He returned a few moments later, leading his horse by the reins. He checked the cinches on the saddle.
“How’re you planning on getting around?”
The pointed question made her raise her chin. “I don’t know. Is there a livery nearby?”
Finished with his saddle, he turned to her. It was quite obvious that she needed a bath and a good night’s sleep. She was a mess. Her clothes were dirty, her hair disheveled. “You should’ve stayed in Kansas City.”
“But I didn’t, so where are we going?”
He wondered if his child would be as fearless as its mama. “Some friends of mine used to live about ten miles north of here. We’ll head there first.”
“Fine.”
He mounted. “I should make you walk.”
“But you won’t,” she countered dryly.
He pulled her up and set her in front of him in the saddle. They rode slowly away from the smoke-belching train and headed north.
At least he was speaking to her, Grace noted, as the horse ferried them across the desolate but beautiful countryside. It was a small comfort, considering he’d spoken to her as little as possible on the long train ride here. Not for the first time did she question her own sanity for wanting to accompany him, but she was determined to endure no matter what the future held. She owed it to the love she felt for him and to their growing child. No one was going to harm the father of her baby while she had anything to say about it.
They were soon passing small houses set near patches of what looked to her to be cotton fields. “Is that cotton growing?”
“Yes. Lot of folks, Black and White, sharecrop it around here.”
“Do they make much money? The plots don’t look particularly large.”
“How much do you know about sharecropping?”
“Not much.”
“Well, sharecroppers lease the land from the big owners, work the crop, and turn it in at the end of the year. The big landowner is supposed to deduct things like seed and rent and pay the sharecropper his profit, only it doesn’t work that way. Most folks wind up owing such a large debt that by the end of the year they don’t even make enough to feed and clothe their families.”
“Then why don’t they move on?”
“They’re up to their necks in debt and can’t. Most are former slaves, many go from cradle to grave on the same piece of land their parents sharecropped on. Farming is all they know.”
Grace now understood.
Jackson continued, “The country made few provisions for its freed slaves, and it’s real apparent around here. The few good agencies were dismantled right along with Reconstruction, so in the end, folks in the South that look like you and me are free, but only to eke out an existence sharecropping, or starve.”
About an hour later, Jackson brought the horse to a halt in front of a small but neat whitewashed cabin. There were a few hogs and chickens milling about the premises and there was an old rusted buckboard next to the house. As Grace and Jackson dismounted, a tall, dark-skinned young woman came from around the back of the house. She had on a worn but well-patched dress, a pair of men’s boots and carried a rusted hoe in her hand. She stopped and stared at them a moment. Jackson took off his hat as if to let her see him better and then her eyes widened in recognition.
“Jack!”
She came running and threw herself into his arms. He held her and rocked her in greeting and Grace, admittedly a bit green around the ears from jealousy, simply stood there and watched and waited for an introduction.
The woman and Jackson finally broke the embrace and the woman trilled happily, “I knew you were coming back to me, I knew it!”
Grace raised an eyebrow. She dearly hoped this woman was a relative.
Never one to be shy, Grace stuck out her hand. “Hello, I’m Jackson’s wife, Grace. And you are?”
The woman’s eyes widened and Grace could see Jackson’s jaw tighten. Grace didn’t care. She waited.
Jackson finally said, “Grace, this is Davida Craig. Davi, my wife, Grace.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Craig.”
The Craig woman looked Grace critically up and down. “How do.”
She then turned to Jackson and there were tears in her eyes. Without saying another word, she ran back into the house, obviously distraught.
Grace asked, “A former lover?”
He rolled his eyes.
On the heels of that, another woman came out of the house. She was older, thin, and bore a strong resemblance to Davida. Her mother or aunt, Grace assumed.
Her tired eyes were shining with happiness as she approached Jackson with open arms. He held her tightly and they rocked slowly. “Oh,” she whispered in a voice thick with tears. “It’s so good to see you. So good!”
Jackson held tight to the woman who’d served as his mother after his own died. “It’s good to be home.”
They parted and the woman turned to Grace. The teary eyes were kind. “You’ll have to excuse my manners. I haven’t seen him in a long long time. I’m Iva Luckett.”
“I’m Grace Blake.”
A grin spread across her face. “Blake? Are you Jack’s wife?”
Because of Iva’s smile, Grace didn’t believe the truth would draw as dramatic a response as last time. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
She turned to Jackson and said, “Now, ain’t you something coming back here with a fine lady like this. No wonder Davida’s inside stomping around.”
She placed a hand on Grace’s waist. “Honey, let’s get you in and get you washed up. There’s not much to eat, but what we have you’re welcome to share.”
As Iva propelled Grace forward, Grace looked back at her husband and for the first time seemingly in weeks, he smiled.
After Iva and Grace disappeared inside, Jackson looked out across the wild beauty of the land and felt a contentment he hadn’t experienced in many years. Here the Texas blue sky stretched as far as the eye could see. Here there were no tall buildings to mar the view; no smokestacks to foul the air. There were no crowds, no noise, just the gentle passing of the breeze and the answering whisper of the grass and trees. He’d missed this; missed it a lot, and now that he was back, would find it hard to leave again.
