates, Daniel certified claimants’ requirements. Only white males, at least sixteen years old, and widows, qualified for land grants after living three years in the Texas Republic.

If eligible, he hoped he could finalize this girl’s grant. Most land board meetings were held in a courthouse with a dignified atmosphere. Instead of formality, this brush arbor resembled a camp meeting.

The girl’s turn came next, and he stood, watched her scrutinize everyone under the arbor and those she could see through the openings. A green ribbon slithered down one arm. She tucked the dangling ribbon under her sleeve band, her hat slipped, and her face flushed.

Daniel thumbed through a bound reference book until she regained her composure.

I’m Daniel Denton, he said, one of the Land Board members in the Texas Land Office.

She extended a warm hand with a firm shake. Nice meeting you, Mr. Denton. I’m Elizabeth Sanger. Something’s detained my husband. Her words trailed off.

Her eyes were the deepest green he’d ever seen. Daniel pictured her husband as a petroglyph on a cave wall, without a weapon or animal to prove his prowess. She knew he couldn’t finalize a married woman’s grant. He exhaled, wondering why she stood in line for hours.

Without making eye contact, she handed him her marriage certificate. Denton glanced at her birth date, thinking she looked much younger than nineteen, should be dancing and attending barbecues in Mississippi. How did you wind up in the Texas Republic? he asked.

Handing him her steamboat receipt, she said, Crossing Caddo Lake heading toward Jefferson, I held my breath at the beauty and serenity. A lifelong friend, Matt Miller, captained the steam packet we arrived on and saved us months of traveling by oxen or mules. And Matt helped me find good bottomland. Matt said the water level in the Big Cypress is too shallow for large steamboats, but his packet can travel on spit, she blushed.

Cypress trees, all draped with Spanish moss remind me of cypress trees in Mississippi, but Caddo’s huge, dark cypress forest is so mysterious and profoundly quiet, except for the rousing chorus of cicadas and tree frogs.

In a voice sweet as fresh cream over ripe peaches, she said, Caddo’s named after the friendly Caddo Indian tribe. Some call Caddo, Soto Lake. Her voice lightened. My favorite name is Fairy Lake. Fairy Lake sounds magical as a story book. Caddo is the biggest and only natural lake in Texas, and covers a good part of Louisiana, too.

She clasped her hands in a helpless gesture. My mouth runs on and on when I’m nervous.

I’m enjoying Caddo history, Daniel said, so caught up in her description he wanted to row into this mysterious lake, feel cypress fronds and compare them to the cypress and pine trees growing so abundantly in this piney woods area of the Texas Republic. He wanted to listen to a symphony of high-pitched cicadas with tree frogs croaking bass.

My job’s similar to a traveling salesman. Next time I’m in this area, maybe I’ll visit Caddo.

Oh, you should! she said in an excited voice. Caddo Lake’s so peaceful and relaxing. Leaving Mississippi, I wondered if I’d ever see my family again. My mama cried and my papa’s voice broke reminding me the Texas Republic offered me a section of land where I can build my own plantation. And I got my bottomland!

Daniel glanced at his map. A mile of her section overlooked the Big Cypress. You picked good land, he said.

My land’s blessed with two springs that gurgle like babies. Her words rippled like water skipping over rocks. Sorry, she said. I prattle and chatter when I’m nervous.

Daniel labeled her prattling and chattering Southern charm.

"I think of our section as mine. Something owned, with built-in rights and guarantees until everything’s