“Almost ten years ago. Came east after my father’s death.”
“Any other family?”
“An adopted brother. Mother died of cholera when I was still young.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Tulip put in genuinely, adding, “Grace grew up without her mother too.”
Grace could see the question in his eyes, but rather than elaborate, she focused on cutting into a slice of ham.
Jackson sensed Grace’s withdrawal and wondered how old she’d been at her mother’s passing. Jackson had been so young when his own mother died that he had no memories of her. Judging by Grace’s silence, she’d been older.
“How long do you think the wagon train will take to get to Kansas City?” Tulip asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“I’d like to try and do it in thirty to thirty-five days,” he replied, before taking a sip of the water in the glass by his plate.
They spent the remainder of the dinner talking about the wagon train’s journey, but as the dinner concluded and the apple pie and ice cream were placed on the table for dessert, Grace’s thoughts on the journey were set aside. Her awareness of Blake took its place. All evening she’d been trying to pretend that tonight’s meal was no different from any other meal she’d shared with the aunts, but it was a lie, and she knew it. Her vow not to be moved by Blake’s presence had proven to be as worthless as Confederate money. She was as aware of him as she was of her own heartbeat. She found herself covertly watching the long, dark fingers of his hands, the cut of his ebony jaw, the way he smiled at the aunts. She listened to the varying intonations of his voice, in-haled the faint scent of his cologne, and hastily looked elsewhere whenever his eyes strayed her way. At one point during the meal, they’d both reached at the same time to pass Tulip the plate of rolls and their shoulders had brushed inadvertently. Now, nearly twenty minutes later, Grace could still feel the heat of his arm against her own. Jackson Blake was dizzying, powerful, and more man than she’d ever met in her life.
At the conclusion of dessert, the aunts refused to let Grace help them clear the table.
Dahlia told her, “You and Mr. Blake have business to discuss.”
“Yes, but I can certainly help with this first.”
“Go on, Grace,” Tulip said, as she began picking up the dessert plates. “We’re fine here. I’ll bring you in some coffee in a bit or two.”
Grace surrendered and gestured to Blake to follow her from the dining room.
Grace ushered him into the study that had once been her father’s. After his death late last fall, the space had become hers. It had taken her weeks to get up the courage to change the room’s physical appearance. She’d wanted his spirit to remain beside her and feared that boxing up his things and storing them away would somehow remove his memory, too. She’d loved her father deeply and he’d loved her. He’d been her only parent for over fifteen years, and her grief had eased only a tiny bit.
In the end, she stored most of his personal belongings in the attic, but other articles remained: his spectacle case still lay atop the desk where he’d placed it, and the finely etched globes he liked to collect were still positioned tastefully around the room. His imported Cuban humidor lay in its customary spot atop a small Queen Anne table, and beside it sat the large white cup he drank his morning coffee from each day.
Jackson took a seat on one of the finely upholstered chairs and glanced around the room. All the dark polished wood gave off a man’s feel. This didn’t feel like a woman’s space.
“This was my father’s study,” she explained, as she took a seat behind the big cherrywood desk. “He died last November.”
Jackson’s keen instincts had served him well during his lawman days, and although he no longer wore a star, he was glad to know that his sense of people and situations continued to be strong. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said genuinely.
“I loved him very much,” she offered, then gathering herself, said, “Let’s get down to business, Mr. Blake. Here’s the list of supplies Mr. Emerson compiled before his untimely death. See if there’s anything you might want to add.”
He wondered if she were really as strong as she appeared, but he took the ledger from her and began to look at the items listed. “Who’s Mr. Emerson?”
“The man I originally hired as wagon master. He was killed a few days ago in a knife fight.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he voiced without looking up. “How much of this stuff do you already have?” Listed were items such as barrels, ropes, tack, cookware, canvas, and many other various items both big and small.
“I’ve purchased most of what’s on the list. Everything’s being stored in my godfather’s warehouse over in Evanston.”
“Looks like Emerson knew what he was doing. Can’t think of anything else I’d add, at least, not off the top of my head.”
When he handed the ledger back to her, she put it back on her desk and said, “Tomorrow, I’ve an appointment to look at horses and mules.”
“Do you know anything about horses and mules?”
“Not as much as I need to know, I’m sure, but I’ll manage.”
“Why do you want to travel by wagon?”
“Jim Crow.”
He understood now. “How many ladies did you say were making the trip?”
“Thirty to thirty-five.”
She was as poised and as elegant as any woman he’d ever met. With Grace dressed as she was, and with her hair rising softly from her face, he found it hard to imagine her covered with the dirt and grime they would encounter once the journey got under way. “Are you sure you’re cut out for this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You just don’t look the adventurous type, that’s all. There’s going to be flies and mud and snakes—”
“You think I’m better suited for what, a drawing room?”