After washing up at the pump behind the house, Grace felt infinitely better now that she’d donned clean clothes. The plain white blouse and dark skirt had been part of her wagon train wardrobe, so she knew the garments would hold up wherever travels with Jackson led.
However, whether her manners would hold up under the rude stare of Davida Craig was another matter. The younger woman began giving Grace the evil eye the moment Iva ushered her into the small two-room cabin. Now they were gathered around a small table eating a meal of salt pork and beans, and she was still shooting daggers Grace’s way.
Evidently Grace wasn’t the only one at the table who’d noticed, because Iva said, with a touch of irritation in her voice, “Davi, do you have something you want to say?”
“Yes. What does she have that I don’t?”
Jackson looked up from his plate and drawled, “Manners for one.”
She sat back in a huff. “Why’d you have to marry her?” she asked bluntly. “You were supposed to marry me, remember?”
“No, I don’t. You were what, fifteen when Griff and I left here?”
“Sixteen, and you said you loved me.”
“Like a little sister.”
She folded her arms angrily across her chest.
Grace now had a clearer picture. Davida was not one of Jackson’s old flames; she was merely petulant, obviously spoiled, and young.
Iva looked to Grace and said, “You’ll have to forgive her, Grace. Davida’s worked herself into believing that Jack would come back a rich man, make her his wife, and whisk her off to a fancy house up north somewhere.”
The younger woman snapped, “What’s wrong with dreams?”
“Nothing,” Iva told her. “But there’s dreams, and then there’s nonsense.�
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Evidently Davida didn’t like what she’d heard, because she stood. “I’m going over to Lucy’s. We need to work on the quilt for the church bazaar. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Iva countered, “You’ll be back tonight and before dark.”
“Oh, all right.” She stormed out.
Jackson quipped, “Not much has changed with her, I see.”
“Not a leaf. I wish she could find someone to marry—take her off my hands.”
“Is she your daughter?” Grace asked.
“Lord, no. She’s my late brother’s child. When he died, his wife brought her down here. Said she was tired of her. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since. That was about ten years ago.”
Grace couldn’t imagine abandoning her child under any circumstances. Life seemed to have dealt Davida a cruel hand, but it was still no excuse for such blatant bad manners.
With Davi gone, the atmosphere in the cabin eased.
“How long you two been married?” Iva asked.
Grace remained silent and waited for him to answer.
He did. “Little under a month.”
Grace wondered if Iva could sense the troubles between them.
“That long?” the woman asked. “You here for a honeymoon trip?”
“No, I’m here to straighten out that warrant for my arrest. Lane Trent still own all the land around here?”
“Does the devil still rule in hell? Yes, he’s still around. Richer than his daddy ever was. Folks like us are more miserable these days, too. Rent and seed are so high, you’d think everything around was made of gold.”
“Whatever happened to Drew, Champ, and Isaac?”
“No idea. They left here a few days after you and Griffin lit out. Rumor says Lane paid them to leave so nobody could ask them about what really happened that day.”
Grace had no idea who the men being referred to were, or the part they’d played in Jackson’s life here.
He must’ve sensed her curiosity. “Drew, Champ, and Isaac were my deputy sheriffs. They were with me the day Lane Trent’s daddy was shot and killed.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
So he did, beginning with his father Royce’s death at the hands of Lane and the Sons of Shiloh, and ending with the gunfight that resulted in Roy Trent’s death.
“So you and your brother fled north to keep from being railroaded.”
“Yes.”
Iva added sagely, “Lane won’t be happy knowing you’re back. Why not just let things be?”
“Because he killed Royce, Iva. You of all people should be standing with me on this.” Iva had been the love of his father’s life for almost twenty years.
“And you of all people should know Royce wouldn’t want you risking your life going up against Lane and his hate. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
“That’s all well and good, but what about the warrant? Even if I could try and live with his murder, what’s to keep Lane from hunting me down and getting me hanged?”
“A lion can’t eat what’s on the other side of the jungle.”
“You’re saying I should just head back north and stay out of his way?”
“Yes. Things are bad down here, Jack. Real bad. In some places Black men are hanging from trees like fruit. Don’t make yourself be one of them, you have too much to live for.”
Jackson could see the concern in Grace’s eyes. “What would a Prescott do?” he asked her quietly.
“Stand and fight,” she replied. “But that’s from having the blood of the Old Buccaneer in our veins.”
Iva had a confused look on her face. “The old who?”
“Buccaneer,” Jackson replied, his eyes still on his wife. “Her family’s founding father was a pirate.”
“Like Lafitte?”
Grace found Iva’s knowledge of the Frenchman surprising. “You know about Jean Lafitte?”
“Yep. My grandmother was a free woman and lived on Galveston Island when Lafitte owned the slave markets and everything else down there. She lost her husband because of that pirate and cursed him everyday for the rest of her life.”
