On Wings of Fire Read online

  On Wings of Fire

  Frances Patton Statham

  Bocage Books

  Copyright © 1985 by Frances Patton Statham

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-

  American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United

  States of America by Bocage Books.

  ISBN: 0-9675233-7-0

  (Previously ISBN: 0-449-90007-X)

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61916-850-3

  First Edition: April 1985 by Ballantine Books

  Second Edition: October 2011 by Bocage Books

  Cover design by: Steve McAfee

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Bocage Books

  4210 Abington Walk, NW, Kennesaw, Georgia 30144

  [email protected]

  www.bocagebooks.com

  Also by Frances Patton Statham

  Bright Sun, Dark Moon

  Flame of New Orleans

  Jasmine Moon

  Daughters of the Summer Storm

  Phoenix Rising

  From Love’s Ashes

  To Face the Sun

  The Roswell Women

  The Roswell Legacy

  Mary Musgrove, Queen of Savannah

  Trail of Tears

  The Silk Train

  Mountain Legacy

  Murder, al fresco

  On Wings of Fire

  To Nancy and Mimi

  On Wings of Fire

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The drought of summer covered the Atlanta landscape with a thick red Georgia dust. No portion of the city was exempt from its blanket, not even the allée of dogwood trees that paralleled the drive of the Italianate villa on West Paces Ferry Road.

  A forlorn Alpharetta Beaumont, standing at an upstairs window, looked down at the straight row of trees as she waited for the taxi. Like an exile leaving her beloved land behind, Alpharetta committed the sight to memory. Her eyes swept beyond the trees to the azaleas that had already formed next year’s buds with their promise of delicate pinks and lavenders. But the harsh red shroud of dust covered them also.

  Why couldn’t it have been brilliant April instead of July—the ugliest part of the year, when the bleached blades of grass begged for rain like flowers in the desert.

  A yellow taxi turned into the long drive. Alpharetta, seeing it, left the window, put on her straw sailor hat, and began to walk down the stairs with the suitcase in her hands. No one was in the house to stop her, not even Min-yo, the houseboy. She’d seen to that. Now there remained only one more thing to do before walking out the front door.

  She took the two letters from her handbag and placed them on the Louis XV table in the hallway. The first was addressed to her guardians, Reed and Anna Clare St. John, and the second to Ben Mark, her fiancé. With an unsteady hand, she removed the diamond engagement ring and, as the doorbell chimed the driver’s impatience, she dropped it into the envelope, which she hurriedly sealed. Without looking back, she rushed to open the door, lest she change her mind.

  The long mirror in the hall recorded, for a brief moment, the slender young woman with her flaming red hair partially hidden under the straw hat and her exotic green eyes luminous with unshed tears. Then that image was gone as she opened the door.

  “You called a taxi, Ma’am?”

  “Yes. If you’ll just take my bag . . .”

  She followed the driver down the steps and waited for him to open the taxi door for her. “Where to, ma’am?” he asked, while he slid under the wheel.

  “Brookwood Station,” she replied, the muscles in her throat constricting.

  “A mighty hot day to be travelin’,” the driver commented, turning his head slightly to wait for her verification before he started down the drive.

  “Yes. A hot day.”

  “Just about the hottest day of the summer, so far,” he added.

  With a fleeting smile on her lips, Alpharetta responded, “Do you know what the temperature is?”

  “Already a hundred ‘n’ one by the thermometer at the cab stand. I expect it might even get up to a hundred ‘n’ three by late afternoon.”

  Mercifully, the traffic drew the driver’s attention and Alpharetta, having made the responses that courtesy demanded, settled down on the seat and rode the rest of the way in silence. She was determined not to think of the past week. She would have ample time for that later. Her main concern now was that the train not be delayed. If Ben Mark should discover the letter and follow her to the station before the train pulled out, she was lost. The excuse she had given for breaking off their engagement was a flimsy one that wouldn’t bear up under a challenge, but the true reason was too painful to divulge to anyone.

  Alpharetta had been gone less than twenty minutes when Min-yo, the Chinese servant, returned with the week’s groceries. As he walked through the side entrance, a sense of desolation momentarily touched his bones and caused him to shiver, as if a good shen had been suddenly replaced by kwei, or ghosts in the house. But then, as he hurried on toward the kitchen and began to remove the groceries from the brown sacks, the pleasure from his successful shopping soon made him forget about his initial foreboding.

  Min-yo smiled as he placed the three small steaks in the refrigerator at the far end of the kitchen. It had taken his own shoe stamp and a bag of rice to convince his brother, who ran a laundry downtown, to part with the meat stamp. Because of his swap, the St. Johns could have a hung shao beef that night, instead of macaroni and cheese. As Min-yo continued to plan the evening meal, he heard the screen door to the side entrance open.

  “Hello! Anybody home?”

