The Hamilton Heir

Tim thought he detected an odd tinge of emotion in her tone as she turned to stare out the side window. He wondered if he’d embarrassed her. He certainly hadn’t meant to. He never had understood women, even though he’d grown up in a household with a mother and three sisters. Amy and Heather had never seemed to mind being treated with respect. Melissa? Well, that was another story. Melissa was a special case. She seemed to struggle with personal issues that didn’t faze the others.

“Who’s our first customer?” Tim asked, taking care to keep his tone light and friendly.

“Stuart Meyers,” Dawn said. “He lives alone in one of those shotgun houses all in a row down by the river. It’s not far. Go back the way we came and I’ll tell you when to turn.”

“Right. I haven’t heard anybody mention shotgun houses in years. Aren’t those the ones that are supposedly so small you can fire a shotgun in the front door and the shot will travel out the back door before the pattern spreads enough to hit anything?”

“I see you know something about history. Stuart will love you. How smart are you about The War?”

“Smart enough to know exactly what you mean and to not call it the Civil War unless I’m talking to a Yankee,” Tim said with a grin. “I was in school before I’d heard the conflict called anything but The War Between the States.”

“It was the same in Louisiana,” Dawn said. “Or The War for Southern Independence. That was always my favorite name for it.”

“That figures, since you’re so independent yourself. I know Tennessee provided troops to both the North and the South. Which does your Mr. Meyers favor?”

“He’s not fussy. He loves to argue both sides.” Dawn pointed. “Take that narrow road over there. Stuart’s is the second house on the right. The one that needs painting.”

Tim refrained from saying that he thought all the houses in sight were in serious need of maintenance, most of them too far gone to be saved by a simple coat of paint. He parked as instructed, then released the trunk latch from the driver’s seat before getting out.

He was standing at the rear of the car, trying to decide which meal package was which—or if there was any difference—when he noticed that Dawn had not yet joined him. Leaning to one side he peered around the raised trunk lid and saw her sitting primly right where he’d left her.

Was she waiting for him to open her door? Surely not. Not after all her insistence that she could do things herself. Maybe the latch was stuck or something. He was beside the passenger door in three strides, jerked it open without undue effort and stepped back.

Her face glowed and her blue eyes sparkled as she tilted her head to gaze up at him.

Tim’s jaw dropped when she batted her long, beautiful lashes, and said in an exaggerated Southern accent, “Why thank you, kind sir. Bless your heart. I’m truly obliged for your gentlemanly behavior.”

Dawn didn’t know what had come over her all of a sudden. She was brave and had a good sense of humor but she wasn’t normally foolhardy. Teasing Tim Hamilton like that, when he was trying so hard to be nice, seemed too over-the-top even for a laid-back Louisianan with Cajun roots.

The fact that he’d recovered from the initial shock and looked as if he was struggling to keep from laughing helped salve her conscience. She swung her jeans-clad legs out of the car and quickly stood to smooth the hem of her sweater over her hips. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t resist.”

Tim chuckled and shook his head. “I guess I deserved it for insisting we observe antiquated customs.”

“No, you didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with a few old traditions. As a matter of fact, most of the folks we’ll be seeing tonight prefer classic Southern manners. And if that’s what suits them, it suits me, too.”

“So, you’re something of a chameleon, is that it?”

Separating the Styrofoam box containing Stuart’s meal from the others, she turned and headed toward his front porch. “I see myself as adaptable, not artificial. If I notice that something I say or do makes someone else uncomfortable, I try to avoid making the same mistake again.”

“Point taken,” Tim said, falling in step beside her. “From now on, I promise I won’t insist on treating you like a fragile Southern belle.”

“And I promise I won’t chew you out if you forget and try to open a door for me,” Dawn countered.

“That’s big of you.”

If Tim hadn’t been grinning so widely that the corners of his eyes crinkled, she might have worried more that he was actually offended. It was hard to tell for sure. He apparently had a sense of humor that let him enjoy a good joke without getting too carried away.

Unlike my dad, she added, remembering fondly how her father’s deep laugh had filled the house till the windows almost shook with it. She was used to boisterous men like him: men who loved life, wore their feelings on their sleeves and were equally at home yelling encouragement from the stands at a softball game or shouting a reverent “Hallelujah” from a church pew.

