Always and Forever (12 page)

Dahlia whispered, “I know we’re in church and I should be having only Christian thoughts, but you’d think Beatrice would simply concede and buy gowns that fit.”

Trailing Beatrice were daughter Amanda and Amanda’s husband, Garth Leeds, Grace’s former fiancé. Grace hadn’t seen the married couple since they’d returned from their Cincinnati honeymoon, and in reality, she’d been dreading encountering them socially, thinking her heart might still be in mourning, but surprisingly she felt nothing.

The tall, fair-skinned Amanda, as badly dressed as her mama in a very unflattering shade of purple, seemed to be making an elaborate show of holding onto the arm of the grim-looking gray-suited Garth. She was smiling around at anyone and everyone as if showing off a prize at a fair, and Grace silently prayed for strength. Amanda had dressed the prize well, at least. The suit Garth wore looked new, as did the white shirt and the large gold cuff links.

Still clinging possessively to Garth, Amanda gave Grace and the aunts a regal inclination of her head as she passed them by on her way to the Young pew up front. Grace had known Amanda most of her life and was surprised the new Mrs. Leeds hadn’t stopped to gloat.

Tulip whispered sarcastically, “Garth certainly looks happy.”

Grace scanned his tight-lipped face. She smiled and then stood as the organist began the processional.

The time after service was usually a social event, a time for gathering, refreshments, and talk. Most of this Sunday’s conversation revolved around Grace and her upcoming trip. After receiving lots of well wishes from many members of the congregation, Grace planned on making a fairly hasty exit, due to her plans for tomorrow’s leaving, but she and the aunts were waylaid at the door by Beatrice, Amanda, and a Garth who wouldn’t meet Grace’s eyes.

“Well, hello there, Grace. Mrs. Mays, Mrs. Kingsley. How are you all?” Beatrice trilled.

Everyone said they were fine.

Amanda asked, “Grace, what is all this nonsense we’ve been hearing about a wagon train of mail-order brides? Now, I knew you were upset about losing Garth to me at the altar, but to leave town? Has the whispering become that bothersome?”

Grace dearly wanted to rip Amanda’s well-coifed hair from her head and show the world that the tresses were originally equine, but she calmed herself and said in an even tone, “This has nothing to do with you or Garth, Amanda. I’m doing this as a favor to my cousin.”

Amanda breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear that. Neither Garth nor I wish to be responsible for you being hounded out of town. Do we, darling?”

“No,” he replied frostily.

The terse response seemed to coincide with the gossip Grace had been hearing. Was there really trouble in paradise so soon? The two had been married only a short while, but Garth’s Adonis-like face certainly didn’t reflect a man flush with the happiness of his honeymoon.

Amanda’s nose crinkled with distaste. “But why would anybody in his right mind want to be a mail-order bride?”

Dahlia drawled, “Not everyone is fortunate enough to find a man like your Garth, Amanda.”

Grace coughed to cover her reaction to Dahlia’s cutting remark, and saw Garth’s eyes flash angrily.

The dig seemed to sail right over Amanda’s head, though. “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Kingsley.”

She then lovingly linked her arm through Garth’s. “Garth and I are the happiest couple in the world, aren’t we, darling?”

Garth’s gray eyes flashed angrily. “Yes, Amanda, we are.”

“Well, we should be going,” Tulip said. “Grace has to get an early start in the morning.”

Beatrice wasn’t done yet, however. “Grace, are we going to see you at the society meetings when you return?”

“No, Beatrice. I’m going to resign.”

Beatrice looked outraged. The society in question was the Lucie Stanton Literary Society of Chicago, named after Lucie Stanton, the race’s first female college graduate. Although Grace had enjoyed the gatherings in the past, lately there’d been little incentive to attend due to the way things were being run and whom they were being run by. The society’s former leader, Minnie Sanders, a friend of Grace’s mother, had never let personal feelings enter into any of the decisions affecting the group; committee assignments had always been handed out honestly; and the primary missions had always been to help those less fortunate and to promote an appreciation for literacy within the race. But not any more.