  Min-yo, recognizing Ben Mark’s voice, left the kitchen. “God afternoon, Lieutenant,” Min-yo said, seeing the tall man with hair as black as his own pigtail. Only Ben Mark’s hair was cropped close to his head in military fashion.

  “Is my fiancée home?” Ben Mark asked, seeming to get a special pleasure from the sound of the word.

  “I go see. You like to wait in living room?” Min-yo asked politely.

  Ben Mark strolled down the hall as Min-yo hurried up the winding stairs toward the suite of rooms that Alpharetta had occupied ever since Nurse Jenson had been dismissed. He smiled as he walked by the door of the bedroom where the young Alpharetta had spent her first night in the house. He remembered it well. Eight years ago. The shabby old valise that contained her one good dress . . . her desire not to be any trouble.
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br />   The door to the suite was wide open. Min-yo knocked on the panel and called out, “Missee, your lieutenant is downstairs.” He waited a moment, and when there was no answer he called out again, “Missee.”

  “Min-yo.” The voice from the downstairs hall was deep, masculine, urgent. The houseboy retraced his steps down the stairs.

  Ben Mark St. John stood by the hall table and in his hands he held an opened letter.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Min-yo inquired, not alarmed at first by the sight of the letter. Alpharetta often left notes propped by the gold ormolu clock on the table, especially when she was going to be late for supper.

  “Alpharetta has gone.” As spoken by Ben Mark, the statement seemed far more serious than the situation warranted.

  “She be back,” Min-yo assured him.

  Ben Mark then opened his hand to reveal the ring. “No, Min-yo. Not unless I can find her in time. She’s broken our engagement.”

  “But why, Lieutenant? I already saved eggs for wedding cake.”

  Ben Mark, visibly upset, asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “About hour ago—before I went to market.”

  “And my uncle? Where is he?”

  “At farm. Miss Anna Clare, too.”

  With Min-Yo trailing him, Ben Mark left the entrance hall and walked into the back hall where the telephone hung. He gave a number to the operator and, as it rang, he waited impatiently for someone to answer.

  “No one seems to be there,” the operator advised.

  “Just let it keep ringing, operator,” Ben Mark requested.

  And so the ringing began again. Finally the scowl lifted from Ben Mark’s face as a voice came over the wires.

  “Al, here.”

  “Al, this is Ben Mark St. John.”

  “How’re you, Lieutenant? I heard you were—”

  “I’m trying to find Alpharetta,” Ben Mark interrupted. “Has she called you about taking the Piper Cub out today?”

  “No, sir. It’s still in the hangar. You want me to get it ready?”

  Ben Mark hesitated. There was no way he could keep it secret. The news would be out soon enough. “No, Al. If she comes, find some excuse not to let her fly it. And Al, could you make sure she doesn’t hitch a ride with anyone else?”

  “No danger in that. The only other plane in the hangar has been taken apart. I’m working on the engine right now.” After debating with himself, Al finally blurted out, “You two have a lovers’ quarrel or something?”

  “Something like that, Al. And I’ve got to keep her from leaving town until I get a chance to talk with her.”

  “Then, I’ll walk on over to the hut and check the next commercial flight. If I see her, I’ll have her call you for sure, Lieutenant—if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Thanks, Al.”

  Ben Mark hung up the phone and turned to the Chinese houseboy who had been standing beside him and unabashedly listening to the conversation. “Come on, Min-yo. You’ll have to ride with me.”

  “Where we go to find her?”

  “To Brookwood Station on Peachtree. And if she isn’t there, we’ll drive to the main railroad terminal.”

  Ben Mark put the engagement ring in his pocket, and with Min-yo hurrying to keep pace, he walked down the hall and out the side door to the Jaguar parked near the curved marble steps.

  As he backed his car around and headed out, another car turned into the driveway, blocking his path. Long, flowing red hair was visible in the open convertible.

  “Alpharetta!” Ben Mark’s relief was evident in his voice. But even as Ben Mark stopped the car and got out, Min-yo knew it was Belline Wexford. He was too far away to see her eyes—turquoise, instead of green—the only exterior characteristic different from Alpharetta. But he had always been able to tell the two women apart, for Alpharetta radiated husn, an inner beauty, even from a distance.

  The disappointment showed in Ben Mark’s face as he realized his mistake. “What are you doing in Alpharetta’s car?” he demanded.

  “What’s the matter, cousin? You don’t seem very glad to see me.”

  “I was hoping you were Alpharetta, coming back home..”

  Belline disguised her jealous twinge at the mention of the other woman’s name. “Isn’t she here? I was just returning her car. I had a blowout this morning.”

  “No, she isn’t here. She’s left for good.”

  Belline laughed. “Why, whatever did you do to her, Ben Mark, this close to your wedding day?”

  “Oh, shut up, Belline. Just get the convertible out of the way. Min-yo and I have to get to the rail station to try to stop her.” Then thinking of the small amount of fuel in his own car, he suddenly asked, “How much gas did you leave in?”

