Alana Read Free

and because of the war, oil was almost impossible to find. Alana missed the grand oriental carpet that had protected the floor, yet even without it the room still held an ageless splendor–a reminder of what Riverbend had been like in its prime.
    That the plantation had survived the war intact was a miracle. Whether Alana would be able to keep her home after she had come so far was yet to be determined.
    Suddenly the walls of the house seemed to close in on her. Turning, Alana quickly went out onto the rear veranda and stood at the top of the steps. She looked at the dark clouds that stretched toward Riverbend from Charleston, some seventeen miles east, then saw a thin black man hurrying in from the fields. The overseer, Ben, had received Lorelei’s message. As she watched him, she could not stop the lump building in her throat, for Ben had been the mainstay of Alana and Riverbend’s survival these past years.
    Alana had given the slaves of Riverbend their freedom shortly after the war had begun. Ben, along with two-thirds of the others, had remained. Alana had not deceived herself that most had stayed out of loyalty; they had not–except for Ben, Lorelei, and a few others. For most of them, there had simply been no other place to go. If they had left Riverbend, they would have ended up in one of the two armies. And from the stories of those who had made it to the North, there was no good news there. Starvation often overtook those seeking to be free of slavery and the South.
    Alana had accepted the workers who had stayed without question, and she had taken on the responsibility of keeping them fed and clothed, just as her family had done since 1789, when Alana’s ancestor, William Shockley, had come to South Carolina from England. She had kept meticulous records throughout the war years, detailing all the wages due the former slaves. When Riverbend was alive again, they would be paid. After their shared years of hell, the workers knew she would keep her word.
    Looking down at her hands, Alana realized they were trembling uncontrollably. Clenching her fingers to stop their shaking, Alana started toward the garden. Behind her, the smoke from the outside kitchen wafted skyward, looking as if it were trying to join the coming storm clouds.
    In the distance, she could hear the sounds of the fieldworkers. Their voices were tired but resolute as they went about their duties. Pausing at the entrance to the garden, Alana looked back at the once-magnificent plantation house. Her eyes swept across the facade; her heart grew heavy. How poor a homecoming this would be for Jason.
    The main house badly needed a coat of paint to prepare for the approaching change of season. Two weeks ago, she had gone to Charleston to buy the paint. She had been unable to find any. The storekeeper had assured her he would do his best to get her what she needed, but Alana knew it was futile. The northern businessmen who had bought so much of the countryside had also taken all the supplies for themselves.
    When Alana entered the garden, she glanced eastward at the thunderheads. A breeze was rising, blowing with it the smell of the storm. Alana recognized the scent for what it was–a scent of danger and change.
    A few moments later, Alana reached her destination, a special flowerbed that held four rosebushes. Separated from the azaleas and camellias by a double row of white stones, these rosebushes held a special meaning for Alana. Slowly she knelt down before them, her fingers automatically seeking out the weeds that were trying to choke the rosebushes’ roots.
    Only here, of all the places at Riverbend, could Alana feel peaceful and secure. But, not even that solace was granted her today, for her mind was spinning.
    With her head held upright, she studied the rosebushes’ gentle green leaves. For four long years, no flower had blossomed. The heady, sweet smell of buds had not come; as if the bushes themselves had felt those first horrid shots fired on