Something Like Love

by Beverly Jenkins

  “Sometimes Cupid’s arrow does the darndest things.”

  Olivia waved it all away. “It doesn’t matter. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, and if I do, he’ll be out of my system.”

  “Okay,” Cara voiced skeptically, “but if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

  Olivia nodded. “I know.”

  The two friends shared a silent look, then Cara got up. “Well, let me go and find Chase and Branch. We’re having lemonade at Sophie’s. I’ll stop by on my way home.”

  “Thanks. You all have a good time.”

  After Cara’s departure, Olivia sank into a chair and put her head in her hands. She’d been seen. Scandal wouldn’t begin to describe the firestorm that would engulf her should the story ever get out. She prayed the spinsters had been the only witnesses, but Henry Adams was a small town. Although she knew the spinsters would guard her secret, somebody else might not be so discreet. Lord. If Malloy ever found out, all perdition would break loose. She wanted to kick herself for letting lust overrule logic, but the die had been cast. There was nothing she could do but wait and see.

  The Reverend Whitfield’s sermon on Sunday was a fire and brimstone denunciation of demon rum and all its ancillary evils—gambling, loose women, and destitute families. Olivia was glad to have his support, but she noticed that Malloy and his followers weren’t in church: The reverend was, as the saying goes, preaching to the choir.

  The five mounted riders spread along the train tracks heard the rumbling train seconds before they saw it. As it came barreling around the bend, they could feel the earth shaking; could see the smoke belching and billowing from the stacks; could smell the brimstone in the air: but mostly they imagined what they were going to do once they divvied up all the gold the train was carrying.

  Watching the beast approach, a familiar excitement filled Neil. The itch to start the chase was as strong in him as it had been a decade ago, when he took up train robbing; the only feeling better was the one found between a woman’s thighs.

  Neil waited for the train to charge closer. Train robbing was an art. The gang had an inner sense that let them know when the time was right. When the engine came close enough for him to see the engineer lean out, Neil yelled, “Let’s get it!”

  He whipped his reins across his mount’s back and leaned into the saddle. His horse was fast—the fastest around—and he had no trouble moving to the lead. Not far behind him, a grinning Two Shafts leaned into his own horse. Beside him rode the wildly exuberant Teresa, whose high-pitched version of the Seminole war cry sounded as loud as the train. It had been years since they’d ridden together, and they were enjoying it immensely.

  Neil urged more speed, and his horse obliged. By now they were even with the engine. Rocks shot off the wheels like fourth of July rockets, hitting Neil and his horse, but they rode on. The train sounded its whistle, filling the air like the roar of an angry beast, while the sparks from the stack fell like rain. The train was only carrying two cars—easy pickings in the old days. But today’s trains were fast. Some were able to achieve speeds approaching fifty miles per hour, and Neil had the sinking feeling that this one might be one of those. He’d never seen one quite like it before. The design looked sleeker, the engine more powerful. The faster they rode, the faster the train seemed to be moving. In fact, Neil realized with wide eyes, it was pulling away from them. He cursed and dug his heels into his mount’s sides, praying for more speed, but it wasn’t to be. Blue uniformed soldiers stepped onto the porch of the last car, pointing and laughing at Neil’s futile pursuit; some even waved. The distance between the train and the gang widened so much that the now angry and frustrated riders drew their horses to a halt and watched the train barrel down the track, taking the gold with it. Neil wanted to shoot something—the train, mainly. He hated progress.

  Her long black hair and beautiful dark features hidden beneath her beat-up hat, Teresa threw the hat to the ground. “Dammit!”

  Shafts looked disappointed, as did the rest of the gang. “Can’t rob what you can’t catch, little sister.”

  Teresa replied, “This is the second one this week.”

  Neil didn’t want to be reminded of the failures. It was if the world had become unglued. He felt like an old man living in a new and changing world that was leaving him behind in much the same way the train had. “I say we get a bottle of tequila.”

