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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Esther

  Copyright © 2018 by Jim Cox

  Digital Release: January 2018

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Esther by Jim Cox

  In the mid 1800s, a divorced woman has few options. But Esther Taylor is no ordinary woman. Leaving an abusive husband while trying to keep her two children safe is just the beginning. Esther makes her way in the world by virtue of her wit and strong work ethic. Whether working as a cook at a riverside café or as a ranch hand at round-ups, Esther’s pioneer spirit and gut-wrenching determination to move forward are inspirational and a font of strength to her children, Mark and Joan.

  When the Civil War erupts, Esther’s fortitude is tested in ways she never imagined with the disappearance of both her newfound love and her son amid the carnage of the war. Ever relentless, Esther searches for her scattered family. Can her indomitable spirit bear the realities of love and war to triumph one more time?

  Dedication

  Brenda and Shelly

  Chapter One

  The weather was hot. Unseasonably hot for a mid-October afternoon in the little town of Idalia, Virginia. In fact, the entire summer had been hot and dry causing a financial hardship on the community since most of its commerce revolved around farming. The afternoon was especially uncomfortable for Mr. George Niles, the town’s bank president, because of the bank’s dress code. Today he wore a dark blue suit with a stiff-collared white shirt and a silk tie.

  He sat behind his desk, occasionally wiping sweat from his forehead, and took-in the poorly dressed bank client sitting across from him. John Taylor was in his early thirties, taller than average, but rather thin, with unruly dark brown hair and beard. His clothes were badly worn but clean. His boot heels were nearly missing, and the straw hat he held in his lap was sweat-stained and shapeless. He smelled of whiskey. “I imagine you’re here to discuss your bank loan, John? Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” John answered.

  The president rose, went to the back wall where he retrieved a large, leather-bound mortgage ledger from a bookshelf and returned to his desk chair. After turning to the page pertaining to John’s mortgage and studying it for a minute or two, George asked, “What are your intentions, John? How much money do you have to pay on your loan?”

  John sat in a straight-backed chair with his head and shoulders drooped. He heard the president’s questions but didn’t respond right off—words wouldn’t come. Finally, John said in a low voice, “I ain’t got no money to pay on my mortgage. My crop was a failure because of the drought.”

  The president sat with a perplexed look before he said, “I know the area’s crops were hurt by the weather, John, but nearly all of the farmers we do business with were able to pay their interest and most of them paid some on their principal. Can you pay any toward your interest, John?”

  “No, sir,” John said, shaking his head with eyes toward the floor. “I ain’t got no money at all.”

  A minute or so of silence passed before the president asked, “You’ll need seed money for next year’s crop, John. Where you gonna get it?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll loan it to me, sir. I can get by on fifty dollars. I’ll be sure and pay it back next year when my crop money comes in.” John hesitated for a few seconds and then said with a tone of encouragement, “It ain’t likely we’ll have two bad years in a row. We’re due for a season of good crop weather.”

  The president’s stare stayed fixed on John for a few seconds and then with a furrowed brow and tight lips, he turned the ledger toward John, pointing to the information pertaining to his loan. “I loaned you $4,800 to purchase your eighty-acre farm in 1854, John. That was three years ago, and you haven’t paid anything against the principal or interest since I loaned you the money. I’ve already gone beyond good banking practices; I can’t loan you anymore.”

  John cleared his throat, “Can’t you work with me one more year, sir? It’ll be awful hard on my wife and young’ins if we have to move out. I promise to do better.”

  “I’m sorry, John, but I can’t go any farther,” the banker said rather flatly. “I doubt if the value of the farm would cover our outstanding balance.” There was a long pause before the banker closed the ledger and said, “I hate to say this, but the farm will have to be sold to pay off your loan, John…I don’t see any other alternative.” There was a minute of silence before the banker continued, “I believe a buyer can be found before next year’s planting season if we get the word out. That should give you plenty of time to find new living quarters.” Both men sat without words, not knowing what to say. Finally, the banker offered a few words of encouragement, “Maybe there’ll be some money left over to help you get started again.”

  John shook his head as he stood and said, “It ain’t likely, sir.”

  ∙•∙

  He had crossed the street when he left the bank and was sitting on a boardwalk bench in front of the mercantile when he saw his son walking toward him. How am I going tell him we have to move, John thought, how am I going tell Joan and Esther? Esther was his wife, and Joan was their twelve-year-old daughter. They had named their son, John Mark, after his father, but folks called him Mark. He was fourteen, tall for his age—already a couple inches over six feet and thin as a rail. He was a good-looking boy, favoring his father and usually wore a smile.

  “It sure took you a long time at the bank,” Mark said in a carefree tone, as he walked up to his father. “I got all of the town errands done a couple of hours ago…been killing time ever since. We need to be heading out ʼfore long, Pa; it’ll soon be chore time.” When his father didn’t respond, Mark looked closer. “What’s wrong, Pa? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I ain’t feeling the best, son. You head for the house and start chores while I sit here for a spell; maybe I’ll get to feeling better.”