“Frankly, yes. A woman like you should be gracing some wealthy man’s table, not traveling across country behind a train of mules.”
“Women are doing many things these days, Mr. Blake. Gracing a man’s table is not my life’s dream.” At least not anymore, she reminded herself. Aloud, she continued, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. I’ve your contract here somewhere.”
A modern woman, he thought sarcastically, but admittedly she was a beautiful one. The copper brown eyes went perfectly with her sandy-colored skin and rich auburn hair. He wondered what she looked like with her hair down. Stunning, he’d be willing to bet. He could almost imagine her standing before him dressed in her nightclothes, her hair free and tousled from lovemaking. The high-collared gray dress with its long sleeves fit snugly over her lovely bosom, emphasizing her feminine curves very attractively.
She found the contract and took a moment to write something on the top sheet. As she moved the diamond-tipped quill pen over the paper, he noted her slim graceful fingers and well-manicured nails. Grace Atwood was a perfect example of the educated and cultured members of the race often referred to as “representative Blacks.”
Finding himself attracted to her surprised him for a number of reasons. First, he preferred his women tall and statuesque. Grace Atwood was neither. Jackson also avoided dallying with women of good family because they expected marriage when all was said and done, and that was a state of bondage he had no intention of entering, mainly because every good woman he’d had the opportunity to meet seemed to want to change him as if he were a floor that needed to be planed and sanded. Frankly, he liked himself just the way he was. As a consequence, he preferred to share his favors with discreet independent women who didn’t want or expect promises or commitments but enjoyed the lusty games of passion as much as he. “Do you have any siblings?”
She raised her copper eyes to his. “No. I’m an only child.”
“Were you lonely growing up?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes, if there were no playmates around, but I never lacked for love. My parents kept me too busy to be lonely.”
�
�Doing what?”
“Charity work, school, traveling. My mother’s family comes from Boston, and her father and grandfather sailed and built merchant ships. She’d been all over the world by the time she and my father met.”
“How much of the world have you seen?”
“Quite a bit. Europe. Cuba. Egypt.”
“Which was your favorite?”
“Cuba. I loved the colors, the markets, the music. Our race has had a strong influence on the lives of the Cuban people. Have you ever traveled there?”
“No. I’ve never left the States.”
“I see.”
An awkwardness seemed to settle over the room. Grace, at a loss as to what to say next, decided getting back to the matter at hand might be best. She handed him the contract. “Here’s the contract for your services. Look it over, if you would, please.”
He scanned the document slowly.
After a few moment of silence, Grace asked, “Do you see anything you wish changed?”
“Nope. Everything looks to be in order.”
“And the pay?”
“The pay is fine.”
“Good, then if you would affix your signature at the bottom—”
He interrupted her, “Before I sign, we need to get one thing clear, though.”
His serious tone caught her attention. “And that is?”
“If I’m going to be the wagon master, you’re going to have to let me be in charge.”
Grace asked slowly, “Meaning?”
“On decisions affecting the train, I have the last word.”
She stilled a moment and surveyed him. “On everything?”
“Everything. You’re not hiring me to be second guessed, are you?”
Grace had to confess truthfully, “I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose the answer is no.”
“Good, because if you did, we should tear this up now,” he said, indicating the contract.
“But suppose I disagree with this, ‘last word’ of yours?”
“Unless you can bring me around to your way of thinking, then we’ll agree to disagree, but my way goes.”
Grace wasn’t sure she liked this high-handed attitude, but she had hired him for his expertise. “Fine, but please know that if and when I disagree, I intend to say so.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. In fact, I’m betting we wind up arguing a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re probably not used to a man ordering you around.”
She wondered if he were deliberately baiting her. “I’ve no trouble being instructed by someone with more knowledge, Mr. Blake, be they male or female. Now, are you signing on or not?” Grace was trying her best to keep her temperature under control.
He signed, and then signed another copy she’d had drawn up for him to keep for his own records. When the formalities were over, she said politely, “Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
“You’re welcome.”
Luckily, at that moment, Tulip came in carrying the promised coffee. Her entrance seemed to drain some of the tension.
“Here you are,” she called out cheerily, as she set the tray with its silver service down on the small Queen Anne table near the windows. “How’s the planning coming?”
“Quite well,” Grace answered. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. The kitchen’s all clean, so Dahl and I are retiring to our rooms. We hope to see you again soon, Mr. Blake.”
He stood. “I hope so, too. It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Mays.”
“Good night, Grace.”
“Night, Aunt Tulip. I’ll look in on you when I’m done here.”
Her exit left them alone once more. “Would you care for coffee, Mr. Blake?”
“Sounds good.”
Grace walked over to the table and poured them both a cup. He joined her and took the cup she offered.
“There’s cream and sugar.”
“No, I take it black.”
He sipped and found it not bad, for “back east” coffee. Out west, coffee had strength, character. Here it tasted civilized.