  Teresa quipped, “Providing we can catch that.”

  Shafts said, “Don’t worry, Neil. We’ll get the next one.”

  Neil wasn’t as optimistic, but he turned his horse and headed everyone back the way they’d come.

  That night, after too much tequila, Neil lay outside on the ground behind Teresa’s house, looking up at the stars. Thinking made his already pounding head worsen, but he couldn’t turn off the memories of today’s humiliation. How in the world was he going to make a living if he couldn’t catch the damn trains? Neil’s mother was a firm believer in signs, and by her way of thinking, not being able to catch two trains in one week qualified as something to be concerned about. He was now living in a world where trains could thumb their noses at outlaws and wave as the engine sped by. Dios.

  He ran his hands wearily over his unshaven face. He was in the thirty-eighth year of his life—far past the age to be considering taking up a new occupation, even if he wished to. Yet that appeared to be what he was facing. When he resigned his commission with the Negro Seminole scouts nearly a decade ago, robbing trains had been a way to feed his family and pay back the army and the United States government for their broken promises to the Seminole Nation. The combined treachery of those two entities had filled him with enough anger and hate to fuel hell, but then, once his family’s future was secured, robbing trains became fun. The underlying reasons still beat strong within him, but he loved the exhilaration and the excitement of the chase. Now he was lying here mystified by what the future might hold. The last thing he wanted was to turn into a model citizen and put his guns in a trunk for his descendants to marvel over. He had a lot of good years left in him, but he balked at spending them clerking or farming. So what were his choices? None that he could think of.

  He struggled to his feet. It was time for more tequila. Then he was going to see Olivia.

  Chapter 8

  Before Emancipation, free Black abolitionists and their White counterparts refused to celebrate July 4. They saw little reason to exalt the Declaration of Independence when over 3 million people of African descent were held in slavery. Instead they celebrated August First, the date Great Britain emancipated its slaves in the West Indies in 1837. Thousands of people in the United States and Canada participated in parades, lectures, and picnics in support of freedom and to honor the British edict. Some churches held night-watch services, while others offered speeches by prominent folks of the time. Once emancipation became law in the United States, many towns continued to celebrate August First, and Henry Adams was one.

  The parade that officially opened the festivities was set to begin at noon. As mayor, Olivia was required to be a participant, but she was dressed and ready by nine that morning because she had a ten o’clock appointment with Armstead Malloy.

  True to his word, he’d rebuilt the Liberian Lady. Working the carpenters and their crews in twenty-four-hour shifts, the place had gone up in record time. The grand opening was slated for today, but the Board of Elders meeting last night had given her all the authority and ammunition she needed to put Malloy in his place. She couldn’t wait to tell him the news.

  She stopped by the sheriff’s office first. Chase had been at the meeting last night and had promised to go with her to see Malloy. With him beside her for support, Olivia walked to the outskirts of town to confront her nemesis.

  When they approached the new saloon, Olivia shook her head at its sheer size. Next to the Malloy Mercantile, the new Liberian Lady was the largest building in town. It had an imported Mexican bar, behind which hung a large, gilt-edged mirror reportedly from It
aly. It also sported a linoleum floor and, at last count, six underdressed and overrouged girls working the place. Olivia couldn’t pretend she approved of the enterprise, but Malloy had certainly put up an edifice that would lure folks from miles around just to see the place.

  Women rarely entered saloons, so when Olivia swept in, the fancy-dressed piano player froze in the middle of his tune. Everyone in the place looked up—from the gaudily dressed girls to the bartender. A few seconds later, Malloy came strolling down the staircase that led up to the private rooms leased by the girls. The dimly lit place housed at least ten tables, and there was enough liquor in the cabinets behind the bar to give Reverend Whitfield apoplexy.

  “Well,” Malloy said, showing his patented grin. “What brings you two here? Can I buy you a drink, Sheriff?”