  Mark smelled whiskey on his father’s breath. “I’ll stay ʼtil you’re feeling better, Pa. Chores can wait.”

  “You need to go on home, son. I’ll be okay.” The boy nodded and headed for the bare-back, plow horse he’d ridden to town, which was tied to a rail next to his pa’s a couple of buildings away. When he had ridden out of his father’s sight, Mark stopped for a few minutes and then turned back toward the mercantile. As he expected, his father was gone, and the boy thought he knew where he’d vanished to. Mark rode on and stopped in front of the tavern. He tied his horse and looked through the tavern’s window to confirm his fear; then he remounted and headed for home with watery eyes.ʼ

  »»•««

  Mark and his sister sat at the breakfast table in silence the next morning with their mother. Normally, his mother and Joan cooked breakfast while he and his father did the barn chores, but this morning his father was still in
bed and was in no condition to help. Mark’s mother broke the silence, “As soon as we’ve eaten, I’ll help finish the morning chores, son. Your pa ain’t up to it.” Looking toward her daughter, she said, “Joan, you’ll have to do the cleaning up by yourself this morning.” The girl nodded.

  After eating, while they drank their coffee, Mark turned to his mother and asked, “I know Pa came home drunk again, Ma…what time was it? I stayed awake ʼtil after midnight, and he still wasn’t home.”

  “You shouldn’t stay awake waiting for your pa, son; it ain’t good for ʼya…you need your sleep,” she said avoiding his question.

  “I know Ma, but it ain’t good for you either. You always stay awake ʼtil he gets home, no matter what time it is.” She nodded. “What time was it, Ma?” he asked again.

  She hesitated and then with lowered eyes said, “It was a little after two.”

  “Was he in bad shape, Ma? Could he get to the house on his own or did you have to help him?” Mark asked with a firm tone.

  “I heard him ride in and found him lying on the barn floor. After I tended to the horse, I helped him to the house and put him to bed.”

  Mark’s glare was penetrating. “Was he mean, Ma? Did he hit ya’?”

  His mother looked at her son through sad eyes and then answered. “No, son, not this time.”

  There was a long silence before Mark asked, “What are we gonna do, Ma? It ain’t right for Pa to act the way he does. Our crops are a failure because he doesn’t tend to ʼem, and he doesn’t do much around the house—we ain’t even got enough wood cut for the winter. I do my best, Ma, but I ain’t able to do it all.”

  “You do your best, son; that’s all you can do,” she said with a slight nod.

  “Ma,” Mark said with a forceful tone, “Pa spends every cent we get from peddling eggs and butter, along with what you earn sewing for town women on whiskey and gambling; then he comes home drunk and treats you mean.”

  “He doesn’t spend everything we make,” she said with a smile, “I squirrel-away some money every week to pay on our mortgage.” She looked at her son with a smile and said in a pleasant tone, “Try not to worry, son, your pa will straighten out one of these days, and things will get better, you’ll see.”

  She started to rise, but Mark pulled her back and said, “Ma, I’m nearly grown and can take care of myself, but you ain’t up to it. If Pa tries to hit you again and I’m around, he’ll have to come through me.” A long minute passed before the three stood to do chores. Joan to do the kitchen work and Mark and his mother to finish the barn chores.

  It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon when John ambled into the kitchen and slumped in his seat at the kitchen table. He looked a mess. A sour face, matted hair, and only wearing the bottoms of his underwear. Esther had kept a slow burning fire in the fireplace with coffee heating, so by the time he was seated she was setting a cup of steaming, black coffee before him. Minutes passed without words being spoken.

  “Would you like for me to cook you breakfast, John?” his wife asked.

  His answered was gruff, “Fix me three eggs, some bacon, and a couple of biscuits, Esther; I’m starved.” Then he took a long swallow of the hot coffee while his wife got busy preparing his meal.

  As John was eating, Esther refilled his cup and poured herself one before sitting down across from him. Neither spoke. After he’d eaten and drank two cups of coffee, John said in a muffled, almost un-audible voice, “The bank’s kicking us off our farm, Esther…we have to move.”

  Esther had been in a daydream but looked up with a perplexed expression, totally shocked by what she thought her husband had said. “Did you say we have to move—that the bank is kicking us off?”

  “Yaw, that’s what I said…we have to be moving on.”

  “Why are they doing that to us, John? We’ve paid the interest every year and have even paid a bit on the principal; I don’t understand.”

  Now was not the time for John to come clean about his deceitfulness or admit he hadn’t been paying on their mortgage, so he avoided his wife’s question and said, “Bankers don’t give a hoot about common folks like us, Esther. They’re after every penny they can get their hands on, and they figure they can make more money by kicking us off. They have the right to take our farm because we ain’t paid everything owed on the principal…there ain’t nothing we can do about it.”

