Dunaway's Crossing Read Free Page A

the memory of that broken rod piercing his side. Whenever a careless driver veered off a muddy clay road, Will winced at the recollection of moans from injured soldiers thrown atop each other in the back of the wrecked truck.
    “Will? Did you hear me?”
    “Sorry.” Will snapped back to the present. “What did you say?”
    “I said I’ll let you know when I hear back from Atlanta. Here’s a map for the meanwhile.”
    Will shoved the map in his rear pants pocket and left the post office. With no steps in sight for a boost, Will pulled himself into the saddle, the skin at his side pulling like a stretched canvas. Although he’d have a scar forever, he hoped the sensory evidence of his injury would soon disappear. He chucked Buster’s sides again with his heels and led the horse out of town toward his new home.
    The horse’s slow gait made for a long but painless ride home. Under his wide-brimmed leather hat, Will’s brown hair dampened in the Georgia heat. As the wide clay road led him through a pine forest, the August sun gave way to evergreen shade—and insects. Holding the reins close with his right hand, the one with the bandaged arm, he waved away deer flies with his other. Once out of the woods, Will continued past acres of cotton fields. The deer flies’ torment abated as the sun resumed its oppression. Over the fields, Will gazed at the welcoming farmhouse where he’d grown up, now occupied by the Taylor family.
    Summer had been good to the cotton crops, blessing farmers with early rains and no boll weevils. If those tiny crop destroyers stayed away another month or two, the Taylors would be set for the year. Maybe in a few years, if the store succeeded, he could buy back some of his father’s property and grow cotton of his own.
    Several miles later, Will’s new home came into sight—a roadside wooden building, the main part grayed and weathered, but two sections on each side constructed of new yellow lumber. From underneath the front tin overhang, a lanky figure under a straw hat carried a toolbox and placed it next to the water pump. As Will approached the building, he waved his good arm and called, “How’d you do today, Terrence?”
    The lanky figure turned toward Will, lifted the hat, and wiped his damp forehead with his forearm. Only fifteen years old, Terrence Taylor, the son of Will’s neighbor to the east, already stood six feet tall. His sweaty blond hair drooped over his freckled forehead before he replaced the straw hat. Then he disappeared under the overhang, only to return a second later carrying a small wooden bench. He placed it on the ground, and Will steered his horse to it.
    “Thanks.” Will slid off the horse and onto the bench. He actually only needed the boost for getting into the saddle, but he appreciated Terrence’s consideration. “So tell me,” he repeated, “how’d you do today?”
    “I finished,” Terrence replied, smiling broadly with pride.
    “You hung all those shelves?”
    “Yes, sir, I did. She’s all done.” Terrence always referred to Will’s remodeled building as she , something Will found silly. But when the young man offered to do cheap carpentry, Will asked no questions about vocabulary. “All she needs now is some dry goods to put on ’em,” Terrence said.
    “I’ve got some in the back room at Richardson’s in town,” Will replied. “More’s on order. If I work straight through, I can open for business by Monday.”
    “Mama will be glad to hear that,” Terrence said, shifting his weight to one foot.
    “That baby hasn’t come yet?”
    “Nope, but she’s moving slower and slower. It’ll be any time now. With a baby in tow, she ain’t gone be able to get into town.”
    “I should stock some baby goods, then,” Will suggested.
    “I’ll ask her what she might need.” Terrence then lifted his gaze to the truck approaching from the east, the same way Will had come. “Here comes my pop.”
    Will and Terrence watched the Ford truck