Beverly Jenkins

by Night Song

  “I will.” But before she could tell him again how unnecessary it was for him to come back in the morning, he stepped back out into the night.

  Cara spent an uncomfortable night on the small cot in the school’s back room. When she awakened stiff, sore, and, most certainly bruised, she vowed never to do it again. She felt as if she’d slept on rocks.

  She padded barefoot in her flannel gown over to the window where she saw the beautiful sky of a beautiful day. She decided to go ahead with her plans for cleaning the school and went off to attend to her morning’s needs.

  Cara had just finished winding her thick hair into a chignon when a knock sounded on the door. She opened it to find Franklin Cooper, the mailman and father of two of her students, standing on the other side.

  “Morning, Miss Cara.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Cooper. What brings you out so early?”

  “Brought your mail. Sophie said you be here cleaning most of the day so she thought you’d like to have it now instead of waiting until you get back home.”

  “Why, thank you.” She took the packet he offered then smiled, recognizing the fine penmanship of her old friend, William Boyd. Receiving correspondence from him after so many months made the day seem even brighter.

  “Sorry I didn’t get it to you sooner,” Cooper said, “but with the Tenth in town and all—”

  “I know, Mr. Cooper, it’s all right. How’s your wife?”

  They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments longer, and then Cooper continued on his way.

  Cara closed the door and took the letter to her desk. The last time she’d seen William had been almost six years ago at Oberlin. He’d been a good friend during her two years of study there, even though his family had been related to prominent abolitionists and she’d been a backwoods Georgia girl related to no one. William had not let class differences stop him from forming friendships.

  As always, the letter began: “My dearest Cara . . .”

  He followed with an apology for the length of time between missives and hoped the following five pages would serve as ample penance. He wrote that he no longer clerked in his father’s Boston dry goods store. For the past three months he’d been working for T. Thomas Fortune’s New York Globe. Cara was impressed. A lot of folks, herself included, considered the Globe one of the finest Black newspapers in the country. Mr. Fortune’s editorials regularly and strongly denounced the continuing violence and terror in the South.

  William then brought her up-to-date on his four sisters. The women in his family had always been socially minded. Cara remembered the stories he had told of his grandmother’s work with the Black abolitionists of her era and of his mother’s commitment to securing the passage of the Fifteenth Amendment in 1870. His sisters had allied themselves with many other women across the country fighting to secure voting rights for women of all colors. On a less serious note, William described his impressions of New York, specifically the wonder of the still uncompleted Brooklyn Bridge, reportedly the longest and most innovative structure of its kind anywhere in the world. Construction had begun in 1869, and now after more than ten years of deaths, political wrangling, and scandal, it finally appeared as if the bridge would indeed be finished.

  Another knock on the door broke her concentration and, still reading, she walked over and opened it. “Morning, Miss Henson.”

  Cara blinked at the sight of Chase Jefferson filling the doorway. The pages of William’s letter slid unnoticed to the floor.

  “Sophie thought you might like breakfast.”

  He stood facing her, as beautiful to her as the fine May morning. His uniform looked freshly washed and starched. His shoulders seemed to block the sunlight. She stammered. “Oh, yes—yes. Do come in.”

  She stepped aside to let him enter, then waited as he paused to retrieve the letter. She saw him glance at the salutation. His jaw seemed to tighten.

  “It’s from a close friend,” she felt the need to explain, taking the letter from his hand. “We met at Oberlin.”

  “Where is this close friend now?”

  “New York. You can just leave the tray there,” she said, pointing to her desk. “Tell Sophie thanks when you get back.”

  To Cara’s surprise, he sat at her desk and began to unload the tray. Only then did she see that there were two plates and two sets of silverware.

  “I’ll mention it when I get back. Right now, I’m going to eat.”

  Cara, still standing at the threshold, took a quick glance outside to see if anyone had seen him enter. She had no way of telling, however, so she left the door open wide. “You can’t eat here, Sergeant.”

