Always and Forever

by Beverly Jenkins

  “Where’ve you been, Lilah?” he whispered against her ear.

  She opened her mouth to reply only to have him brush his lips lazily across her jaw.

  A mortified Grace began to struggle.

  “What’s the matter?” he breathed lowly. “If you’re mad because I fell asleep, I promise, I’ll make it up to you…”

  He kissed her softly beneath her ear, and when he possessively rubbed his thumb intimately over her lips, the slow, warm uncoiling of something she’d never felt before made her go still. As if she were above the bed looking down on the scene, she saw the shadow of him lean down and felt him touch his lips to her potently, then again, and yet again. Grace’d only experienced a few kisses in her life and not a one came close to equaling this one in terms of sweetness and power. For a moment she almost wished she were Lilah so she could fully experience the promise he’d made. Then, all too late, Grace remembered she was sharing kisses with a complete stranger!

  Struggling in earnest now, she managed to free a hand. She swung her rock-laden handbag and whacked him hard against the side of the head.

  “Oww!” he yelled, leaning back, clutching his injured temple. In the dark he grappled with her for control of the bag, then angrily hurled it aside. Grabbing her arms, he pinned them above her head and snarled, “Dammit, Lilah, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m not Lilah,” she stormed, as she pushed up against his hold. “Let me up, you bounder!”

  Jackson Blake was admittedly stunned by her declaration. Looking down through the dark at the hellion struggling beneath him, he tried to make some sense of this. Not Lilah? His head still pounding from her damn handbag, he raised his weight, not high enough for him to scramble away, but enough to enable him to turn up the lamp on the stand beside the bed.

  The soft light revealed her face to him for the first time. He scanned the sandy-colored skin, the mussed dark red hair, and the furious copper eyes. She hadn’t lied; she wasn’t Lilah, but she looked enough like her to be a sister. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my bed?” he demanded coldly.

  Grace stared up into the angry black eyes of a handsome dark-skinned man and thought he had a lot of nerve being upset. A thin mustache framed the full lips that only a moment ago had set her on fire, and a short beard dusted his chin and cheeks. There was a small welt forming near his temple where she’d whacked him with her bag. “My name is Grace Atwood, and if I remember correctly, you put me here. Let me up.”

  “So you can whack me again? Not on your life. What’s in that handbag? Rocks?”

  “Yes,” she replied, copper eyes flashing. “The cabbie thought I might need something to protect myself with, and he was right. Now, move yourself.” Grace had never had such intimate contact with a man before. The heat of his legs and chest seemed to be burning through the fabric of her mussed clothes.

  Ignoring her struggles, he told her gruffly, “Not until you tell me why you’re sneaking around my room in the middle of the night. Are you a thief looking for something to steal?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. Grace sensed that she was not going to get what she wanted until he got the answers he wanted. The displeasure on his face was as apparent as the welt rising near his left eyebrow. Truth be told, she supposed an explanation was in order; she had walloped him pretty good. She faced up to his penetrating stare. “I’m here because I have a proposition for you.”

  The way he cocked his head at her made her realize she’d made a bad choice of words. They were in a whorehouse, after all. “Let me rephrase that,” she offered hastily.

  “I think you’d better.”

  Her temper began to simmer. “I came to see if I could interest you in guiding a wagon train to Kansas.”

  “For who?”

  “Some exodusters my bank is representing.”

  “How many?”

  “Thirty-five or so.” She then pointed out, “You’re bleeding.”

  He held her eyes and cracked, “Wasn’t that your intent?”

  “Well, yes,” she replied uneasily.

  He let her up.

  The shirtless Jackson sat on the side of the bed and wearily ran his hands over his eyes. His head was still throbbing, but at least he’d stopped seeing stars. He touched his finger to the broken skin and saw the small show of blood staining his fingers. Behind him, he could feel the mattress giving as she scrambled off the bed. He thought that a good idea because he wanted her and that damned handbag kept as far away from him as possible.

