At Liberty to Love (Texas Romance Book 7)
Page 24
Kept saying it were all her fault, but clear enough she never want to sell Mama. Jasmine wished she could see her mother’s face. Just one more time.
“We be here. This ya new home, gal. Sure do hope you gots ’nough smarts in that pretty head to stick where ya put.”
She shook off that horrible day three summers ago.
Home? This patch of ground would never be her home, not ever. Her home was up North somewhere. Would she ever see such a place? Live a life where a man didn’t own another man? Live in a land where there weren’t no slaves ner masters?
The big house looked much like the one she’d just come from.
Six big columns climbed from the ground all the way up to the roof out front, but this one wore a difference. New paint maybe? Or could be the beautiful greenery and flowers everywhere? She breathed deep. Even the air smelled different.
And she did like the trees on both sides of the lane that guarded the front of the big house.
Give her more cover when she ran.
Over off to one side of the narrow, shaded road, a gang of darkies hoed the ram rod straight rows of cotton. She hated working the lint, chopping, picking, and cranking that gin.
Wasn’t nothing she liked about them prickly white balls. She kissed her fingertips like she just come in from working the field.
On the other side, way over near a big oak, a white man sat on a stone bench all hunched over in a little garden, staring at something right in front of him.
Whatever it were, sure interested him. He didn’t even look up to judge the value of his newest possession, his latest bought piece of property—her!
Crazy old colorless goat. She hated him without ever meeting. Him a man, thinks he can own her, thinks he can order her to slip beneath his covers to keep his pallid old flesh warm. She wouldn’t be anyone’s slave for long and especially not that old fool’s.
Tom drove the wagon around the house to the back. Almost like the same man built this place and the one she’d just come from.
The barn sat closer to the big house’s back porch than she’d ever want cows and pigs and chickens to live were it her own. Jasmine often daydreamed about owning her own big fancy home, being free to come and go as she pleased, walk through town with her chin high.
Then, just past the animals’ big ol’ house, a row of shacks where the slaves got to lay it down for a few hours every night. Two old ladies sat on chairs under a shake-shingle porch roof that jutted out in front of one of the middle shacks shelling peas.
For sure no fancy board porch for them old grannies.
A half dozen pickaninnies played in the dirt not far from them. Yes, sir, white Christian folks loved breeding slaves, almost as much as they liked breeding hogs or buying and selling their stock, swine or niggers.
One of the little one ran through the yard birds scattering ‘em. The golden and red rooster whirled. He stood tall and flapped his wings at his tormentor then crowed like he were king of it all and just conquered the intruder.
“There you are, Thomas. Have a good trip?” A grand, fancy white lady—prob’ly the master’s mis’ess—stood on the back porch, her hands on her hips. But she didn’t seem quite so haughty as most. Her shoulders slumped a bit, and a sadness tinged her eyes.
The old man pulled the brake tight. “Yes, ma’am, Miss June. Just likes ya say, day there and one back. We left out first light, and here we is home all safe and sound.” He wrapped the reins around the brake handle.
Miss June strolled down the steps, eyeing Jasmine. “Any problems?”
“No, ma’am. Oh, one of them bounty hunters stopped us, but I showed him ya note, and it sent him on his way.” He flashed the lady a big smile and untied the leather strap that held Jasmine to the wagon’s seat post.
“How about the girl? She give you any problems?”
“No, ma’am, not one bit. She a good one, Miss June.”
The old gray headed woman held out her hand, offering it. Jasmine resisted the urge not to take it, and instead, let the lady help her down.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Jasmine.”
“Hey, girl, you say ma’am iffin’ you speaking to Miss June there, ya hear Thomas now?”
She ducked her chin and studied on her dirty bare feet. “Sorry, ma’am. I done forgot my manners.”
“How old are you, child?”
“Don’t know for sure, ma’am. Fifteen maybe.”
Miss June fluffed Jasmine’s hair then patted her cheek. “You are just as pretty as Cousin Alma claimed.” The woman nodded toward the house. “Get on inside, the both of you. Mammy saved some corn dodgers and fat back, and she’s got bath water heating for you, Jasmine.”
Her breath caught. A hot bath in the big house? She closed her eyes and relished the imagined feel of the warm water washing over her skin, carrying all the dirt away, soaking her tired bones in the luxurious hea. How long had it been since she’d had herself a hot bath? More than three years to be sure ’cause her mother drew her last.
Then her imaginations all went lukewarm. Miss June must like her husband’s bed warmers clean.
Be watching for the debut of The Bedwarmer’s Son in September, 2016
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