Free The Soldier's Lady by Michael Phillips

time.”
    â€œMind if I tag along?”
    â€œOf course not. It will save me having to run after any bothersome ones.”
    â€œBy making me run after them instead?” laughed Micah.
    â€œIf you’re feeling well enough to run across the field just now, you can chase down a cow!”
    â€œThanks a lot!” he laughed.
    We fell into step together.
    â€œWhere are they?” he asked.
    â€œIn the field yonder—just past those trees,” I said. “We move them from field to field as the grassgrows. As they eat one field down, we move them to the next.”
    â€œIt sounds like a lot of work.”
    â€œKeeping milk cows is never-ending work, in more ways than milking them twice a day. But we could all live off the milk from them, so how can we complain? It’s how we feed ourselves.”
    â€œDo you sell any of the milk?”
    â€œWe thought about it, but lately so many people are angry at us and especially at my papa and Uncle Ward for what we’re doing here, that we don’t think many would buy from us.”
    â€œAngry . . . why?”
    â€œBecause of blacks and whites together,” I said. “They think we—I mean me and Josepha and Henry and Jeremiah and Emma—us coloreds—they think we’re uppity and don’t know our place. But I think they hate Uncle Ward and Papa even more for treating us like equals.”
    â€œIt is the most remarkable place I’ve ever seen,” said Micah.
    â€œI suppose I’m used to it by now,” I said. “We all treat each other normal, like people ought to be treated. But maybe it is unusual—like you say.”
    â€œBelieve me, it is. I doubt there’s another plantation like this in the whole country.”
    â€œI am very glad you found your way here,” I said.
    â€œI hardly found my way,” laughed Micah. “I believe I was led here. But either way—I am more grateful than I can say—both to God for guidingmy steps, and to you all for opening yourselves to me the way you have. I feel like I’ve known you all for years.”
    â€œAre you—” I began, “I mean . . . you mentioned God leading you here. I just wondered . . .” I hesitated.
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    â€œI’m not sure how to say it,” I said, smiling a little awkwardly.
    â€œAm I a Christian, you mean? Is that what you wanted to ask?”
    â€œI guess that’s something like it,” I said.
    â€œYes, I am,” Micah answered. “I try—though not as successfully as I would like—to order my ways by what I think God would have me do, and to follow the example of Jesus Christ as much as I can.”
    â€œJeremiah told me a little about some of the things you and he talked about. I hope you don’t mind.”
    â€œOf course not,” smiled Micah. “My life is an open book. If anyone finds anything useful from it, they are welcome to it. I have nothing to hide.”
    â€œThat’s probably as unusual a thing as you say Rosewood is.”
    Micah laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. Nevertheless, it is how I try to live. How else can people really know one another and love one another than by being open and honest and transparent?”
    I’d never heard a man talk like Micah Duff! To imagine that a black man who wasn’t much olderthan me could know so much and speak with such confidence and wisdom . . . I found myself almost in awe of him!
    We were walking close together now and had entered a small grove of trees between the fields. It was quiet and peaceful and we were in no hurry. It felt good to talk and share with someone who seemed to understand everything, and even seemed to know what I was thinking as I tried to say it.
    â€œKatie and I, after we got together here,” I said, “we were so young and alone and afraid, and we knew we were in a desperate situation. We tried to talk to God and do