“Tracking a varmint.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Yep. Bart Love.”
“The old con man?” Jackson asked with a smile.
“One and the same.”
Jackson knew the character Dix was referring to. Love lied so much and so often, folks weren’t even sure his name was Love. “What’s he wanted for this time?”
“Stealing my herd and selling it to the U.S. Army.”
Jackson whistled appreciatively.
Dix nodded. “No kidding, I’ve been trailing him almost two months now. He’s supposed to have family here in the city somewhere, but so far he’s managed to stay one step ahead of me.”
“Where’re you staying?”
“Boardinghouse.”
“Well, you know, Sunshine Collins is here in Chicago, too. I’ve been bunking at her place the last six months or so. She’s going to be mad that you came to town and didn’t let her put you up.”
“Is she still in the business?”
“Does it snow in Chicago in January?”
The two friends laughed. They spent a few minutes catching up on the past and the fates of mutual acquaintances. Jackson had confided in Dix long ago about why he’d fled Texas, and Dix asked if the problem had ever been resolved.
“Not yet, but hopefully soon.”
Dixon went silent for a moment. “You’re not thinking about going back down there, are you? Rivers are running with blood in some places.”
Jackson nodded grimly. “I know.”
The newspaper reports coming out of Texas were bleak. As the hate of the Redemptionists spread like wildfire across the south, Black folks were paying the ultimate price. “You’d never know the Rebs lost the war, the way we’re suffering and dying,” Jackson added with bitter sarcasm.
“I know, which is why you’ve got no business going back.”
“Have to.”
Dix searched the eyes of his friend. “If Lane Trent’s still alive, I doubt he’ll just let you waltz in and have him arrested.”
“I know, but my daddy’s owed justice,” Jackson replied, his eyes hard.
“Yes he is, but what’s the sense in you dying too? Jack, look. Why don’t you come and live in the Territory? Start over, men do it all the time. As long as you stay within the law, no one will bother you.”
“I want my star back.”
Dix held Jackson’s serious eyes. They both knew a wanted man could never in good conscience put on a star again, not if he were really dedicated to enforcing the law.
“I was a damn good lawman, Dix. Lane Trent took that, too.”
Jackson decided to change the subject. He’d be facing his future soon enough. “Have you heard anything from my brother Griffin?”
Dix let loose with a seldom seen smile. “Your little brother has made quite a name for himself. He’s wanted in five states for train robbing. Last time I checked, the reward on his red head was in the five-figures territory.”
Jackson chuckled. Who knew the wisecracking orphan who’d become his brother would wind up a notorious train robber. “Have you seen him?”
“Yeah, I have. Since he isn’t wanted in the Territory he stops in every now and again, but the women always wind up fighting over him so I always end up running him out of town just to restore the peace.”
Jackson shook his head. “My daddy Royce’s probably spinning in his grave.”
“No doubt. He’s a handful, that little brother of yours. So tell me this, what are you doing in Chicago?” Dixon asked.
“Trying to stay one step ahead of the bounty hunters.”
“It’s been a long time, Jack, I can’t see anybody still tracking you after all these years.”
“The moment I say that, somebody’ll knock on my door. Lane Trent’s daddy Roy was a pretty powerful Reb back then, you know. Lane’s probably still trying to find me if for no other reason than to keep me from telling the truth about what really happened the day his daddy died, and about his hand in Royce’s death.”
Again pushing aside the dilemma posed by Lane Trent, Jackson asked the lawman, “What’re you going to do if you can’t find Bart Love?”
“Head back to the Territory and wait for him to show up. He’ll head home eventually.”
“Well, I just signed on to be wagon master for some folks going down to an Exoduster colony in Kansas. Sure could use a scout, if you’re interested.”
Jackson didn’t dare tell him the trip would be an all-woman expedition because he knew Dix would never agree.
“If I can’t find Bart, I don’t see why not. It’s a bit out of the way, but—” He shrugged.
They spent a few more minutes talking about the pay, possible routes and the estimated date of departure for the wagon train. Dix promised to stop by Sunshine’s later and the two old friends parted. By the time Jackson drew the team to a halt in front of Sunshine’s Palace, the need to return to Texas echoed inside him like a heartbeat.
After spending eight hours on a hard wagon seat, Grace could barely climb down to the ground. She ignored the chuckles of her godfather Martin Abbott watching her as he held the reins. Her behind felt as stiff as the wooden seat, and her legs had been turned to stone.
“Sure you’re ready for this trip?” he teased.
Grace shot him a warning look, but it was filled with all the love she felt for her father’s lifelong friend. “Yes, I am,” she lied confidently, finally making it to the grassy ground. Lord, she wondered if she’d ever be able to walk again.
“Bit stiff, are you?” Martin asked, getting down from the wagon with experienced ease.
“Just a bit, but we were on the road all day,” Grace said in defense of her condition.
“That we were, but you’d better get used to it. This is going to be your life for the next month or so. Remember?”
She did, and for the first time began to wonder if this whole expedition was really such a good idea. Her legs were just now regaining some semblance of feeling, but because Grace had never been one to wallow in self-pity, she buried the doubt-filled second thoughts about the upcoming journey and forced herself to take a few halting steps.