  But his mood deteriorated further when she came around the side of the bed and stood in front of him. Skewering her with a baleful eye, he saw that she’d righted her little feathered hat, her expensive looking navy jersey, and her matching skirt. She had the look of a Black woman about to start fussing, but since he was the one with the aching head, he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Do you always greet your women with such enthusiasm?” she huffed.

  “Only the ones who sneak into my room in the middle of the night,” he shot back.

  Ignoring her, he stood and walked over to the small shaving mirror atop the chest of drawers so he could assess the damage to his face. The glass reflected his bare arms and chest and the red-haired hellion standing behind him with a determined look on her small face, but he preferred to concentrate on the welt swelling near his temple. Had he been struck a bit further to the right, he might be short an eye. Spying a clean handkerchief among his personal items spread out atop the dresser, he used it to staunch the small show of blood filling the injury. The resulting sharp sting did not brighten his mood either. Still holding the handkerchief to his broken skin, he muttered, “Damn woman. You could’ve killed me.”

  Grace highly doubted his claim, and she didn’t feel a bit of remorse. “What else was a decent woman supposed to do under such shocking circumstances?”

  “A decent woman wouldn’t be in a cat house.”

  Grace felt the sting of his censure and knew he was right, but circumstances dictated this unconventional visit. Truth be told, no matter how hard she tried to set it aside, she could still feel his potent touch brushing her lips. That memory, coupled with the remembered scents and intimate weight of him as he lay atop her, made the sight of his bare ebony torso and sculpted arms highly distracting. “May I ask that you put on a shirt, Mr. Blake?”

  He looked back at her and drawled, “And bossy, to boot. How do you know my name?”

  Grace refused to be intimidated. “By way of someone from a local tavern. Might you be qualified to lead the train?”

  “I might.”

  She could see him studying her with a baleful eye, but she met his gaze with a raised chin. “The shirt, Mr. Blake?”

  “How much are you paying?”

  “For you to put on a shirt?”

  “No, lady, for the job.”

  Grace felt like a fool but attributed it to her rattled nerves. “The men funding the trip are in a position to be very generous.”

  “How many men are going?” He walked over to a wooden chair that had a blue shirt tossed over it. Picking up the shirt, he put it on.

  Grace was grateful he’d covered himself; now maybe she could handle these negotiations more professionally. She hesitated before answering his question however. Would he laugh like the others when she told him the truth? “There aren’t any men. It’s going to be an all-woman expedition.”

  He stared. “What?”

  “All women.”

  He chuckled and said, “No.”

  “Why does everyone find that so humorous?” Grace demanded. “You haven’t even heard me out.”

  He buttoned his shirt. “Don’t need to. These women know anything about driving mules, shoeing stock, or skinning rabbits?”

  “Probably not, but they can learn.”

  Jackson was still chuckling. “Thanks. I haven’t had a laugh like this in a while.”

  Grace wanted him to be serious. “I intend to pay you gene
rously for your assistance.”

  “You could promise me all the silver in Nevada and the answer would still be no.”

  “You’re being very unfair, Mr. Blake.”

  “No more unfair than you, sneaking in here pretending to be Lilah.”

  Her eyes widened. “I wish you’d stop your insinuations, I did nothing of the kind.”

  “Is that a habit?”

  “Is what a habit?”

  “Throwing around highfalutin words like insinuations…”

  Grace could hear the mockery in his tone, but his dark eyes held something else entirely. They were knowing, and in spite of his bad temper had the look of a man evaluating a woman. It disconcerted her as much as his bare torso had earlier. “And is that a habit?”

  “What?”

  “Assessing me as if I were one of the house’s girls?”

  He smiled thinly. “Very perceptive, Miss Atwood. I’ll admit, I enjoyed the kiss, but you won’t admit it, I’ll bet.”