  “Why not? Wouldn’t your close friend approve?”

  “William has nothing to do with this. Remember Virginia Sutton?”

  “Ah, yes, the president of the school board, the one who wouldn’t approve of me kissing you.”

  “Yes.” Cara barely got out the one word. Her throat was constricted, her pulse racing.

  “Would this close friend of yours approve?”

  “Would Laura what’s-her-name approve?” she shot back.

  “Most definitely not, even though I’ve told you she was not my fiancée. How about William?”

  “For the last time, William is a friend—a very close friend, yes, but only a friend. He won’t care one way or the other, unless the man is a cad.”

  “Your male friends always start their letters with ‘My dearest Cara’?”

  “William does, but, Sergeant, why on earth do you care how I’m addressed?”

  “Just curious. You planning on eating or not? Food’s going to be cold.”

  “No.” Although she hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon, and she’d felt hungry moments ago, she didn’t think she could swallow a bite now. Eating in here with him alone? It wasn’t just that Virginia Sutton would have a fit, then gleefully take away her job; it was the intimacy of sharing a solitary meal with Chase that had her at sixes and sevens.

  He looked up at her with his great dark eyes and said, “Very well, don’t eat then. You just stand and listen to me ask impertinent questions such as: Why isn’t a beautiful woman like you married?”

  Cara sat.

  “Thought you’d change your mind. Coffee?” He held up the small pot.

  She usually spurned the brew, never having acquired an appreciation for a beverage whose taste depended solely on the person making it. “Sergeant, you are going to ruin me. Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

  Chase liked the soft drawl in her voice. “Can’t help but. You’ve been ranting since I came in. That another one of your gifts?”

  Cara shot him a look, then held out her cup. The coffee he poured was reminiscent of the man—dark and strong.

  Chase slid his gaze over her decidedly unhappy features while savoring the fat yellow eggs on his plate. At first glance one might think her a contemporary of the mayor’s daughter. Like Mae, Cara still wore the fresh bloom of youth, but there the resemblance stopped. The small brown hands curled around the coffee cup were not the pampered hands of a prim miss; those hands had worked hard and long. And her eyes held a wisdom that seemed to contradict the unlined features.

  To satisfy his curiosity, Chase reached over and picked up her free hand. It stiffened and her eyes narrowed. He turned it over and looked at the palm. “Where’s a schoolteacher get calluses?”

  “Chopping wood mostly.”

  Cara tried to keep her voice neutral but could feel how erratic her breathing had become as he gently rubbed his thumb over the toughened skin at the base of her fingers. “I chop wood for the stove in the winter. I—I’ve been chopping wood since I was young—well really all my life. I . . . Why are you doing this to me?” Her trailing voice came out in a whisper.

  “You think Laura Pope ever chopped wood?” He turned her hand over, and Cara instinctively tried to fist it to hide her nails. He held on. “Probably not,” he answered himself.

  “Probably
not . . .” she echoed, pulling her hand away.

  “Where are you from, Cara?”

  “Georgia. See how well I answer the questions you put to me?”

  He flashed her a smile. “What part of Georgia?”

  “A place west of Atlanta called Cherokee.”

  “Family still there?”

  “No, they’re dead,” she whispered.

  Chase heard the pain in her reply. He wondered if her family had been lost in the war or some time during Redemption. “How long you been on your own?”

  Cara could feel old wounds opening. “Since I was—can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Sure, darlin’. My apologies for prying.”

  Darlin’? He’d purred the word. Cara gulped.

  “Are you married, Sergeant?” she blurted.

  “My name is Chase, Cara. And, no, I’m not. Why? Do you know a schoolmarm looking for a husband?”

  “You are incorrigible. No, I don’t know a schoolmarm looking for a husband, but if I did, would you be interested?”

  “Only if she can kiss.”