The tall, burly, gray-haired Martin laughed aloud. “You look like you’re made out of metal and gears.”
“You’d better be glad I love you so much,” she tossed back with merry eyes. “Metal and gears, indeed!”
Grace could finally feel her blood flowing again, but had no idea when her behind would recover. Putting her physical discomfort aside for now, she looked around the sun-filled valley and felt the silence and peace fill her soul. She could almost envision how the camp would look once everything was in place, see the activities as the brides went about their day.
“Thanks for letting me use this spot,” she said, scanning the budding trees and the blue sky.
“You’re welcome, but when have I ever been able to deny you anything?”
Grace turned and looked at him with such seriousness he raised an eyebrow. He asked, “What’s the matter?”
“When I told Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Tulip about this trip, they said the same thing. I’m blessed to have people who love me so.”
Since her parents’ death, the love of Martin and the aunts had done much to ease her pain.
“You’re very special, Gracie. Folks can’t help but love you.”
Grace gave him a watery smile. Then, because she knew Martin would understand, she let the tears fill her eyes as she whispered, “I miss Papa so much, Uncle Marty—so much…”
He came over, eased her against his big barrel chest, and held her tight. “I do too, baby girl, more than I ever thought I could. He was a good friend. A damn good friend.”
She cried for a few moments longer and they consoled each other silently. Grace had no reason to hide her misery, Martin had loved her father too; so when Grace glanced up and saw Jackson Blake mounted atop a big black stallion positioned behind them, the pain she felt was vividly portrayed on her face.
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Before she could speak or move, he drew out the longest gun Grace had ever seen and then called out in a low, sinister voice, “Let her go, mister!”
Grace’s eyes widened as Martin, still holding her, instinctively spun to the commanding voice. When he came face to face with the armed and mounted stranger, his eyes widened, too, then he barked, “Who the hell are you?”
Jackson’s eyes were wintry. “Back away from the lady, old man. Grace, are you hurt?”
“Old man!” Martin shouted, and thrust Grace from him with such force, she almost lost her balance. Fire in his eyes, Martin bore down on Jackson like a maddened grizzly.
Jackson calmly raised the Colt, hoping the man would have the sense to stop before he put a bullet in his leg, but Martin kept coming, saying, “You’d better put that peacemaker to good use, boy, because once I get my hands on you, you’ll be having it for supper.”
Grace stared at them as if they’d suddenly grown cow’s heads, then shouted, “Dammit, stop this now!”
Both men froze.
She wheeled on the Texan first. “Jackson Blake, put that gun away. Have you lost your Texas mind?”
“I thought you were in trouble!” he snapped.
A stunned Martin asked her, “You know this outlaw?”
Too angry to answer questions, Grace turned on her godfather. “And you. He has a gun, for heaven’s sake, and you don’t have the sense the good Lord gave a rock to worry about being killed. I’ve already buried Papa. Are you trying to make sure I bury you, too?”
The men looked chastened.
“Now,” Grace huffed, as she attempted to calm herself. “Martin Abbott, this is the wagon master, Jackson Blake. Mr. Blake, this is my godfather, Martin Abbott. Both of you, say hello.”
Grumbles were exchanged.
“Good. Now, if you two will excuse me, I have a camp to set up.” And she stormed off. She was so mad with them both she couldn’t see straight.
Watching her retreat, Martin said, “She’s something else, isn’t she?”
Jackson was watching her too. “Yes, sir, she is that.”
“Her mother, Vanessa, had that fire, too, and that red hair. She raised Grace to be strong and brave and to speak her mind. She learned well, I think. Most men don’t appreciate it, though.”
Jackson nodded. He appreciated her, but had no idea how much until now. Seeing her with Abbott and thinking the man was assaulting her had filled Jackson with both dread and rage.
“Grace’s daddy and I grew up together, escaped from Maryland together, and when he died last year, I swore to him I’d take his daughter on as my own. It wasn’t necessary though because I’d walk through hell’s fires for that girl. Loved her since the day she was born. Did you know that her great-great-granddaddy was a pirate?”
Jackson was watching her too. “No, but it explains a lot.”
Martin chuckled.
Jackson supposed he owed the man an apology. “Sorry I drew on you, I thought she was in trouble.”
“Reasonable mistake, I suppose,” Martin offered. “Would you really have pulled the trigger?”
“If I thought you were harming her? Yes.”
Martin then looked Jackson straight in the eye and said, “When she first came up with this cockamamie idea about this wagon train, and going to Kansas, I was worried about her being out on the road. Now, I won’t have to, will I?”
Jackson told the truth. “No, sir. You won’t.”
Martin gave a short nod of approval, then walked over and stuck out his hand. “Glad to meet you.”
Jackson leaned down and returned the shake firmly. “Same here.”