When Minnie died last spring, Beatrice Young had
become the new president, and the group had been going to hell ever since. Instead of taking on community projects that would benefit the poor and needy, Beatrice preferred to, as she put it, tout the achievements of representative Black Chicago society by sponsoring elaborate invitation-only dinners, outdoor band concerts, and boat cruises on the lake.

The Stanton Society members hadn’t sewn socks for the needy, collected monies to pay death benefits to the indigent, or been treated to the works of any new novelists or poets of the race since Minnie’s death. As a result, attendance at the meetings had plummeted as members voted with their feet and joined organizations elsewhere in the city. Grace’s mother, Vanessa, and her peers had worked hard to establish the Lucie Stanton Literary Society of Chicago and to give it a strong foundation; it rankled Grace knowing that the once prominent organization would probably be dead before the new year.

The still outraged Beatrice snapped, “Well, once you resign, we won’t take you back, you know.”

Tired of the encounter now, Grace turned to her aunts and said, “Are we ready?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

Grace gave Beatrice and the others a polite nod of departure, then she and her aunts left the church.

As soon as they stepped out into the Sunday sunshine, Dahlia snapped, “With all that money she’s supposed to have, you’d think Beatrice’d employ a dressmaker capable of creating gowns that didn’t make her look like a cased sausage.”

“Amen!” Tulip proclaimed.

With that settled, the three grinning Prescott women turned their steps toward home.

As a favor to Sunshine, Jackson drove her buggy over to the train depot Sunday afternoon to pick up a crate of possessions belonging to one of her girls. He’d just put the heavy crate in the back of the buggy and was preparing to head back when he stopped at the sight of what appeared to be a familiar face.

The man, Dixon Wildhorse, caught Jackson’s eye at about the same time, and a wondrous smile spread across his dark face. The two men hastened through the throng outside the depot, and when they came together, greeted each other with grins and manly back-slapping hugs. “Is it really you?” Jackson asked, looking his friend up and down.

“Yep,” Dixon replied.

The last time they’d been together, Dixon Wildhorse had just been appointed a U.S. deputy marshal in the wild and woolly land known as Indian Territory, and Jackson, on the run from the law, was using a false name as a member of the all-Black 24th Infantry. That had been almost ten years ago. Wildhorse lived in the Territory and was a member of the Black Seminole tribe. His people had waged a long thirty-year war against the U.S. government for the right to stay on their Florida lands, but the Seminoles, like the other major tribes of the south and southeast, had been stripped of their way of life and forced west. “What in the hell are you doing in Chicago, Dix?”

“Tracking a varmint.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Yep. Bart Love.”

“The old con man?” Jackson asked with a smile.

“One and the same.”

Jackson knew the character Dix was referring to. Love lied so much and so often, folks weren’t even sure his name was Love. “What’s he wanted for this time?”

“Stealing my herd and selling it to the U.S. Army.”

Jackson whistled appreciatively.

Dix nodded. “No kidding, I’ve been trailing him almost two months now. He’s supposed to have family here in the city somewhere, but so far he’s managed to stay one step ahead of me.”

“Where’re you staying?”

“Boardinghouse.”

“Well, you know, Sunshine Collins is here in Chicago, too. I’ve been bunking at her place the last six months or so. She’s going to be mad that you came to town and didn’t let her put you up.”

“Is she still in the business?”

“Does it snow in Chicago in January?”

The two friends laughed. They spent a few minutes catching up on the past and the fates of mutual acquaintances. Jackson had confided in Dix long ago about why he’d fled Texas, and Dix asked if the problem had ever been resolved.

“Not yet, but hopefully soon.”

Dixon went silent for a moment. “You’re not thinking about going back down there, are you? Rivers are running with blood in some places.”

Jackson nodded grimly. “I know.”

The newspaper reports coming out of Texas were bleak. As the hate of the Redemptionists spread like wildfire across the south, Black folks were paying the ultimate price. “You’d never know the Rebs
lost
the war, the way we’re suffering and dying,” Jackson added with bitter sarcasm.

“I know, which is why you’ve got no business going back.”

“Have to.”

Dix searched the eyes of his friend. “If Lane Trent’s
still alive, I doubt he’ll just let you waltz in and have him arrested.”

“I know, but my daddy’s owed justice,” Jackson replied, his eyes hard.