  “Give the man a prize,” Grace tossed back. He was right. No decent woman in her right mind would admit to enjoying the kisses of a stranger.

  “See? I was right. A woman like you would rather die than admit a man could make her feel good.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. Men. “Mr. Blake, you know absolutely nothing about a woman like me.”

  “I know that a woman like you isn’t likely married.”

  The memory of Garth Leeds passed over her heart like a dark cloud and then slid away. “Why, because I have no ring on my finger?”

  “No, because you career women don’t think you need men. We’re good for carrying packages or driving you places, but that’s all.”

  His handsome face and potent touch notwithstanding, Grace found his views on women quite backward. “Can we limit this conversation to a subject you’re qualified to discuss, such as being a wagon master?”

  “Bossy and lippy.”

  “Thank you,” Grace responded frostily. Storming out of the room tempted Grace mightily, but she needed him to at least listen to her full proposal. The irritating Jackson Blake could possibly be her last and only hope of getting the wagon train on its way.

  Determined to keep her temper under wraps, she said, “Mr. Blake, let’s start over. If you’ll let me explain why the women are going to Missouri, I’m sure you’ll agree to hear my full proposal.”

  “I don’t listen to bossy, lippy women with rocks in their handbags,” he replied, wondering how he could make her leave.

  Grace protested, “I am neither bossy nor lippy. I’m known to be quite agreeable under normal circumstances.”

  His eyes were glowing. “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Leave.”

  She stood there stunned. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” Then he added innocently, “Unless you want to stay and take Lilah’s place for real?”

  Grace puffed up with indignation. “You are a cad, Mr. Blake.”

  “And you have a very lush mouth, Miss Atwood, even if you do have the temperament of a fire ant,” he replied, watching her with his arms folded across his chest.

  The seductive tone of his voice and the dark power in his eyes stirred Grace in places decent women weren’t even supposed to think about. This man is dangerous, her inner woman declared, dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. Grace decided a hasty exit was in order. Remembering the handbag he’d tossed aside, she began a search for it.

  “What’re you looking for?” he asked, chuckling at her flustered actions.

  She snatched up her cloak. “My handbag. I lost it when you attacked me.”

  “I didn’t attack you,” he pointed out. “You attacked me. Now who’s insinuating?”

  When her search of the bed and the floor around it proved fruitless, Grace set aside her banker’s dignity and got down on all fours to search beneath the bed. She had a strong feeling that he was taking a good long look at her bustled backside, but she ignored him—or at least tried to. She eventually found her bag just underneath the edge of the bed, and as she stood, the light sparkling in his eyes told her she’d been right. “Good evening, Mr. Blake,” she said in parting.

  “Yes, it has been a good evening. Sure you don’t want to stay?”

  When she answered by exiting and slamming the door, he was still chuckling.

  I guess that’s that, he said to himself. She was gone for good, and that had been his plan. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a wagon train full of women, even if Grace Atwood did have a mouth sweet as a summer rain. Frankly, he’d been surprised by that sweetness. During that seconds-long kiss, he’d tasted a brief flowering of innocence and fire in her lips. Were she more his type, he might be tempted to determine just how fiery she really was, but he preferred his women less stiff-necked, and besides, he’d have to be out of his mind to take her up on her proposal.

  What with clashing temperaments, bad weather, and even worse food, guiding a group of men would be hard enough; a group of women would never complete the trip, and why she wanted to travel by wagon was beyond anyone’s guess. By his thinking, women were better suited for raising children than for driving mules across country. But today’s modern women thought themselves capable of doing anything a man could do, and Miss Atwood undoubtedly marched under that same banner. He peered in the mirror again at the raw scar on the side of his face. Rocks, he said to himself and shook his head.

  But truth be told, taking her up on her proposal would get him out of Chicago. He’d been in the city almost three years now, and he hated every day of it. Too noisy, too congested, too many rules. He’d been born and raised in Texas and missed the clean air and the endless vistas, but in Texas he was a wanted man. In Chicago he was just another face in the crowd.

