Jackson knew that he should say goodnight and head back to the hack, but he couldn’t move, didn’t want to. He realized he could stand here all night just looking at her. As the need for her broke through his defenses, he husked out, “Aw hell, one more…” and he gathered her back into his arms. He kissed her again, this time so long and well, her knees turned to butter. When he eased away, her eyes were closed and her body echoed with a pulsing, yearning heat.
“Goodnight, Grace,” he whispered, watching her, wanting her. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
As Grace stood braced against the door, her senses still echoing, she remembered whispering goodnight in reply, but had only a hazy recollection of his departure.
Entering the house, Grace found a note from the aunts saying they were out with the Henderson twins again. In a way, she was glad to find the house empty. This way nothing would intrude upon how she felt.
As she prepared for bed, her lips and senses were still tingling. Standing before the mirror in her muslin nightgown, she touched her mouth wondrously. Before meeting Jackson Blake she’d no idea that a man’s kisses could leave a woman so singed. When she and Garth were courting, they’d shared quick pecks on the lips, but she’d never caught fire as she had with the Texan. In just a few days, Jackson Blake had turned her sedate, controlled life upside down and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
His kisses are magnificent, though, came another voice in her head. The volatile feelings and sensations Blake had somehow planted inside her were as tantalizing as they were shocking. Grace wondered how it would be to have him kiss her without inhibition, then forced her mind away from that thought. Well-raised women weren’t supposed to speculate on such things.
Grace turned down the lamps and plunged her bedroom into darkness. Crawling beneath the quilts, she decided that thinking about Blake would bear no fruit. It was obvious to her that he was practiced around women, and probably viewed her as just another conquest. As she’d stated to herself earlier, she’d no plans to be another notch on his bedpost, and she didn’t need to journey to Kansas with a broken heart, no matter how well he kissed.
The next morning, Grace had breakfast with the aunts.
“How was the recital last night?” she asked them, as she sugared her coffee.
“Dreadful,” Dahlia proclaimed. “The singer supposedly sang on the stage, but we’re not sure where this stage might’ve been.”
“I think it might’ve been a stage coach,” Tulip offered. “She was truly dreadful.”
Grace chuckled. “How are the Henderson twins?”
“Old,” Dahlia declared.
“Old and boring,” her sister added. “I don’t know why we keep stepping out with them.”
“Because presently, they’re the only fish in the sea.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
The aunts had been seeing the seventy-year-old Henderson twins for about a month now, and the men made it no secret how much they wanted the aunts to be their wives. In the eyes of widowers and pensioners, her aunts were quite a catch because of their education, good health, and financial independence, but Tulip and Dahlia had married and buried six husbands between them, and they’d been putting old codgers like the Henderson twins through paces for nearly two decades now.
Dahlia said, “Enough about our evening—what about yours? Are you ready to set up the camp?”
“Yes. We took care of the remaining details last night.”
“And how is Mr. Blake?” Tulip asked.
For a moment, Grace didn’t respond, as she turned over the dilemma of Jackson Blake in her mind. Whatever was she going to do about him?
Dahlia and Tulip shared a speculative look, then Dahlia leaned over, peered into Grace’s face, and said softly, “You’re going to stir a hole in that cup, dear.”
The remark brought Grace back to the present. “I’m sorry. Mr. Blake is fine. I just wish he’d stop kissing me.”
Both aunts paused, then Tulip asked, “Is there something wrong with them?”
“Oh, no,” Grace offered hastily. “They’re wonderful, frankly, but—”
“But?” Dahlia cajoled.
“I know he isn’t serious. I mean, it isn’t as if we’re going to be married when all is said and done. Not only are we from two different worlds, but when we reach Kansas, he’s going on to Texas, and I’ll be coming back here.”
“Then where’s the problem?”
“If I keep letting him kiss me, he’s going to think I’m some type of hussy.”
“Enjoying a man’s kisses and his company doesn’t necessarily make you a hussy, Grace,” Tulip pointed out.