The brides began arriving late that same evening in all manner of conveyances, bringing with them trunks, crates, and furniture. What had been a deserted glade was turned into a valley bustling with people, supply wagons, and belongings. Many of the women came alone, while a few were escorted to the camp by parents or other family members. Most of the families were friendly and as excited about the journey as their daughters and were helping the women with the unloading of their things. When Grace explained to the family members that she would not allow them to stay at the camp with their daughters, most saw no problem with her stance. They understood the bonds she was trying to forge amongst the brides and thought the idea a sound one.
The Deetses, however, were an exception. Mr. and Mrs. Deets were the parents of hairdresser Wilma Deets, and were not pleased when Grace told them no, they could not stay on site with their daughter until departure for Kansas.
“But we insist,” her mutton-chopped father insisted. Dressed in a fine gray suit, he appeared to be someone accustomed to having his orders followed without question, but Grace had been dealing with men like him most of her life.
“Mr. Deets, I understand your concern, but the women will not become the strong, cohesive unit they will need to become if there are outside influences.”
Deets sputtered, “Outside influences! I’m her father, for heaven’s sake.”
The fashionably dressed Mrs. Deets stood silently at his side. The way in which her eyes were darting back and forth between her husband and Grace made Grace wonder if she’d ever seen him challenged before.
“Who’s in charge here?” Deets demanded, looking around, presumably for a man.
“I am,” Grace told him, “so unless you’re planning on taking Wilma back with you, I suggest you leave us and let us get on with things.”
“Impertinent young woman, how dare you talk to me that way!”
Grace turned on her heel and walked away.
“Damn you, don’t you dare walk away from me!”
Holding onto her temper, Grace spun back and said, “Mr. Deets, this is private property, and in a few moments you will be trespassing. Either get, or I will have you removed.”
He looked on the verge of choking. Mrs. Deets’s eyes were wide as saucers. Wilma stood behind her parents with a secretive smile on her thin brown face. She seemed to be enjoying her father being bested.
Grace continued tersely, “If you and your wife wish to stay and see Wilma tonight before you leave, I’ve no quarrel with that, but tomorrow will be the last day for visits. There is a boardinghouse in the town nearby. I’m sure they can offer you accommodations.”
Grace then turned her attention to the now openly smiling Wilma. “You should come with me so we can get you set up.”
The words seemed to be the only encouragement Wilma needed. She gave each parent a quick peck on the cheek, then fell in beside Grace. As they headed toward the women gathering in the clearing, Grace could feel Deets’s eyes boring into her back. She ignored him and hoped none of the other relatives would be as bull-headed and boorish as the ill-mannered Mr. Deets.
Grace didn’t see much of Jackson Blake. He and Martin spent most of the day overseeing the unloading of the supplies along with Martin’s small army of men, then checking everything against Grace’s inventory list. She still couldn’t believe this morning’s incident, but it pleased her to see they’d worked out their earlier problems and seemed to be getting along.
The now emptied wagons would serve as the women’s sleeping quarters tonight, but tomorrow they’d all get a chance to learn how to properly pitch a tent. Those same tents would be their homes until Blake deemed them ready to head the wagons to Kansas.
By nightfall there were almost thirty women in camp, and when the work for the day was done, family members headed for the town’s boardinghouses, Martin bedded his men down on the far side of the valley (they’d be heading back to Chicago in the morning), and the brides picked out their wagons, then said goodnight.
After offering her goodnights to them in turn, a tired Grace decided she was still too wound up to seek sleep, so she grabbed a blanket from her wagon, draped it around her shoulders to ward off the night’s chill, then headed for the fire the men had built earlier in a cleared area. Bathed in its red and orange glow, she sat down on the big felled log that served as a
seat and pulled the blanket closer.
It had been a long day, and she knew tomorrow would be just as long, if not longer. Quiet had settled over the camp. Grace could see the glow of lanterns shining softly inside the canvas of some of the wagons as the women prepared for bed, and over on the far end of the valley she could see another small fire around which some of Martin’s men sat, but there was no one else close by to intrude on her solitude. She’d done it, she congratulated herself, she’d gotten Price’s brides, ordered the supplies and the first day had been completed. Grace couldn’t think of anything else she needed to make the day more winning.
She sensed his presence behind her the moment he walked up. There was no need to turn and visually verify what her senses already knew. She felt him there as real as she felt her heartbeat. “Good evening, Mr. Blake.”
“Miss Atwood,” he voiced quietly.
For a moment, Grace felt a bit awkward and tongue-tied. The last time they’d been alone together, his kisses had made her melt, and even though she’d vowed to keep their relationship focused on the business at hand, her mind kept reliving being in his arms. “Thank you for coming to my aid this morning. Even though it wasn’t needed, I appreciate your concern for my safety.”
“Martin and I sorted it out.”
The silence resettled, broken only by the sharp crackling sounds of the wood in the fire.
Grace gathered her courage. “Please, sit if you’d like,” she offered, turning so their gazes could meet.
“Nice night, nice fire, beautiful woman. I probably shouldn’t come any closer—”
Feeling her heart begin to pound, Grace turned back to the calming effects of the blaze. “We’re both adults, Jackson. Surely we can talk without—”
“Kissing?” he asked, finishing her thought. It pleased him having her address him by his given name.
“Kissing, yes.”