Always and Forever (8 page)
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.
“See you in the morning.” And he was gone.
Snarling, Grace closed the door.
T
rue to his word, he arrived the next morning at exactly six-thirty. Grace greeted him at the door dressed and ready to go. She stepped back to let him enter and said coolly, “As you can see, I already have on my hat.”
Figuring he’d earned that crack, Jackson stepped inside. While she closed the door, he studied the olive green hat on her head, the full green skirt and matching jacket, and the black high-heeled boots. “I thought we were going to look over some horses.”
“We are.”
“You look like you’re going to tea.”
Out west, women wore hats to protect them from the sun or to church; here, women wore confections. “How would you describe that?” he asked, holding her faintly hostile eyes.
“My hat?”
“Yes, your hat.”
“It’s olive colored and made of fine Milan straw. It’s medium high and has a round top. The material draped around the brim and crown is made of crêpe, and the ribbons and bow on the front are faced with black velvet and gimp.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Grace didn’t care for his sarcasm. “Mr. Blake, I don’t care if you dislike my hat. You asked that I not make you wait, and I haven’t. I didn’t ask you to accompany me in the first place, if you remember correctly.”
Realizing she was right on the edge of shouting, Grace lowered her voice so as not to awaken the still sleeping aunts. “Shall we go now, or do I need to describe my walking suit and boots, too?”
“No,” he replied.
Neither of them noticed Dahlia standing on the stairs until she forcefully cleared her throat. “Good morning,” she announced.
Grace dragged her still angry eyes from Blake and saw that her aunt, dressed in a morning gown and with her hair still in curlers, looked quite perturbed. “Good morning, Aunt Dahl. I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“No apologies needed. I love being awakened by young people arguing over hats.”
That said, she descended the stairs and walked off toward the kitchen.
“I hope you’re happy,” Grace whispered at him harshly.
“I wasn’t the one shouting.”
“No, you were simply the one who started this.”
Dahlia came back through the front room carrying a cup of coffee poured from the pot Grace had left on the stove. She’d obviously heard them starting up again be
cause she said sternly, “My sister is still sleeping. Don’t you two have someplace to be?”
“Sorry, Aunt Dahl,” Grace offered, while shooting daggers at Blake. “We’re leaving right now.”
“Good,” she said, climbing the stairs. “Because if you wake up Tulip, I’ll have both your hides.”
Grace grabbed up her cloak and handbag and stalked to the door with him close behind.
He politely handed her into the covered buggy he’d borrowed from Sunshine. After taking his seat he picked up the reins. “Where to?”
She told him, then withdrew into a testy silence.
The trip took them outside the city. Grace had lived in large cities all her life, and even though she enjoyed the excitement and the hustle and bustle, she always found the open countryside a joy, and she could feel some of her testiness draining away. The pastoral surroundings also reminded her of the horseback rides she’d taken with her parents when she was younger. She’d learned to sit a mount almost as soon as she could walk, and loved riding to this day. Back then, riding fed both her wild spirit and her imagination. Sometimes she pretended to be a member of one of the Civil War’s Black cavalry units and she and her mounted companions would be riding hard to Richmond to free it from the Rebs. At other times she would be on a spy raid with Harriet Tubman and they would be racing back to Union lines with vital information needed by General Montgomery.