“So what does it make me?”
“Human,” Dahlia said succinctly over her raised coffee cup. “Just like the rest of us. No more, no less.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting I encourage him?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Dahlia pointed out, “but there isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t experienced a stolen kiss or two.”
“Or three,” Tulip added with a merry twinkle. Then she said dreamily, “His name was Luis.”
Grace and Dahlia shared a mystified look.
“Whose name was Luis?” Dahlia asked suspiciously.
“A man I stole kisses with.”
Grace’s eyes widened.
“Ah, Luis…” As she spoke his name, Tulip’s whole presence seemed to glow. “The week we spent together were the most memorable seven days of my life.”
A startled Grace looked over at Dahlia, who appeared just as surprised. Dahlia then turned to her sister and asked, “Why haven’t you ever mentioned this Luis before now?”
Tulip’s reverie seemed to fade in reaction to her sister’s pointed question. “Because it was none of your business, Dahl, and besides, the subject never came up until now. Remember when I ran that ferry service to the gold fields in California back in the ’forties?”
Dahlia nodded.
“Well, I met him around that time, a year or so after Barney died.”
Grace knew that Barney had been one of Tulip’s four husbands, but didn’t know which number he’d been.
“I met him in Mexico City. We danced, we dined, we—well, never mind. Suffice it to say, we all need a Luis in our lives, Grace dear, even if it’s only for one week.”
Still a bit stunned by her aunt’s revelation, Grace asked, “What happened to him?”
“After he finished his business in Mexico City, he sailed home to Spain and I never saw him again. I can’t believe that was almost forty years ago. I wonder what ever became of him and if he remembers me as fondly?” She smiled briefly. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter, not really. I’ll always have the memories.”
Grace had always known about the unconventional lives led by her aunts. Tulip, a true Prescott female, had sailed all over the world and done everything from running the aforementioned ferry service during the gold rush to rafting cotton to market through the estuaries of the Carolina Sea Islands after the war. Dahlia, a highly successful mortician before and after the war, had traveled with a band of actors at one point in her life, and according to Grace’s mother, had been dueled over by two besotted Haitian counts during a visit to Paris back in the ’fifties. Grace liked to think that same free-spirited Prescott blood flowed in her veins, too, but to hear Tulip acknowledge having taken a lover was truly startling.
Tulip seemed to have read Grace’s mind. “Have I shocked you, Grace dear?”
Grace had to confess, “A bit, Aunt Tulip.”
“Well, I haven’t been old all my life. I was young once, too, and when you’re young, your whole life is before you. When you’re old, you want to look back upon your youth and smile—not wonder ‘what if.’ Do you understand?”
Grace did, or at least she thought so.
Chapter 4
Grace spent the rest of the week turning over the reins of the bank to Lionel and the other clerks, packing for her trip, and trying to keep her mi
nd off Jackson Blake. She hadn’t seen him since the night on the porch and she’d decided to take her own advice and distance herself from the Texan and his fiery kisses.
Although Tulip and Dahlia supported the idea of the wagon train, it didn’t stop them from being sad about losing their niece’s company, if only for a few months. Monday morning was more than forty-eight hours away, but Tulip was already in tears.
By Saturday night, Grace had most of her belongings secured. Unlike the brides, she would be traveling light. Since she planned on returning to Chicago once the adventure ended, she had no need to include household goods or furniture. Her godfather, Martin Abbott, had agreed to give her a ride to the site where camp would be set up. Because he and his fleet of his wagons would be delivering all the supplies she’d ordered to the camp late Monday, he thought it made sense for her to make the journey with him and his men.
By now, most of her customers were aware that she’d be leaving town with the wagon train and many of them stopped by her office to wish her luck and Godspeed. Grace admitted to being a bit nervous about the undertaking, but she wouldn’t trade the upcoming adventure for all the gold in the world. She had no idea what the next two months had in store, but she was willing to meet the challenge head on.