  Esther looked at her husband with tear-filled eyes. “When do we have to move out, John?”

  “Not ʼtil the farm is sold. It may not be for a few months, but I figure we might as well get it over with and move within a week or two.” Esther nodded as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  A few minutes later, she composed herself, took a swallow of coffee, and said, “We lost our place to the bank in Albertville three years ago and moved here. Now we have to move again. Are we ever gonna get settled for good, John?”

  John scowled and shouted, “Don’t go blaming me, Esther, it ain’t my fault. The weathers been against me, and both banks were unreasonable; they took advantage of me.”

  Esther waited for her husband to cool down before she asked, “What are we gonna do, John? Where’re we gonna move?”

  John raised his empty cup, signaling for a refill. After taking a long swallow of the freshly poured coffee, he said, “I’m tired of this part of the country, Esther; there ain’t no way to get ahead. A poor man ain’t got a chance.” John paused in deep thought, took another swallow, and then said in a low firm voice, “We’re getting out of this part of the country, Esther. We’re leaving Virginia and going someplace where a man has a chance.”

  Esther was taken back by his comment. “We were both born and raised in Virginia, John. Neither of us have been more than a hundred miles from here,” she said with a tone of resentfulness. “We have no idea what to expect in another part of the country.” After a long paused, she asked, “Where do you figure on goin’?”

  John studied on her question and then answered, “I’m thinking we should head west, Esther. Maybe settle in Indiana or Missouri. I hear there’s a lot going on in that part of the country.”

  Esther left John sitting at the table while she went to her sewing basket, sat down in a rocker beside it, and started stitching on a town woman’s dress. She had been working for about a half hour when John called out from across the room, “Where’s Mark? It’s about time to start chores. He’ll be on his own this evenin’…I ain’t up to it.” Esther looked at her husband in disgust, put her sewing down, and headed outside to find her son. He was at the woodpile splitting firewood—Joan was doing the stacking.

  “I’m sorry, son, but you’ll have to do the evening chores by yourself. Your pa ain’t up to helping,” she called out as she approached.

  “I planned on it, Ma. I figured Pa wouldn’t be helping. I’ll get started on it as soon as I finish splitting this pile of logs.”

  “Joan, you can help your brother with the chores; do whatever he asks you to do.”

  “Don’t you need me to help cook supper, Ma?”

  “I’ll do the cooking by myself—Mark needs you tonight, honey.” Their mother had started for the house but turned back, “We’ll be eating late tonight. Your pa ate a big meal a few minutes ago and won’t be hungry for a spell.”

  »»•««

  The sky was cloud covered with a slight breeze the next morning, cooling things off a bit. Esther and her children stayed busy throughout the morning doing their regular chores then preparing for their weekly trip to Idalia to peddle their wares. Eggs, milk, butter, jars of peach jam that Esther had canned, and potatoes recently dug. Esther would also be delivering the mended dress.

  Mark hitched the team to the wagon, and the three were starting to board when John walked from the house and shouted out, “Where you goin’?”

  “It’s Wednesday, John; our regular day to make our rounds in town, doing our peddling,” his wife reminded him.

  “You’ll have to put off your trip ʼtil you fi
x me something to eat, Esther. I ain’t waiting ʼtil you get back.”

  “I’ve already fixed you something, John. You’ll find biscuits, gravy, and sausage warming by the fire.” Then turning to Mark, she said, “Let’s go, son.” He snapped the lines.

  “Don’t be late,” John called as the wagon rolled out, “I’ll need a horse later on.”

  They’d been in town less than two hours when the last of their goods were sold, bringing in a little over four dollars which was more than normal. They were riding down Main Street on their way home and had just passed the bank when Esther suddenly called out, “Stop the team, son. I need to go in the bank.” Mark quickly pulled back on the reins and guided the team to the side of the street.

  “Why do you have to go in the bank, Ma? Mark asked with a puzzled expression as his mother climbed down. She didn’t answer him.

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. Niles if he’s in,” Esther said, speaking to a bank teller. The young man nodded and headed for a side room. He soon reappeared and motioned her to follow.

  When she entered Mr. Niles office, the bank president rounded his desk saying, “Please be seated, Mrs. Taylor.” After she was seated, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “My husband says you’ve ordered us off of our farm, Mr. Niles.” The banker nodded. “That’s what I want to talk with you about. I know we’ve not kept up with our payments, Mr. Niles, but we’ve paid our interest for the last three years and some of our principal. I have seven dollars in saving’ and took-in an additional four dollars from my peddling today, which gives me eleven dollars to give to you,” she said, as she laid six one-dollar bills on his desk along with another five dollars in coins. “Will that be enough to keep you from foreclosing on us?” she asked with watery eyes.

  The banker remained silent, trying to figure out her misunderstanding. It soon became clear to him that her husband had lied to her and she was probably in the dark about the real situation. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Taylor, while I get your records.”