Cricket opened her eyes, knowing it did no good to dream of Heathro Thibodaux then. No matter what she did, he wasn’t going to simply appear out of nowhere, fight ten men off, and free them.
“Cricket?”
Cricket looked up to see Vilma staring at her. Her face was tear-stained, but her cheeks were dry.
“Yeah?” Cricket whispered.
“I don’t wanna be sold in New Orleans,” Vilma said.
“Me neither,” Cricket answered. “But…but it’s better than bein’ shot and left to die out here, isn’t it?”
Vilma’s tears did start fresh again then. “You do know what they plan to sell us for, don’t you, Cricket?”
“To be slaves,” Cricket wept. “I mean, we fought a war over slavery. Mr. Lincoln freed those people in the South. So I don’t understand how on earth we can be forced to do hard labor when we—”
“It ain’t that same kind of labor, Cricket,” Vilma sniffed.
“What do you mean?”
“I heard Daddy talkin’ to mama about some things once,” Vilma explained. “Wyatt and I both heard him. These outlaws that do this—these bad men who steal woman and take them to sell in Mexico, New Orleans, and such places—they don’t sell them to be slaves workin’ in people’s homes. They sell them to—”
“Shut up!”
Cricket gasped as she felt one of the men kick her in the seat to quiet her.
“Not another word outta you girls tonight! Do you hear me?” the man growled.
Cricket sniffled as Vilma closed her eyes and wept more profusely. Cricket closed her eyes as well—tried to forget the dust and dirt that clung to her face and arms and hands—tried not to notice the pain of her sunburned nose and cheeks or the dry, stale taste in her mouth. Once more she tried to think of that night in Pike’s Creek—the night she’d kissed Heathro Thibodaux and he’d kissed her back. If the morning found her dead and being eaten by buzzards, at least her soul would always remember the feel of being held by such powerful, capable hands as Mr. Thibodaux’s—of being ravaged by such a tantalizingly hungry kiss, given by such a handsome and alluring man.
As ever when she thought of Heathro Thibodaux, Cricket’s heart ached for the haunting, grievous pain she knew he bore for the sake of what had happened to the girls abducted by white slavers a year previous. And in that moment, she remembered his warning—the warning he’d given her before he’d kissed her. Heathro Thibodaux had warned her about the ugliness in the world—about men like these outlaws whose hands she now found herself in. Was this what God wanted? For Cricket and her friends to learn about the evil that walked the earth, when all they’d tried to do was add beauty to it? No! She didn’t believe that. It was just her fear and overwhelming fatigue putting such thoughts in her mind. She needed rest. If she were to have any chance at all to think clearly the next day—to be ever watchful of an opportunity for escape—then she needed to rest.
Once more she smelled the aroma of the cedar wood fire burning—listened to the crickets’ summer-night song—and let her mind nest on her memories of Heathro Thibodaux—of their kiss—of their moments near Mr. Burroughs’s pasture.
I’ll show you something inappropriate that’ll really ruffle your britches, Miss Cranford, he’d said as he’d worked to remove the splinter from the bottom of her foot that day. Over and over she let his voice echo through her mind—I’ll show you something inappropriate that’ll really ruffle your britches, Miss Cranford—over and over again, until at last there was nothing but blessed, unconscious dark.
Chapter Ten
Heath frowned, gritted his teeth, and tried to remain as patient as possible. He was ready to string up Edgar Stanley in the nearest tree. The man was the most self-centered, self-righteous pile of horse manure he’d ever encountered!
After announcing at the church that he’d be leaving with what men would join him, Heath stormed out. He informed the other men that they would meet out at the old Morgan house within the next thirty minutes to start the search, and then Heath mounted Archie and rode for home. He didn’t linger long, however—just long enough to gather a few supplies, his Texas Ranger badge and papers, and a few other little odds and ends something whispered to him to take. Then he was off to the old Morgan place.
Although Heath was glad to see that seven men were waiting for him, including Wyatt Stanley, he was not so pleased to see the Reverend Stanley there as well. The man was trouble. Every feeling in Heathro Thibodaux’s gut told him Edgar Stanley was an idiot and not to be trusted.