On Sunday morning, Grace and the aunts walked to church. Grace and her family were members of the local Episcopal church and had been all of Grace’s life. Black Episcopalians had their roots in the first Black Episcopalian church founded in Philadelphia by Absalom Jones. Jones and his followers named that first church the African Church of St. Thomas, and it was dedicated, August 12, 1794. Grace knew the date because it was one of the many facts she learned in Sunday school while growing up. Her own small parish, St. Mary’s, was not so historic, but it catered to a mostly Black representative congregation and had a strong commitment to the needy throughout the community.
Before the morning service started, Grace and the aunts took their regular seats in a pew in the middle of the sanctuary, then knelt a moment to say the traditional silent prayer. Grace gave thanks for the blessings she’d received for the week past, and asked blessings for the journey ahead. She spent a few more minutes in quiet reflection before rising from her knees and retaking her seat.
As the church began to fill with worshippers, Dahlia poked a gentle elbow into Grace’s rib to alert her to the arrival of Beatrice Young. Beatrice Young, a loud, over-bearing widow who seemed to believe her late husband’s fortune entitled her to be that way, was, as always, attired in a costly dress that may have fit her short wide frame a few seasons ago, but didn’t anymore. Add to that the ill-fitting auburn wig and she reminded Grace a lot of Sarah Mitchell.
Dahlia whispered, “I know we’re in church and I should be having only Christian thoughts, but you’d think Beatrice would simply concede and buy gowns that fit.”
Trailing Beatrice were daughter Amanda and Amanda’s husband, Garth Leeds, Grace’s former fiancé. Grace hadn’t seen the married couple since they’d returned from their Cincinnati honeymoon, and in reality, she’d been dreading encountering them socially, thinking her heart might still be in mourning, but surprisingly she felt nothing.
The tall, fair-skinned Amanda, as badly dressed as her mama in a very unflattering shade of purple, seemed to be making an elaborate show of holding onto the arm of the grim-looking gray-suited Garth. She was smiling around at anyone and everyone as if showing off a prize at a fair, and Grace silently prayed for strength. Amanda had dressed the prize well, at least. The suit Garth wore looked new, as did the white shirt and the large gold cuff links.
Still clinging possessively to Garth, Amanda gave Grace and the aunts a regal inclination of her head as she passed them by on her way to the Young pew up front. Grace had known Amanda most of her life and was surprised the new Mrs. Leeds hadn’t stopped to gloat.
Tulip whispered sarcastically, “Garth certainly looks happy.”
Grace scanned his tight-lipped face. She smiled and then stood as the organist began the processional.
The time after service was usually a social event, a time for gathering, refreshments, and talk. Most of this Sunday’s conversation revolved around Grace and her upcoming trip. After receiving lots of well wishes from many members of the congregation, Grace planned on making a fairly hasty exit, due to her plans for tomorrow’s leaving, but she and the aunts were waylaid at the door by Beatrice, Amanda, and a Garth who wouldn’t meet Grace’s eyes.
“Well, hello there, Grace. Mrs. Mays, Mrs. Kingsley. How are you all?” Beatrice trilled.
Everyone said they were fine.
Amanda asked, “Grace, what is all this nonsense we’ve been hearing about a wagon train of mail-order brides? Now, I knew you were upset about losing Garth to me at the altar, but to leave town? Has the whispering become that bothersome?”
Grace dearly wanted to rip Amanda’s well-coifed hair from her head and show the world that the tresses were originally equine, but she calmed herself and said in an even tone, “This has nothing to do with you or Garth, Amanda. I’m doing this as a favor to my cousin.”
Amanda breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear that. Neither Garth nor I wish to be responsible for you being hounded out of town. Do we, darling?”
“No,” he replied frostily.
The terse response seemed to coincide with the gossip Grace had been hearing. Was there really trouble in paradise so soon? The two had been married only a short while, but Garth’s Adonis-like face certainly didn’t reflect a man flush with the happiness of his honeymoon.