  “No thanks, Malloy. Miss Olivia and I are here on business.”

  Malloy looked between the two of them. “This isn’t another attempt to shut me down, is it? I thought we agreed I was right and you all were wrong.”

  Olivia held onto her temper and said coolly, “The Board of Elders and I have designated this part of town a vice district, and as such it is subject to a series of town taxes.”

  He laughed. “You’re pulling my leg.” He turned to Chase. “She’s fooling, right?”

  “I am not laughing, Mr. Malloy. Many towns in the west have such laws on their books, and now Henry Adams has some of its own.”

  “Oh, come on now. Is this the best you can do? Taxes?”

  Olivia didn’t waver. “The Elders have established a five-hundred-dollar-a-year licensing fee for businesses in this district.”

  Malloy’s eyes popped. “What?!”

  “Added to that is an annual fifty-dollar federal excise tax, a monthly local business tax of fifty dollars, and a monthly ten-dollar liquor tax.”

  Malloy was now speechless.

  Olivia then added, “We are also taxing your lady employees. In addition to assessing them ten dollars per month for their licenses, and an equal amount for their rooms, they are also required to pay Doc Johnson five dollars monthly for their physical examinations.”

  The women at the table protested loudly, but Olivia paid them no mind. Making the women visit Doc Johnson once a month would help them manage the virulent diseases associated with their trade.

  Malloy’s face turned mean. “I’m not paying it.”

  “Then the sheriff has the authority to close you down.”

  Chase’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And I would enjoy it. This place has a lot of bad memories for me and my wife, so please give me a reason to watch it burn again.”

  Malloy was so angry that his fists were balled up like an angry child’s. “You can’t do this!”

  Olivia countered, “Ah, but we can. The charter which you were so dismissive of gives the Elders the right to enact any laws they see fit to promote the town’s well-being. Regulating a vice palace falls under that category.”

  Olivia knew she had him over a barrel, and by the blaze in Malloy’s eyes, he knew it, too.

  “So when do I have to pay all these fines?”

  “By the time the parade begins, or you do no business here.”

  His eyes widened once more. “I can’t muster that much money on such short notice.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to cancel your grand opening. Good day, Mr. Malloy.”

  Without further word, Olivia sailed out. A grinning Chase was right behind her.

  Back at the sheriff’s office, Olivia took off her gloves and set her handbag on her desk. “Was I firm enough?”

  Chase nodded. “More than enough.”

  “He’s such a little ferret.”

  “And you put the ferret in his cage. The town was right to elect you mayor. Once this gets around, your ladies will be wanting to run you for governor.”

  Olivia doubted that, but felt good knowing she’d found a way to bring Malloy down a few pegs. She’d gotten the idea from an article she’d read in a Fort Smith newspaper Cara Lee received by subscription. The article outlined the myriad fines and fees imposed by Fort Smith’s town council to keep its red-light district under control. The next step for Olivia had been to share the information with the Elders and to come up with a similar fee structure for Henry Adams. The Elders, unhappy with Malloy’s public denunciation of the town charter, had voted unanimously for Olivia’s proposal. Even those members who had supported Malloy in the past had deserted him on this issue. She chuckled inwardly at the memory of Malloy’s angry face and decided she liked being mayor.

  The parade started promptly at noon. From the buildings on Main Street flew the standards of the United States, Liberia, and Haiti. Other buildings were decorated with the Kansas state flag and the banners of Henry Adams, Nicodemus, and the other Black townships in Barton and Rice Counties. The streets were packed, the smells of roasting hogs and beef were in the air, and everyone waited eagerly for the festivities to begin.

  As always, the Civil War veterans were the first in line and received rousing cheers. The men were in uniforms, carrying the banners of their regiments. In years past, the procession had been led by Mr. Deerfield, the oldest vet in the valley, but he’d passed away last winter. His fourteen-year-old grandson, Mitchell, was wearing Mr. Deerfield’s uniform and marching proudly in his stead.