“Yes he is, but what’s the sense in you dying too? Jack, look. Why don’t you come and live in the Territory? Start over, men do it all the time. As long as you stay within the law, no one will bother you.”

“I want my star back.”

Dix held Jackson’s serious eyes. They both knew a wanted man could never in good conscience put on a star again, not if he were really dedicated to enforcing the law.

“I was a damn good lawman, Dix. Lane Trent took that, too.”

Jackson decided to change the subject. He’d be facing his future soon enough. “Have you heard anything from my brother Griffin?”

Dix let loose with a seldom seen smile. “Your little brother has made quite a name for himself. He’s wanted in five states for train robbing. Last time I checked, the reward on his red head was in the five-figures territory.”

Jackson chuckled. Who knew the wisecracking orphan who’d become his brother would wind up a notorious train robber. “Have you seen him?”

“Yeah, I have. Since he isn’t wanted in the Territory he stops in every now and again, but the women always wind up fighting over him so I always end up running him out of town just to restore the peace.”

Jackson shook his head. “My daddy Royce’s probably spinning in his grave.”

“No doubt. He’s a handful, that little brother of yours. So tell me this, what are you doing in Chicago?” Dixon asked.

“Trying to stay one step ahead of the bounty hunters.”

“It’s been a long time, Jack, I can’t see anybody still tracking you after all these years.”

“The moment I say that, somebody’ll knock on my door. Lane Trent’s daddy Roy was a pretty powerful Reb back then, you know. Lane’s probably still trying to find me if for no other reason than to keep me from telling the truth about what really happened the day his daddy died, and about his hand in Royce’s death.”

Again pushing aside the dilemma posed by Lane Trent, Jackson asked the lawman, “What’re you going to do if you can’t find Bart Love?”

“Head back to the Territory and wait for him to show up. He’ll head home eventually.”

“Well, I just signed on to be wagon master for some folks going down to an Exoduster colony in Kansas. Sure could use a scout, if you’re interested.”

Jackson didn’t dare tell him the trip would be an all-woman expedition because he knew Dix would never agree.

“If I can’t find Bart, I don’t see why not. It’s a bit out of the way, but—” He shrugged.

They spent a few more minutes talking about the pay, possible routes and the estimated date of departure for the wagon train. Dix promised to stop by Sunshine’s later and the two old friends parted. By the time Jackson drew the team to a halt in front of Sunshine’s Palace, the need to return to Texas echoed inside him like a heartbeat.

After spending eight hours on a hard wagon seat, Grace could barely climb down to the ground. She ignored the chuckles of her godfather Martin Abbott watching her as he held the reins. Her behind felt as stiff as the wooden seat, and her legs had been turned to stone.

“Sure you’re ready for this trip?” he teased.

Grace shot him a warning look, but it was filled with all the love she felt for her father’s lifelong friend. “Yes, I am,” she lied confidently, finally making it to the grassy ground. Lord, she wondered if she’d ever be able to walk again.

“Bit stiff, are you?” Martin asked, getting down from the wagon with experienced ease.

“Just a bit, but we were on the road all day,” Grace said in defense of her condition.

“That we were, but you’d better get used to it. This is going to be your life for the next month or so. Remember?”

She did, and for the first time began to wonder if this whole expedition was really such a good idea. Her legs were just now regaining some semblance of feeling, but because Grace had never been one to wallow in self-pity, she buried the doubt-filled second thoughts about the upcoming journey and forced herself to take a few halting steps.

The tall, burly, gray-haired Martin laughed aloud. “You look like you’re made out of metal and gears.”

“You’d better be glad I love you so much,” she tossed back with merry eyes. “Metal and gears, indeed!”

Grace could finally feel her blood flowing again, but had no idea when her behind would recover. Putting her physical discomfort aside for now, she looked around the sun-filled valley and felt the silence and peace fill her soul. She could almost envision how the camp would look once everything was in place, see the activities as the brides went about their day.

“Thanks for letting me use this spot,” she said, scanning the budding trees and the blue sky.

“You’re welcome, but when have I ever been able to deny you anything?”

Grace turned and looked at him with such seriousness he raised an eyebrow. He asked, “What’s the matter?”