Page 49 of Magnolia Summer

Celia led her over to the wrought-iron bench and sat down beside her. When Almira didn’t speak, Celia said, “You look awfully pale. Do you need to see a doctor?”

She instantly regretted her words. The last thing she wanted to have to do was fetch Dr. Beverly.

“No, please don’t worry about me.” Almira’s eyebrows drew together. “I’m fine. Truly I am. I have a tendency for stomach ailments.” She looked Celia in the eye. “Please don’t tell anyone I was sick.”

“Of course, if you wish it.”

“I do. Thank you, Celia. You’re very sweet.” She smiled, but it seemed a sad smile.

Celia sensed a loneliness in her that she could understand more than she cared to admit. A tug at her heart drew her toward Almira. “I’m still getting to know people around here. Why don’t you come over for tea some time? You don’t live far, do you?”

“No, just the other side of the Prichards’ from you.”

“Perhaps we could swap books. I had to leave most of mine in Nashville, but I do have a couple of novels you might be interested in.”

“I would like that very much.” Almira’s face brightened and most of the color seemed to come back into her cheeks.

“Then I’ll expect you . . . Thursday?”

“Oh, yes, I could come Thursday.”

“Good.”

The collective sound of voices raised in song told them the church was singing the final hymn before being dismissed.

“Are you well enough to make it home?” Celia asked.

“Oh, yes. I am well, don’t worry.” And she did look much better than before.

“We can take you home in our wagon.”

She shook her head. “I rode my mare. She’ll get me home. I’m all right.”

Celia was anxious to round up her siblings as quickly as possible in case Truett wanted to talk to her. Her cheeks grew warm just thinking about coming face to face with him again so soon after their kiss. She watched the door of the church as people trickled out to shake the preacher’s hand. Truett came out before any of her family. She looked away from him, but still kept him in the corner of her vision. He didn’t even look around for her. He went straight to his horse, mounted, and rode away.

Her heart sank in disappointment.Ugh.Of all the ridiculous reactions . . .

He must be respecting her command for him to stay away. But it hurt, in spite of her telling herself it was what she wanted. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. No, that wasn’t true. Her irresponsible heart wanted Truett. But she could not let it have him.

* * *

The next day,Celia found two more pigs dead in their pen and the rest, including the sow, swaying unsteadily on their short legs and acting lethargic.Lord, what will we do if they all die?They would have no meat this winter and no money to buy any.

Celia helped Will dig the holes for the pigs’ graves, then followed through with her plan for the morning, which was to ride to town to check their mail.

She asked for her mail through the little barred window. The postmaster handed her two letters, one from the Circle W Horse Farm in Kentucky, and the other from the Planters Bank of Nashville.

Her heart beat in her throat. She tore open the letter from the bank as soon as she stepped outside the train station, which also served as city hall and post office.

Dear Miss Wilcox, This letter is to inform you that your father, Mr. William Earnest Wilcox, withdrew his assets and closed his account with The Planters Bank of Nashville on the 4thday of August, 1879. We have had no further dealings with him.

Celia crumpled the paper in her hand. Then it was true. They had no money, except for the seven dollars in the coffee can behind the flour sack. How long could that last them?

Next, Celia tore open the letter from the Kentucky horse farm. She glanced through its contents, her eye catching “sum of $40 per broodmare and $80 for the stallion” and “a man required to travel on the train with the horses.”

Forty dollars each was much less than her father had paid for the mares and not nearly enough to do them much good. And of course, they no longer had the stallion.

She’d have to be desperate for survival to accept such a paltry amount for those broodmares. Perhaps she could sell them by advertising in the newspaper. But who would pay her the actual worth of the horses? In these times, in Alabama, who actually needed Thoroughbred broodmares? They were too valuable to be used as work horses on a farm.