No wonder her reactions to Tim Hamilton were rather odd, she mused. He was so unlike anyone she’d ever been close to she was half awed, half flabbergasted. It was a wonder their working relationship was so effective, although it seemed to satisfy Tim.

Then again, Dawn reminded herself, at the office she kept her focus on pleasing him and doing everything precisely his way. What was not to like?

She climbed Stuart Meyers’s wooden steps, crossed the porch in two strides and knocked. From inside the tiny house she heard, “Hold your horses. I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” accompanied by the steady thump of the rubber tip of the old man’s cane.

Smile in place, Dawn waited patiently. When the door swung open she greeted the white-haired octogenarian and explained why she’d brought a companion. “Evening, Mr. Meyers. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. This is Mr. Hamilton. My car is in the shop and he was kind enough to drive me.”

“Well, come on in, come on in,” Stuart said brightly. “It’s not often I have company like this. “Y’all can stay, can’t you?” He paused to wink up at Tim. “The mister here and I can have a little sip of something smooth from Kentucky, if you know what I mean.”

“Sorry, but no thanks,” Tim said. “I’m driving, remember?”

“Pity. I been savin’ that bottle for a special occasion.” He hobbled into the main portion of the house that served as both living room and kitchenette.

Dawn followed and placed Stuart’s dinner on a TV tray for him. She eyed the large oval table that he used for everything but eating. It was arrayed with toy soldiers, plastic artillery, rail fences made of twigs, and strategically placed piles of sand and dirt. “I see nobody’s won yet,” she said. “How’s the war going?”

Stuart snorted as he shuffled past the overstuffed chair where he usually took his meals and proceeded to the table to peer at his handiwork over the upper rim of his glasses. “Not good,” he said. “General John Bell Hood’s Army of the Tennessee just let Schofield’s troops sneak through Spring Hill during the night and Hood’s about to get his you-know-what kicked at Franklin. Lost six Confederate generals there, you know.”

Tim nodded. “Go on.”

“Hood would be a fool to press on to Nashville and attack General Thomas after that, but that’s exactly what he’s gonna do. Guess he thought he could lead Sherman on a wild-goose chase and keep him out of Savannah. Might of worked, too, if he’d been able to move fast enough and recruit more men on the march.”

Tim circled the table, assessing the battlements and curving strips of blue paper that evidently represented the wanderings of a river. “Is this the Cumberland where it runs through Nashville? Looks like the fortifications on Overton’s Hill.” It was a wild guess but Tim was rewarded with a gleeful shout from the old man.

“It is! And over here’s Shy’s Hill.” A gnarled finger pointed. “The second Union attack begins here, on Hood’s right flank. It fails till Major General Smith’s men take Shy’s Hill and show ’em how it’s done.”

“Where’s Nathan Bedford Forrest?”

“South. In Spring Hill,” Stuart said. “I’m a tad short of cavalry horses or you could tell by lookin’.”

“I’m sure I could,” Tim said. “You’ve done a marvelous job setting this up.”

“Thanks, son. It’s a pleasure to talk to somebody who knows his history like you do. Most kids these days couldn’t care less.”

Tim’s gaze darted to Dawn’s face in time to see her hide a snicker behind her hand. He didn’t really mind hearing the elderly gentleman refer to him as a kid at thirty-three. Given their age differences, he supposed Stuart thought of anyone under sixty as still wet behind the ears.

“You should eat now, Mr. Meyers,” Dawn said. “Your supper’s getting cold.”

“Eat? How can I eat when Nashville’s under siege?” He circled the table and grabbed Tim’s forearm. “Come on. You can be Nathan Bedford Forrest, since you mentioned him. You bring your troops north from Franklin and lead a surprise attack on Thomas’s rear!”

Tim laughed. “Sorry. I’m afraid I have another assignment tonight, sir.”

The old man’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, right. You’re on mess duty. I forgot.”

“Maybe another time,” Tim told him gently. “I’d like to hear more. The history of this area has always fascinated me. My great-great-grandfather, Jeremiah Hamilton, settled here in the nineteen twenties.”

Stuart’s eyes squinted behind his glasses. “Hamilton, you say? Thought I recognized that name when you came in. Well, well, well. I knew old Jeremiah’s boy, Fred. We joined the Marines when we was barely old enough to shave. Fine man, rest his soul. You come from good stock, boy.”

Tim smiled. “Thank you, sir.” He was edging toward the door where Dawn waited. “Looks like I’d better go before everybody else’s food gets cold.”