  Jackson lifted the small tarnished picture frame from atop the dresser and solemnly viewed the two men it showed. Frozen in time was his smiling adopted brother Griffin and their stern-faced father, Royce, a big man with large muttonchops covering his brown cheeks. By trade Royce had been a carpenter, but on Sunday he preached the Good News. Griffin had been seventeen when the picture was taken. Five years earlier, Royce had found the twelve-year-old orphan Griffin working at an Abilene whorehouse, running errands for the girls and the gamblers there. Royce had brought Griffin back to Texas and made him a member of their small family.

  It hadn’t surprised Jackson to find himself with a new sibling. Royce had always had a big heart, and it was that generosity of spirit that had ultimately led to his death. Ten years ago, a group of thugs were terrorizing some of the Black tenant farmers in the area near their Texas home and Royce had promised to intervene on the farmers’ behalf. When Royce rode out to speak to the men who called themselves the Sons of Shiloh, they hadn’t cared that he’d come seeking peace, they’d shot him dead.

  One of the men involved in Royce’s death had been Lane Trent, the only son of Bill Trent, one of the county’s wealthiest Reb Democrats. At the time of the murder, Jackson had been the county’s newly elected sheriff and had been trying to build his own case against the Sons of Shiloh. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to arrest Lane Trent. Due to the tumultuous times and the rising disenfranchisement of the race, very few men outside the race respected his authority, but Royce had been his father and Jackson wanted the killers brought to justice. So he and his three-man posse rode out to the Trent spread to arrest Lane Trent, but when Jackson stepped up onto the porch, Bill Trent spit on Jackson’s boots and said the only thing a nigra could do on his land was pick cotton. He’d then ordered his men to open fire. In the ensuing gunfight, the elder Trent had been killed.

  Afterward, Lane, aided by his late father’s powerful friends, convinced the authorities that Jackson had no evidence linking Lane to Royce’s murder and had gunned down Bill Trent in cold blood. Two days later, warrants were issued for Jackson’s arrest, but he had no intention of letting Lane Trent watch him hang for a crime he hadn’t committed, so he and Griffin rode no
rth and never looked back.

  He and Griffin had ridden together for a while after that, picking up odd carpentry jobs here and there, but they’d soon drifted apart. Last Jackson had heard, his little brother had made quite a name for himself robbing trains. As a former lawman, Jackson found Griffin’s chosen occupation disturbing. He disliked the idea of his brother living outside the law, but who was he to judge? So was he.

  Jackson set the picture down. The fact that Royce’s killers had never been brought to trial stuck in his craw. Not a day went by that he didn’t wonder if Lane Trent were still alive, using his wealth and influence to terrorize those less powerful than he. Jackson wanted to go back and clear his name, but according to the newspapers, Texas was no place for a man of the race to be, not if he wanted to live to tell about it. As the south’s Redemptionist Democrats continued to gleefully dismantle Reconstruction, burnings, killings, and disenfranchisement were rampant, but the backlash seemed particularly harsh in Texas.

  Yet Jackson knew he would always be haunted by his past if he didn’t go back to clear his name and avenge his father’s death. Before ending up in Chicago, he’d been drifting from place to place, unwilling to put down roots out of fear that one day the Texas warrant would turn up in a bounty hunter’s hand and he’d be taken back.

  He was tired of running, though. So what are you saying? he asked himself. He didn’t really know, but it seemed to begin with a bossy redheaded beauty named Grace Atwood and her wagon train of women.

  Grace’s cabbie had indeed waited, and she fumed all the way home. The audacity of that man, she stormed to herself for the fiftieth time during the silent ride through the snowy streets. By the time she got home, her temper rivaled Vesuvius.

  When she entered the foyer, the aunts were dressed in their night clothes and their faces were anxious and filled with worry.