  “About half a tank.”

  “Then, move over. We’ll go in the convertible, instead.”

  Ben Mark motioned for Min-yo to switch cars, while he slid into the driver’s seat. As soon as the Chinese houseboy had climbed into the rear seat, Ben Mark, with Belline at his side, backed the second car onto West Paces Ferry Road and started toward Peachtree.

  At Brookwood Station, Alpharetta sat on a hard wooden bench and waited for the train. Once before she’d tried to sever her ties with the St. John family, when Anna Clare’s nurse had persuaded her that she was no longer welcome in their home. That decision had also brought her to this same passenger station on Peachtree Road. But Reed had arrived in time to stop her. Today, she didn’t want to leave Atlanta any more than she’d wanted to on that day long ago. But within a matter of weeks, she had been forced into it, to spare the St. Johns embarrassment.

  Perhaps when the war was over—perhaps when circumstances were different, she could tell Ben Mark she loved him, would always love him. And perhaps she would be able to come to terms with her real mother.

  The word mother had an alien sound to Alpharetta. She felt so much closer to her distant cousin, Anna Clare, than to the strange woman who’d suddenly appeared on her doorstep, claiming kinship and demanding money. How ironic that her engagement announcement to Ben Mark St. John would be seen by the mother who had deserted her when she was a baby. She hadn’t even known she was alive until that Saturday in May.

  Alpharetta knew she would never forget that day, as long as she lived. It had started out so gloriously. She and Ben Mark had been flying for most of the afternoon. She remembered the color of the sky with its rolling white clouds, the sun catching the glitter of rocks jutting from the Chattahoochee River. Following the water’s meandering path, they flew low, tipping the Piper’s wings to acknowledge the waves and hurrahs of the people floating lazily downriver in their inner tubes, silver canoes, and brightly colored rafts. She was almost afraid that day, she was so happy---with her fiancé home on his weekend pass, with their marriage only two months away, as soon as Ben Mark graduated from flight school. Even the guilty feeling from using the rationed gasoline was forgotten when she saw the pleasure registered on Ben Mark’s face.

  By six o’clock that same evening, her happiness was shattered, and in its place lodged a wariness that refused to go away. And with good reason. For the confrontation with her mother settled nothing. Though she had given her most of her savings, the woman had returned the next week to demand more money. It was then Alpharetta realized what she must do, however painful. Ben Mark’s pride was at stake and she could not ask him to accept such a woman as part of his family. He deserved better than that.

  It was hard enough for him to accept the fact that her father and brothers had once been arrested for making moonshine. But when her father died, and Reed loaned Conyer and Duluth, her two brothers, enough money for a down payment on the cattle ranch in Nevada, Ben Mark relaxed. Of course, it had helped, too, when Reed began to treat her as a treasured daughter, instead of Anna Clare’s poor, distant relative. But with her mother’s appearance, all that would change.

  Alpharetta stared down at her unadorned finger, with its telltale circle of whi
te where the ring had resided until an hour before. Quickly, with a feeling of loss, she covered her left hand with her right and stared at the clock on the wall. In a few minutes, the train should be pulling out of the main terminal. When it stopped briefly to take on passengers at Brookwood Station, there would be no possibility of turning back. By morning, she would be in Washington.

  “Excuse me, miss. Is this seat taken?”

  Alpharetta looked up at a woman with two small children. She shook her head and moved over to make room for them on the bench.

  “We’re goin’ to Chattanooga,” the tow-headed little boy volunteered as he squeezed his small frame into the space between Alpharetta and his mother, who held a sleeping baby. “To meet my pa. He’s got a new job at a shipyard in Norfolk. And we’re movin’ with him.”

  “Ennis Thompson, I’ve already warned you about botherin’ other people. You just sit still and finish your Orange Crush.”

  The woman’s sharp voice woke the baby in her arms. The infant began to cry and the mother, looking toward her son, commanded, “Get Sister’s bottle from the duffel, Ennis.”

  Hurrying to obey his mother, Ennis leaned over. In the process, he spilled his beverage on the bench and it splashed onto Alpharetta’s yellow dress. She stood up quickly and began to mop the stain with her handkerchief.

  “Ennis Thompson,” the mother began again to the accompanying shriek of the baby.

  Seeing the sorrowful look on the little boy’s face, Alpharetta said, “That’s all right. No harm’s done.”

  “Maybe you’d better sponge it off right away,” the woman suggested, “with water.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.” Alpharetta replied and fled toward the restroom. Once inside, she fought to maintain her control as she began to clean the dress. But she burst into tears, the damage to her yellow dress of little consequence compared to her broken heart.

  Just beyond the traffic light where Ben Mark stopped, rose the Palladian-style Southern Railway Peachtree Station, known more familiarly as Brookwood, its classical motif and red brick walls in Flemish bond proclaiming the genius of its architect while denying its utilitarian function as a suburban passenger depot.