“You gonna give me my own land to work and all you want is some help. And there ain’t no more to it?”
“That’s it,” she affirmed.
“But why?”
She looked upon Elliot squarely and minced no words.
“I mean to do as my late husband did,” she said. “Even if only to avenge him. To restore his land.”
She surveyed her rose bushes, the petals shriveled and drooping, ready to be snipped, and pictured the display come winter if she put in the proper work.
“That’s a very pretty flower, by the way,” she said, nodding to Elliot’s breast pocket. “Where did you pick it?”
“My wife. She said I should look my best.”
“You’ve managed well on that front.”
He laced his hands together, cleared his throat.
“I don’t mean to say too much, and you tell me if I have, ma’am, ’cause I got nothing but respect for you, but there’s a bunch of men in town who seen that sign, and they too afraid to come up here. We heard about those brothers. Heard what happened to the big one. Nobody wants trouble, is what I’m saying.”
A chill coursed through her.
“His name was Landry,” she said. With a hand, she guided Elliot’s sight to the forest. “And he is buried there, right beside my husband.”
“Ma’am, I—”
“Allow me to finish. I’ve lost more than I ever imagined, but they’re the reason I’ve brought you here, and will bring as many others as I can. Why I intend to make this the most gorgeous and bountiful bit of land in the county. There’s a risk, yes, but there are more soldiers in town than ever before, ones who look like you, and have your interests in mind. The Freedmen’s Bureau sends them around every week to assure that things are safe. Still. Anything might happen, it’s true. And I would understand if that prospect frightens you too much to accept.”
His face was closed to her, and she thought of what lay under the surface—how his eyes might grow wide at the telling of a joke, or the pleasure he might show as he danced to a tune with his wife. The blossoming of his personality under the proper circumstances.
“I’ll take the land,” he said, finally. “However much you offerin’。”
“Fifteen acres,” she said.
“That’s a deal,” he said, his voice registering surprise.
“And you’ll help me fix up that land down the hill?”
“That’s my promise.”
They did not shake hands. He simply nodded and shuffled over to the stairs.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Expect me back next week.”
“Until then, Elliot.”
As he walked off, she called out that he should tell the others they could have the same deal. Space was limited—she had only so much land to go around—but all were welcome, just as the signs proclaimed.
CHAPTER 28
Autumn was brilliant. The sun became tolerable and the walnut trees so yellow they looked like enormous dandelions just flowered. Others were vibrant tones of pumpkin orange. Isabelle made her rounds in the morning on the back of Ridley, surrounded by the gorgeousness, checking in on the handful of men who’d arrived these past few months after Elliot. Many of them still lived in the camps beyond town, but some had taken up residence on the farm, setting up makeshift tents wherever pleased them on the plots that were theirs.
On any given day the acreage was so extensive that if Isabelle wished to, she could avoid seeing them at all, but she enjoyed watching them work the land, knowing their own visions were being met, their goals attained. They were all freedmen and most had brought their families in to aid them. Often she was met with skepticism, as though she were simply the latest incarnation of an overseer, but in time they were eased to her presence by the nature of routine, the comfort built through her questions on how to tend the land, and eventually by their toiling beside one another on George’s plot. She had help from at least one of them every day, and already the reseeding efforts—with nothing more than hoes, along with some manure being spread with an eye toward healthy growth—had begun to heal the damage done by the fire. There was little optimism that the produce would be plentiful that initial season, she was told; it would be a year at least for it to return to its former condition. But a year seemed not far off.
Her last stop after working was always the forest. She would see Landry’s grave first: the blue of the sock upon the cross, a beacon bright in the pending darkness. She would sit in the space between his grave and George’s and speak as though they were there with her—catch them up on her work, promise to return with roses once they came in. George had never liked them but if he could tolerate them in life he could tolerate them in death. Landry loved all things pretty, all things holy. He would be happy for the gift.