  The low timbre of his voice rippled across her skin. The deep mahogany skin, rakish mustache, and assessing dark eyes were disturbing enough, but the aura beneath this easygoing manner pulsed with a male power she found wholly overwhelming.

  “Any man ever kissed you, schoolmarm, really kissed you?”

  Cara couldn’t speak. She could only remember what Sybil Whitfield had said yesterday about Chase being the kind of man capable of making a woman willingly break every vow she’d ever made. “Kissed how?” she heard herself question in return.

  He stood then came around to where she sat trembling on the corner of the desk. He reached down and titled up her chin. “Like this.”

  Cara hadn’t counted on his being this . . . good. The few kisses she’d received in the past had been chaste, sometimes almost apologetic pressings of the lips, administered by men no more experienced than she; but this slow, this languid brushing of his warm mouth over hers felt neither chaste nor inexperienced. Her lips softened like spring rain.

  Feeling her lips yield, Chase found the intensity of her response surprising. He’d been wanting to sample her sassy lips since Topeka. He figured once he’d gotten his wish, the need would wane, but her sweet, ripe mouth, tasting so virginal, drew him powerfully. Her warm female body made his manhood harden. Arousal sang deep in his blood, and all he could think about was bringing her to the point of surrender.

  And Cara did surrender. Her untutored senses rode the swell brought on by the warmth of his mouth and the heat of his nearness. When he intimately flicked his tongue against the tender corners of her parted lips, then sought out the sensitive skin beside her ear, she responded with moans of yearning.

  Gradually, he ended the kiss and stepped away.

  Cara was left weak, breathless, shaken. He stood a pace away, his glittering eyes holding hers.

  “Your close friend William ever kiss you like that?”

  Cara’s eye narrowed. “What if I said he had?”

  “I would probably say that you’re fibbing, schoolmarm.”

  “And I would say that you are probably the most arrogant Yankee I’ve ever met. You kiss me until my shoes melt and—if you go on laughing, I will hit you!”

  “Sorry, darlin’, you were saying that I kissed you until your shoes melted . . . and then what?”

  “Out!” Cara told him, pointing to the door. She jumped down from the desk. “You and that Yankee mustache, out!” She felt as if he were toying with her, and she had no experience to draw on to combat him and his kisses.

  He had the nerve to chuckle, then replied, “Schoolmarm you have no idea how close you are to being kissed again. It’s that sassiness, I think.”

  “Sergeant, are you going to leave or am I going to have to get Sheriff Polk?”

  Chase found himself amazed by the strength of his attraction to her. It was not something he had great experience with, this need he seemed to have acquired for her, and he was not sure how to proceed, but he found matching wits with her damn exhilarating. “You’ll return Sophie’s tray and dishes?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He picked up his hat and strode to the door, then looked back. “Going to be an interesting ten days, schoolmarm.”

  Cara pointed to the exit once more, and he threw back that magnificent head, laughing as he walked out into the sunshine.

  Chapter 3

  Cara was pumping water into the second of two large buckets when Sheriff Polk appeared at the corner of the schoolhouse. The aging but still tough Wayman Polk had treated Cara like a member of his family since the day she’d arrived in Henry Adams, and she was very fond of him. She smiled.

  “Morning, Sheriff.” The pumping finished, she straightened and wiped her brow.

  “Morning, Cara.” Polk walked over to her. “Cleaning the school today, I see. Here, let me help you with those buckets. We can talk inside.” He hefted the buckets and preceded her through the rear door of the schoolhouse.

  “Thanks. It will take that old stove at least half the day to heat this water, and I don’t want to still be here mopping after the sun goes down. What brings you here?” Cara asked as he placed the buckets on the stove. She moved around him to stoke the feeble flames of the fire. Wood was a luxury on the plains, and the corn and sunflower stalks they used instead for fuel made poor fires.

  “Heard you had a visitor this morning.”

  She jerked her head up and looked directly into the sheriff’s eyes. “Yes, I did.”