  Behind Mitchell were the men of the First Kansas Colored, and the crowds lining the street broke into earth-shattering cheers. The First Kansas Colored had fought for the Union even before President Lincoln had given approval for Black troops to enter the fight, and they’d distinguished themselves at the Battle of Honey Springs, one of the most important Civil War battles fought in Indian Territory.

  Marching behind the Kansas regiment were uniformed men representing other Black units, including two members of the Fifth Massachusetts Cavalry, whose men had been among the first Union troops to enter Richmond after its fall to Union forces.

  Once the soldiers marched by, the crowd turned its attention to the political societies. The Republicans drew the most cheers, even though the national party was no longer a staunch supporter of the race. The Democrats drew the most jeers for the continuing disenfranchisement of the freedmen. National leaders of the race were still calling for Black voters to change their allegiance so that the Republicans wouldn’t take them for granted, but few heeded the call. Many of the valley’s citizens had been forced from the south because of the terror and lynchings promoted by Redemptionist Democrats, and they weren’t about to embrace them under any circumstances.

  Cara and her students were next in the parade line. On their heels were the many church choirs that had come to town for the annual August First choir competition. Their melodic voices filled the air.

  When the buckboard holding the Henry Adams town officials reached the middle of Main Street, the raucous cheers warmed Olivia’s heart. She saw that many women were wearing Olivia Roses on their collars and lapels, and she couldn’t have asked for a more moving tribute.

  After the parade ended, the crowds dispersed to take a gander at all the other activities—the fastest pet contest, won again by fifteen-year-old Frankie Cooper and his pet rooster; the baked goods; the various bands now setting up in the field behind Handy Reed’s livery. Later, those who cared to could head over to the church to hear a speech by the distinguished J. C. Price, president of the all-Black Livingstone College in North Carolina. Mr. Price, an articulate and rising national leader, favored education and self-help as ways to uplift the race.

  By late evening, the festivities were still going strong, but Olivia was exhausted. On her way back to her office, she stopped at an ice cream stand and purchased a small bowl. She’d just taken her first bite when Cara Lee walked up.

  “Thought you might like to know that in lieu of opening, Malloy is charging fifty cents a head for folks to tour the inside of the Lady.”

  Olivia waved her spoon dismissively. “I don’t care. I’m too tired to wrestle with him r
ight now. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  Olivia sighed wistfully at the ice cream she was probably not going to get to eat, and asked, “What else is he doing?”

  “Charging men two dollars to go around back and take a gander at the girls standing in the upstairs windows. They aren’t wearing very much.”

  Olivia sighed again. “Okay. Have you seen your husband lately?”

  “He’s at Handy’s.”

  Olivia handed Cara the bowl of ice cream. “You finish it. Life would be so much easier if Malloy would go out onto the plains and let himself be eaten by a bear.”

  “Amen.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Thanks for the ice cream.”

  Olivia smiled, then headed toward Handy’s to find Chase so she could sic him on Armstead Malloy.

  Later, Olivia, Cara, the Two Spinsters, Sophie, and Sybil Whitfield gathered in Olivia’s shop to go over the schedule for tomorrow’s activities. All of the women were involved in making sure the celebration ran smoothly, and they were in the middle of discussing the choir competition at the church when Olivia heard a loud noise come from the back of the shop. It sounded like furniture being knocked over. Puzzled, the women looked at each other, but before they could get up to investigate, Neil July stumbled into the room. There was pain in his face. He had one hand on his side, and the other searched blindly for something to support his weight. “Olivia, help…me….”

  Startled, they all froze.

  He stared into Olivia’s eyes, letting her see the lucidity there, then he crumpled to the floor.

  “Neil!” she screamed and ran to his side. Only then did she see the mass of blood staining the back of his brown leather vest. “Oh, Lord. He’s been shot.” And by the look of it, very seriously.