Still, help was help. Thus, after showing all the men the signs of the struggle out in front of the Morgan house, and then down the creek bank, across it, and in the clearing in the trees, Heath led the posse south, tracking the gang of outlaws and the stolen Pike’s Creek girls by their tracks. He silently prayed that the rain would hold off until he found the girls. If it rained and washed away what was left of any evidence he could easily track—well, he wouldn’t think about that.
Heath was certain the outlaws were heading for New Orleans. Edgar Stanley and several of the other men argued that Mexico was closer, however. They were doubtful that the outlaw gang would travel farther all the way to New Orleans.
But Heath explained what he believed—what his soul told him to be the truth. There was a man in New Orleans by the name of Jacques Cheval. Over the past several years, he’d built a secret, though massive, empire—selling women of any race, creed, and color into forced harlotry. The year before, while Heath trailed the band of outlaws who had in the end pushed their victims to their deaths at the bottom of a canyon, Heath’s previous investigation and his guts had told him those outlaws were headed to meet with Jacques Cheval as well. Still, none of the other, more experienced Texas Rangers had believed him. And though he’d broken off from that posse, ridden off on his own, and was proved to be right, it did no good at all—none.
So Heath didn’t argue much with the righteous Reverend Stanley, or the other men that tended to believe Mexico was the outlaws’ destination. He figured that as long as he could track the Pike’s Creek girls with the evidence left in the dirt and brush along the trail—well, it didn’t matter whether the rest of the men believed him. Tracking would lead them to the girls, wherever the outlaws were headed. And so Heath’s silent prayers to keep the rain at bay became almost constant as the men traveled.
But even though the good Lord kept the rain from falling that first day, it seemed even divinity couldn’t keep Reverend Stanley from trying to prove he knew more than anybody on earth or in heaven.
“The tracks end here,” Edgar Stanley announced as Heath dismounted Archie and studied the tracks on the riverbank. “It’s obvious they crossed here.”
“Not necessarily,” Heath mumbled as he stood and gazed across the river.
“If we cross here, we’ll find tracks on the other bank,” Edgar assured the men.
“Maybe we will, and maybe we won’t,” Heath said. “But even if there are tracks on the other side of the river…it don’t mean they crossed and headed southwest.”
“Of course it does,” Edgar argued.
Then, before Heath could even move to stop him, Edgar Stanley charged his horse into the water and began fording the river.
“We need to look around thoroughly on this side some more, before we go off half-cocked assumin’ things, boys,” Heath growled to the other men. “Don’t you all follow him. Even if we find tracks over there, it could be a ruse.”
Grinding his teeth with barely restrained anger, Heath slowly surveyed the riverbank. If the outlaws were taking the girls to Mexico, then it was likely they did cross the river right where the posse waited. However, Heath’s gut never lied to him—and it was still egging him on toward New Orleans.
As he walked along the bank of the river, searching for any signs of another crossing, a momentary wave of terror broke over him. What if they didn’t find the girls in time? What if they did find them, but during the fighting to get them back o
ne or more of them was killed? He thought again of the kiss the girl had given him—scolded himself for being so harsh with her. Of course, he knew that whatever was going on with her now, it was much more harsh than he’d been with her—but that didn’t matter. He’d been—he’d been wrong.
“Over here!” he heard Edgar Stanley shout. He looked up, across the river where the self-righteous preacher sat astride his gray mare like some sissied-up French king. “There’s tracks! Right here! The tracks pick up right here…then head off into the rocky terrain ahead!”
“Do you see any tracks beyond the rocks?” Heath hollered.
“I don’t need to,” Stanley shouted back. “The tracks pick up here. They’re headed to Mexico.”
“No!” Heath shouted. “They’re tryin’ to fool us. If you can’t track them over the rocks, then—”
But Reverend Stanley wasn’t about to be proved wrong by some beat-up Texas Ranger who had failed miserably to save the last set of stolen girls he’d tracked.
“You men ford here!” Stanley ordered. “I ain’t wastin’ any time on a fool’s errand.”