Grace took a few sips. “How much feed do you think we’ll need for the animals during the trip?”
He responded by saying, “Relax for a minute. Drink your coffee. Are you always so diligent?”
Her answer came easily. “I try to be. A woman in business has much to prove. If we aren’t diligent, we aren’t taken seriously.”
“I see. Well, you don’t have to prove anything to me. I took you seriously the moment you hit me with that weapon you call a handbag.”
She had the decency to look embarrassed. “I was trying to protect myself.”
“So you said,” he replied, his manner light.
“Well, it isn’t often I’m tumbled into a strange man’s bed. You startled me.”
“I promise, I’ll give you fair warning next time.”
The promise in his eyes made her hand shake enough to send her coffee sloshing over the top of the china cup.
“Oh dear,” she said, eyeing the drops of coffee dotting the bosom of her gray dress.
Blake extracted a clean handkerchief from the inner pocket of his vest and handed it to her.
Grateful, she began blotting the dampness. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He spoke wondering if she knew how fascinated he was by the sight of her slowly dabbing his handkerchief over her lovely curves. Realizing he was becoming aroused by the innocent yet intimate display, he turned his back and drained his cup. To further distract himself he poured himself another cup and drank it while he focused on the night scene outside the window.
“I’ll have this laundered and returned to you,” she pledged, indicating his handkerchief.
“That would be fine.”
What would be finer, he mused, would be for him to forget about desiring her, because it would lead nowhere. Women like her had no business with men like him. “Do you have a beau?”
The question caught Grace off guard. She raised her eyes to his. “No,” she answered quietly.
Her soft-spoken response made him believe there was more to her answer, but he didn’t press. By the time the wagon train reached its destination he’d know all he needed to know about the beautifully endowed Grace Atwood. “What made you want to go into banking?”
Glad that he’d changed the subject, Grace replied, “My father founded the bank. Succeeding him was a natural event.”
“Maybe, if you’d been a son. Daughters are supposed to marry and give their fathers grandchildren.”
“Says who?” Grace asked, her eyebrow arched. “This is the nineteenth century, Mr. Blake. Women have choices these days, and I chose banking.”
“Do men give you a hard time?”
“Is the world round?”
He grinned. “That bad?”
“Many refuse to believe I’m qualified. This afternoon, in fact, a customer threatened to take his money elsewhere because I wouldn’t be bullied into lowering the note on his loan.”
Because so many men had been killed during the war, women all over the nation were taking on responsibilities and occupations once considered men’s work, work like doctoring, teaching—and yes, banking. Grace was certain the country would be better off due to the ideas and diligence brought to the workplace by the female population, but there were many men and women who did not share her view. “Do you think a woman should be able to do whatever her intellect calls her to?” she asked him then.
He shrugged. “I try and stay away from debates like that, Miss Atwood. Most of the women I know are happy just being old-fashioned women.”
“And that means what?”
Jackson felt as if he’d just stepped into a bear trap and he didn’t know whether to go forward or backward. “Well, you know—serving their men, having babies, that kind of thing.”
“And you say these women are happy?”
“Sure.”
Her next question was asked softly.
“Have you ever asked them?”
The look in her eyes dared him to be truthful. “No,” he had to admit, while wondering how much tighter the bear trap would get before she’d let him escape. He made a mental note never to get suckered into a conversation like this again, not with her.
“You might be surprised by their answer, Mr. Blake,” she replied, as she sipped at her coffee with a small smile of satisfaction on her lips.
“Why no beaus?” he asked, wanting to bring her down a peg or two.
Grace thought he’d given her a low blow, but she raised her chin and replied, “Because I have opinions and the education to back them up. Men seem to find the combination unsettling.”
“At least you’re truthful.”
“I am that,” she agreed, “but men don’t care for that trait, either.”
He chuckled. She was a handful. It would take a very special man to appreciate all she had to offer.
They spent the rest of the evening going over some of the forms filled out by the candidates and managed to do it without arguing. When the clock in the hall struck nine, Grace thought it best to bring the evening to a close due to the lateness of the hour, and he agreed.
She walked him to the front door and waited while he donned his coat.
As he took his hat down from one of the pegs, he asked, “What time are you going to see about the animals in the morning?”
“Early.”
“How early is early?”
“I hope to be leaving here around seven.”
“I’ll be here at six-thirty.”
Grace cocked her head. “I don’t remember asking you along.”
“Are you the one who just admitted not knowing as much about horseflesh as you should?”
Unhappy about being tripped up by her own words, she replied coolly, “Yes.”
“Well, the last thing we need are a bunch of broken down nags that can’t even get us out of Illinois.”
“Mr. Blake—”
“Six-thirty, Miss Atwood, and be ready, please. I don’t want to spend an hour waiting for you to decide what hat to wear.”
Grace’s eyes widened.
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