“What happened to her husband?”
“Lafitte sold him along with every other free Black living on the island back then.”
“Really, why?”
“Well, back in eighteen hundred and nineteen, a hurricane came to Galveston—or as Lafayette called it, Campeachy—and wiped out everything. Sank all the ships, many folks drowned, and even parts of his big old red house with the cannons mounted on it came tumbling down. All the food stores were gone and he and his people were facing famine. He decided that the first thing he needed to do was have less mouths to feed, so he seized a schooner that had come from New Orleans and told his men to round up everybody that had African blood and put them aboard. Didn’t matter if you were slave or free like my grandparents. Loaded them all up and took them to New Orleans and sold them. My grandmother managed to steal away and make her way back to Texas, but she never saw my grandfather again. Went to her grave still grieving.”
“What a sad story,” Grace said. She’d heard that Lafitte’s settlement had included Mexicans, Indians, women of all races, free Blacks, and runaway slaves. She also knew that as a slave trafficker he’d sold members of the race for one dollar a pound, but she’d never met anyone who’d been personally touched by his greed.
“You two planning on staying the night, Jack?” Iva asked, after finishing her story. It was now very late. Davida had come in during the telling and was seated in the shadows of the other room.
“Hoped to.”
“Well, all I can offer you is the barn. That old milk cow of mine won’t mind sharing the place if you two don’t.”
They didn’t, and so Iva walked them out to the barn. Grace found the ramshackle space infinitely cleaner than the accommodations they’d been forced to endure on the train, and besides, after being on the trail with the brides, she could sleep just about anywhere.
Leaving them the lantern that had lit their way to the barn, Iva said her goodnights and left to return to the cabin. This was the first time they’d been alone together in over a week and as a result there was a decided awkwardness between them.
In an effort to fill the looming silence, Grace said, “I like Iva. Is she related to you in some way?”
“No,” he replied, unfurling his bedroll and laying it down on the barn’s dirt floor. “She was my father’s ladyfriend. His death nearly killed her.”
Grace thought it must be awful to lose the man you loved to violence. In her mind one could better accept death if it stemmed from disease or natural causes, although she knew from her father’s grief that even that could alter one’s life forever, but to lose a loved one to hate? It would probably eat away at her just as it must be doing to Jackson.
“You take the bedroll. I’ll bed down over here.”
He indicated a spot a few feet away from the bedroll. After sleeping with him on the train, she’d grown ac-customed to his presence. She swallowed her disappointment that he obviously preferred another arrangement tonight. She settled in and he doused the light. In the darkness she sensed him covering himself with a blanket and settling in too.
For a moment the silence returned, and then he said, “Grace, I wish you’d stayed with your aunts.”
“I know, but I couldn’t let you come alone. Sorry.”
Silence again.
She had a question. Although she had no idea if he’d answer, she asked anyway. “Do you know how you’re going to accomplish what you need to do here?”
“Thought I’d try and find the men who were my deputies at the time first, then go from there.”
“Will they be able to prove that you didn’t kill Trent’s father?”
“They’ll be able to tell a judge that Trent’s daddy’s men opened fire first. I was after Lane, not his daddy.”
“And Lane was a member of this Sons of Shiloh gang?”
“Yes, they wo
uld dress up in sheets and pretend to be the dead spirits of the soldiers killed at the Battle of Shiloh. No one was afraid of the sheets, but they were of the men beneath. Sometimes they’d pretend to be ghosts who hadn’t had a drink since their death. Had one old Black man spend a whole night drawing them buckets of water from his well. He did it because he was terrified they’d turn to something else, like killing his sons or burning his house down. They’d ride through the countryside at night shooting up cabins and using axes to break down doors.”
“And you tried to arrest them?”
“I did, several times, even took them in, but the county had the only secure jail and they never had room, or so they always claimed.” His tone was bitter. “So I had to let them go. I warned my daddy not to get involved, I’d written a letter to the governor, hoping he’d intervene in some way; after all, the township citizens both Black and White had elected me sheriff, but I never received a reply, and my daddy went to see Lane and his friends over my objections. Less than an hour later he was dead. I should’ve made him stay at home.”
Grace’s heart went out to him. Judging by the bleakness in his voice, the death continued to be a painful memory. He also sounded as if he blamed himself.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself. Your father was a preacher, Jackson. He was going to rely on faith and the Word regardless of the danger.”
“I know, but if only he’d listened…” His voice trailed off.
Silence resettled again, and a few moments later, he said, “Well, goodnight, and Grace, even though I’m still angry, I am glad you’re here. See you in the morning.”
A stunned Grace lay there in the darkness, then a smile spread across her face. “I’m glad I’m here too. Goodnight, Jackson.”
“Remind me to paddle you after the baby’s born, though.”
She grinned in the dark. “I will.”
The next morning, Grace and Jackson rode over to visit another friend. The man’s name was Riley Borden. He was a blacksmith and owned a livery. Two old friends greeted each other warmly.
“When’d you get back?” Riley asked, as they broke the embrace.
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