“But Mr. Thibodaux says it could be a trick,” Wyatt called to his father.
Even from where Heath stood at a distance on the opposing side of the river, he could see the fury and indignation on Edgar Stanley’s face. His son had questioned him—and in front of the other men. Heath shook his head, knowing that now Edgar’s path was set. If Heath found Vilma Stanley standing right downstream, Edgar wouldn’t admit defeat now.
“You men ford here,” Edgar shouted. “We don’t need Thibodaux to track for us.” Glaring at his son, he added, “Now, boy!”
Heath stormed back to Archie and mounted. As the other men began to tentatively ford the river—certain, no doubt, that their spiritual leader would never lead them astray in any regard—Heath shook his head.
“You’re a fool, Stanley!” he hollered. “And arrogant, egotistical fool! Let’s hope I can save your daughter before your arrogance finds her sold into harlotry in New Orleans.”
“We’ll see you back in Pike’s Creek once we’ve brung the girls home,” Stanley hollered back.
But Heath shook his head. “I’ll see you in hell first, you selfish son of a…” Heath voice was lost in the wind as he spurred Archie into a gallop downriver—the opposite direction from which Reverend Righteous and the other men were headed.
❦
Cricket gnawed on the piece of flavorless jerky Heck had ordered one of his men to feed the girls at midday. It made her stomach churn—but not as badly as her hunger had made it churn before the man had given it to her. The girls had been allowed to sit together to rest and eat. Heck told them it was because no one had acted up or talked back to him all morning. But Cricket suspected it was so the men could keep a closer watch on them. After all, maybe she, Ann, Marie, Vilma, Pearl, and Jinny were sitting together in a close circle, but the outlaws were simply positioned in a wider circle surrounding theirs.
Cricket glanced over to see Heck stretched out under a tree, his hat tugged down over his eyes, and a quiet snore emanated from his ugly, whisker-ridden nose. Patterson was playing cards with another man behind her. As for the other outlaws, most of them were staring at the circle of girls with wicked grins or talking in low, guarded voices.
“I don’t know why they don’t just have their way with us and be done with it,” Jinny whispered, wiping a new tear from her cheek.
“Because we’re worth more when we’re…when we’re unspoiled,” Vilma said. Placing a comforting arm around Jinny’s shoulders, she soothed, “They’ll leave us be, Jinny. Don’t you worry. We’ll be safe until we reach their destination. So just try and be brave, and don’t live in fear of…of that.”
“Of what?” Cricket angrily breathed. “I don’t know what it is I don’t know…but I don’t know somethin’.” She leaned toward Vilma. “Last night you told me they don’t plan to sell us to be slaves as in cleanin’ house and doin’ chores. What do they plan to sell us for then?”
Vilma shook her head—rolled her eyes with fatigue and exasperation. “Please do not pretend to be so innocent, Magnolia Cranford,” she scolded. “You’re the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer. You know more than any of us put together, so don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”
“Well, I don’t know what you mean either, Vilma Stanley!” Marie interjected in a hushed voice.
“Me neither,” Ann admitted then.
“And I certainly don’t understand all this,” Pearl whimpered. “There I was…just walkin’ along on my way home from my sewin’ lesson with Miss Karen, when all at once, they snatched me up!” She sniffled and restrained the tears brimming in her eyes. “And now you and Jinny seem to know somethin’ the rest of don’t…even Cricket. And that’s makin’ me more and more fearful by the minute.”
“Well, it should!” Vilma grumbled. She looked from Jinny to Ann. “Are you serious, Ann Burroughs? Are you tellin’ me that you really do not know what these men have planned for us in the end?”
Ann shook her head, blushing with embarrassment at her own ignorance.
“Marie,” Vilma began, “you and Hudson Oliver are, what…maybe two months from gettin’ married. Surely you understand all this?”
But Marie just shrugged. “I just thought that since the slaves were freed by Mr. Lincoln, folks down there in New Orleans are just forcin’ anyone they can get their hands on into doin’ their hard work for them.”