  “And he kissed you?”

  Cara’s worst fears were being realized and she took a deep steadying breath. “Yes, he kissed me.”

  Polk’s face was unreadable as he stared at Cara. At last he asked, “Do you want to file a complaint?”

  “No, of course not.” She clenched her hands. “Can I ask who told you?”

  “Frank Cooper. He said he came back to the school to give you a piece of mail he’d forgotten to drop off earlier. The door was open, and . . .”

  “There we were.”

  He nodded.

  She had to asked the obvious question. “Will Mr. Cooper tell the school board?”

  “Probably not. Frank doesn’t like Black Widow Sutton very much. He was worried about you is all.”

  Cara sighed, grateful for Mr. Cooper’s taste in people, and that it had been he, not one of Virginia’s cronies, who’d seen the incident.

  “Now, Miss Cara, if Jefferson is bothering you, I can speak to him. We’re proud to have the Tenth in town, but fooling around with our womenfolk is not part of the celebration.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Are you sure? I can be discreet.”

  “This won’t happen again. The kissing, I mean.” Cara knew that the embarrassment she felt showed plainly on her face.

  “Didn’t come over here to embarrass you, Miss Cara. It’s just people care about you. And with you not having any family and all, well, me and some of the others feel responsible. I don’t want to see you taken advantage of.”

  Cara wanted to kiss him on his gray head for his kindness. “I appreciate your concern. You can be sure that I won’t let him take advantage of me.”

  “Man like that can run circles around a woman like yourself.”

  “I know, but I’m certain that I can handle him.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” said the sheriff, taking his leave.

  The sheriff’s vow of discretion notwithstanding, Henry Adams was a very small town, and Cara knew that before the week was out everyone within fifty miles would hear about her being caught kissing Chase Jefferson. Damn that man. If Chase weren’t so outrageously forward, she wouldn’t be the subject of gossip. She got out her mop, pulled the buckets with their still-cold water from the stove, and set to work with a fury.

  By late afternoon, Cara had cleaned the school-house from top to bottom—a
nd had almost forgotten about the incident with Chase. She looked around proudly. The old converted church served well enough as a schoolhouse, and she kept it up to perfection. After Asa found the time to patch the roof, it would see them snugly through another winter. But how Cara yearned to have a real school with enough space to accommodate all who wished to attend. Thirty-five students, their desks and chairs, bookcases, the stove and kindling box, cabinets for materials filled every inch of the one-room building.

  When Cara reported on cramped conditions and asked for a new building, the school board cried poverty. Everyone in town agreed that educating the younger generation was one of the highest priorities, but they also agreed that there wasn’t enough money for a new school. For months Cara had been writing to aid societies back East imploring them for donations to improve their existing school, if not build a new one. She wished with all her heart that the letters she received in return had been filled with a lot less praise and words of support and a lot more bank drafts. To date, she had not been able to procure a penny for her project. Cara put away her cleaning tools and got ready to leave. Her hands were red and sore from all the scrubbing with harsh soap, and she’d split yet another nail. She wondered what Chase would say now if he saw her hands. She’d wager that Laura Pope never scrubbed floors on her knees. Chastising herself for even thinking about Chase, much less Laura, she closed the door behind her.

  Cara carried the tray Chase had left back to the kitchen where Dulcie presided. Dulcie had come to Kansas with Sophie and Asa, and modestly proclaimed herself the best cook west of New Orleans.

  “So, Miss Cara, what is this about you kissing a Yankee soldier?”

  “How’d you hear about it?”

  “Frank Cooper. I’ve known Chase since he was little boy. You could do worse, you know.”

  “You’re as bad as Sybil Whitfield. She said pretty much the same thing yesterday.”

  “Then you should listen to your elders. You’re a very special woman, chérie, and you deserve a special man.”

  Cara groaned. “I’m leaving. Is Sophie around?”