Amanda’s nose crinkled with distaste. “But why would anybody in his right mind want to be a mail-order bride?”
Dahlia drawled, “Not everyone is fortunate enough to find a man like your Garth, Amanda.”
Grace coughed to cover her reaction to Dahlia’s cutting remark, and saw Garth’s eyes flash angrily.
The dig seemed to sail right over Amanda’s head, though. “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Kingsley.”
She then lovingly linked her arm through Garth’s. “Garth and I are the happiest couple in the world, aren’t we, darling?”
Garth’s gray eyes flashed angrily. “Yes, Amanda, we are.”
“Well, we should be going,” Tulip said. “Grace has to get an early start in the morning.”
Beatrice wasn’t done yet, however. “Grace, are we going to see you at the society meetings when you return?”
“No, Beatrice. I’m going to resign.”
Beatrice looked outraged. The society in question was the Lucie Stanton Literary Society of Chicago, named after Lucie Stanton, the race’s first female college graduate. Although Grace had enjoyed the gatherings in the past, lately there’d been little incentive to attend due to the way things were being run and whom they were being run by. The society’s former leader, Minnie Sanders, a friend of Grace’s mother, had never let personal feelings enter into any of the decisions affecting the group; committee assignments had always been handed out honestly; and the primary missions had always been to help those less fortunate and to promote an appreciation for literacy within the race. But not any more.
When Minnie died last spring, Beatrice Young had become the new president, and the group had been going to hell ever since. Instead of taking on community projects that would benefit the poor and needy, Beatrice preferred to, as she put it, tout the achievements of representative Black Chicago society by sponsoring elaborate invitation-only dinners, outdoor band concerts, and boat cruises on the lake.
The Stanton Society members hadn’t sewn socks for the needy, collected monies to pay death benefits to the indigent, or been treated to the works of any new novelists or poets of the race since Minnie’s death. As a result, attendance at the meetings had plummeted as members voted with their feet and joined organizations elsewhere in the city. Grace’s mother, Vanessa, and her peers had worked hard to establish the Lucie Stanton Literary Society of Chicago and to give it a strong foundation; it r
ankled Grace knowing that the once prominent organization would probably be dead before the new year.
The still outraged Beatrice snapped, “Well, once you resign, we won’t take you back, you know.”
Tired of the encounter now, Grace turned to her aunts and said, “Are we ready?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
Grace gave Beatrice and the others a polite nod of departure, then she and her aunts left the church.
As soon as they stepped out into the Sunday sunshine, Dahlia snapped, “With all that money she’s supposed to have, you’d think Beatrice’d employ a dressmaker capable of creating gowns that didn’t make her look like a cased sausage.”
“Amen!” Tulip proclaimed.
With that settled, the three grinning Prescott women turned their steps toward home.
As a favor to Sunshine, Jackson drove her buggy over to the train depot Sunday afternoon to pick up a crate of possessions belonging to one of her girls. He’d just put the heavy crate in the back of the buggy and was preparing to head back when he stopped at the sight of what appeared to be a familiar face.
The man, Dixon Wildhorse, caught Jackson’s eye at about the same time, and a wondrous smile spread across his dark face. The two men hastened through the throng outside the depot, and when they came together, greeted each other with grins and manly back-slapping hugs. “Is it really you?” Jackson asked, looking his friend up and down.
“Yep,” Dixon replied.
The last time they’d been together, Dixon Wildhorse had just been appointed a U.S. deputy marshal in the wild and woolly land known as Indian Territory, and Jackson, on the run from the law, was using a false name as a member of the all-Black 24th Infantry. That had been almost ten years ago. Wildhorse lived in the Territory and was a member of the Black Seminole tribe. His people had waged a long thirty-year war against the U.S. government for the right to stay on their Florida lands, but the Seminoles, like the other major tribes of the south and southeast, had been stripped of their way of life and forced west. “What in the hell are you doing in Chicago, Dix?”