Vilma’s expression changed from that of doubt to that of complete astonishment. She seemed rattled for a moment, looking from one girl to the next as if she were still unable to believe they didn’t grasp everything they should.
At last, looking to Cricket, she asked, “Do you know what a harlot is, Cricket?”
Cricket asked, “Like in the Bible, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a bad woman,” Cricket answered. “Like a female outlaw or somethin’.”
Vilma and Jinny exchanged surprised glances.
“I heard my daddy call that red-haired woman who serves liquor over at the saloon in Thistle a harlot,” Ann offered. “Is she a criminal, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Marie said. “I never thought about that much.” Marie’s eyes widened. “Vilma! Are they gonna try and turn us into outlaws?”
But Vilma shook her head. “How can you girls be so naive?” she asked. “You know where babies come from, don’t you? What a man does to a woman to…to start a baby growin’?”
“Of course, Vilma,” Cricket grumbled. “What do you take us for? Idiots?”
Vilma’s expression then changed to daring. “Go on then, Cricket. Tell us how it all works.”
Cricket sighed with frustration. She didn’t see what babies had to do with outlaws abducting woman. It was ridiculous. Still, in that moment (as in many moments throughout her life before that time), she felt that there was something she didn’t know—something pertinent to their situation.
“Well, you marry the man you love,” Cricket began, “and after you’re married, you share the same bed with him. And then one day…because you’re married…a baby just starts growin’ inside you.”
“Exactly,” Pearl affirmed.
But Marie and Ann looked to one another with puzzled expressions.
“What are you talkin’ about, Cricket?” Marie asked. “The doctor gets a baby from another town and gives it to you.”
“What?” Ann exclaimed. “That’s not true, Marie.”
“Yes, it is,” Marie argued. “My mama told me all about it when my little sister was born. And again when my brother was born.”
But Ann argued, “No. Before each of my brothers was born, Mama just went out for a walk one day, and when she came back, she told me there was baby growin’ inside her. Then after those long months of waitin’, she went on over to Mrs. Maloney’s house, and when she came home, she had a new brother for me. I have three brothers, and it was the same
every time.”
Vilma’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but Pearl offered, “I heard all three of those too…before I heard a woman in our congregation confessin’ to my daddy about how the baby she had really came about.”
“Your daddy is a preacher too?” Cricket asked.
“Yep,” Pearl answered. “And I know what Vilma means now…about these outlaws wantin’ us to stay unspoiled.”
“Well, I don’t,” Cricket grumbled. “Vilma, if you know somethin’ we don’t…that we should…you need to tell us. And you need to tell us now. I’m havin’ a mighty hard time understandin’ how babies have anything to do with us gettin’ sold as slaves in New Orleans.” Vilma blushed a bit, and it unsettled Cricket even more. “And what on earth is it with you preachers’ daughters eavesdroppin’ on conversations you ought not hear?”
Vilma inhaled a breath of bravery and nodded. “My mama told me the story about babies comin’ from the doctor too,” she admitted. “But when me and Wyatt overhead Daddy and Mama talkin’ one night…well…we both learned the truth.”
“Well then…if we’re all so ignorant, tell us the truth too,” Cricket begged. Her irritation with Vilma’s know-it-all attitude was gone, replaced by fear of what she didn’t know herself—fear of what was truly waiting for them at the outlaws’ destination.
“All right then,” Vilma breathed. “All right. Gather closer,” she whispered. Cricket leaned toward the center of their circle, and so did the others.
“The truth of it is, what I’m about to reveal to you girls can either be the most romantic, magical experience of your life…or the very stuff of nightmares,” Vilma said quietly. “And we, my darlin’s…are headin’ for the nightmares way of it.”
❦
Heath had slowly traveled nearly two miles downriver along the bank. He hadn’t found what he was looking for—evidence that the band of outlaws had ridden in the water downstream instead of permanently crossing the river to head for Mexico. He’d begun to doubt himself. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Reverend Righteous was right. But with every doubt that crossed his mind, his gut churned with encouragement. And if there was one thing Heathro Thibodaux had learned, it was to always trust his gut.
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