Whiter Than Snow by Sandra Dallas

Author:Sandra Dallas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women, Historical
ISBN: 9780312663162
Google: h9jmli9voT4C
Amazon: B0048EL850
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2011-02-28T11:00:00+00:00

He never again wrote to Kate, didn’t know how she had taken Billy Boy’s death—and his, of course. But once, after he had commenced to be prosperous, he went back to Fort Madison. It was a long time after the war. Minder was old then, although not as old as he was now. The place had changed. Fort Madison had turned into a fine town, and he didn’t recognize it. He found a hotel, wrote his name, “M. Evans,” in the register. The clerk read it and said, “You’re not any relation to Minder Evans, I don’t suppose.”

Minder jerked up his head at that. “What?”

“Minder Evans.” The clerk pointed to a pile of books on the counter with a sign on top that read 25 cents. Minder picked up one and read the title: The Civil War Letters and Drawings of Private Minder Evans, a Civil War Hero.

Minder placed a two-bit piece on the counter and took a copy of the book up to his room and sat down in a chair by the window and read the dedication: “This book is published in memory of two noble soldiers, Pvt. Minder Evans and Pvt. William E. Forsythe by the fiancée of one and the sister of the other. After fighting heroically in the war to preserve the Union and surviving the indignities of Andersonville, these two brave soldiers died in the waters of the Mississippi in the tragic explosion of the great Sultana steamship. May they rest in peace. Katherine Elizabeth Forsythe.” The book was filled with Minder’s letters and drawings. Kate had saved every one of them. On the cover was a photograph taken of the men on board the Sultana. Kate had circled two of them, identifying them as Minder and Billy Boy, but she was wrong. The two were indistinguishable in the photograph, hidden behind other soldiers.

For a long time after he finished reading his long-ago letters in the book, Minder sat and stared out the window at the Mississippi, and then he went downstairs and asked the desk clerk what had happened to Katherine Forsythe, the woman who had compiled the book.

“Miss Forsythe’s an old maid that runs a stationery store over on Avenue G, sells paper and books and whatnot. She’s a little daft, and age has come upon her.” The clerk chuckled. “Every year, she reads one of them Minder Evans letters at the Fourth of July ceremony. Kind of sad, isn’t it? You’d think she’d get over it, but those women never do.”

“Kind of sad,” Minder agreed.

Minder did not intend to speak to her, although he thought it would do no harm to go by the store, look through the window, just peer in out of curiosity. But he could not keep from going inside, where an old woman in black, her hair pulled straight back, sharpening her features, looked up. “Are you Katherine Forsythe, the one who wrote the book?” Minder asked.

She nodded, and Minder thought the clerk was right: She looked older than she should have.

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