Beverly Jenkins (32 page)

“Up here, Chase.”

After removing his hat and gloves and placing them on the shelf by the door, he hung his coat on the same peg that held her blue shawl, then climbed the stairs. He’d spent a lot longer time in town than planned; night had fallen hours ago. The information on Miles Sutton had been wired to Colonel Grierson at Fort Davis and to Mr. Fortune’s offices at the
New York Globe.
In reply, both men expressed pleasure with the progress and pledged to start investigating on their ends. Colonel Grierson also indicated that he’d relayed the findings to the U.S. marshal’s office in Wichita. The colonel requested Chase wait for their further instructions.

The marshal’s office wired back three hours later: Miles Sutton was now wanted for questioning by the U.S. marshal’s office. All the law enforcement officers in the area were asked to assist in his immediate apprehension.

Chase had come upstairs with the intention of telling Cara the good news, and to apologize for the long delay in returning, but when he reached the open door of the bedroom, it became plain his wife had intentions of her own.

The sight of her standing by the fireplace left him speechless.

“William ready to go tomorrow?” she asked.

Chase couldn’t decide which made his blood roar louder: the sultry look in her eyes, or that absolutely wicked nightgown she had on. It was the color of cream and had two thin straps bisecting her shoulders. The bodice, cut low, barely covered the dark crown of her nipples. Between her breasts were two tiny ribbons just waiting for him to untie.

Chase thought he nodded yes in reply to her question about William, but he couldn’t be sure. Behind her, the blaze in the fireplace crackled and spit, filling the room with a rosy glow and a skin-stroking warmth. A mesmerized Chase reached back and closed the door.

She stepped away from the grate and slowly began to close the distance between them. Her unbound hair flowed around her face and down her back. Watching her continue to come closer, he saw with amazed delight that the front of the gown was split from just below the ribbons beneath her breasts to the floor. As she walked, the lace-edged opening undulated and parted, arousing him with teasing glimpses of the bare brown legs beneath.

Any shyness Cara might have harbored over wearing this particular gown vanished before the desire dancing in her husband’s eyes. Knowing she had the ability to elicit such a response filled her with a sensuous power, a power that gave her the confidence to approach him as she’d never done in the past.

When only inches separated her bare toes from the tips of his boots, Cara stopped, reached up,
and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. If he noticed her shaking hands, he didn’t comment.

Chase did notice but was too fascinated to care. “You’re awfully forward this evening, Mrs. Jefferson.”

The remark made heat rise in her face, but she didn’t speak. Instead, with the last shirt button above his belt undone, she turned her attentions to the worn leather belt circling his waist. She’d never undressed a man in her life, and it showed as she tried to work the belt free from the denim trousers.

“Here,” he told her, “let me, otherwise we might be at this all night.”

Very late in the morning Chase awakened first. The sunlight mingled with the colors of the bedding, splashing it with patches of brightness. Careful not to jostle the small, quilt-covered form at his side, he left the bed and padded naked over to the dying fire. The chill made goose bumps rise on his skin, but he paid them little mind. He’d experienced colder mornings on the trail.

He placed some kindling on the faint embers. After a few stabs with the poker, it caught nicely. Chase used the same slow care reentering the bed, sliding beneath the sheets and quilts noiselessly, but instead of lying down again, he sat up, back against the headboard, to await Cara’s awakening.

He thought back on another time when he’d watched her sleep; she’d been at death’s door, and he’d been far too worried about her dying on him to derive any pleasure from the sight. But this morning, watching her filled him with a peace he’d never experienced. It seemed natural, right to wake up with her near. Her measured breathing barely ruffled the silence, quite unlike any army
morning when one could count on the noisy chaos of men and beasts to start the day. This quiet she wrapped herself in might take some getting used to, but he thought he could learn to like it.

Cara stirred, as if sensing his thoughts. Her eyes opened and found his, and her sleepy smile garnered one in return. Not ready to face the day just yet, she burrowed back into her quilt cocoon and tried to drift back to sleep.

“Wake up,
mariposa.
Sun’s up.”

She murmured something unintelligible but didn’t surface.

“Come on, Cara Lee, I’ve been waiting for you for a while.”

Fighting off the lure of sleep, she struggled to a sitting position, pulling the quilts up against the chill, and rubbed her eyes. “Why’ve you been waiting for me?”

She appeared so tousled and vulnerable, he was half tempted to say something like, he wanted her to wake up because her snoring kept shaking the bed, but he didn’t. He had the rest of their lives to tease her; he might have only one chance to tell her the thoughts in his heart at this moment.

His silence puzzled her, and she turned to get a clear view of his face. “Chase?”

“You know, I’ve very rarely seen you wake up.”

“I’m a fright, aren’t I?” She smiled, running a hand over her wild riot of hair. After Chase’s loving last night, braiding it for sleep had been the last thing on her mind. “Surely you haven’t been waiting just so you could see what I look like when I wake up?”

“Well, that, too, but mainly I waited so you’d wake up and know I didn’t leave you last night.”

For Chase, the idea that this woman professed to love him continued both to amaze and to humble
him. In tribute to that trust, he’d vowed last night, holding her as she slept, that she would never find him lacking.

Cara reached up and put her hand against his unshaven cheek, once again moved by his sincerity. “You know something. Sergeant?”

He moved the palm across his cheek, then kissed the quilt-warmed center. “No, schoolmarm, what?”

“Beneath all that army crust and arrogance you have a very soft heart.”

“I know. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

On that note, Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson began the day.

C
hase stayed three weeks instead of two. Admittedly, he spent the better part of each day scouting the area for signs of Miles Sutton, who seemed to have vanished into thin air, but nights and evenings he spent with Cara.

The time passed quickly, and on the night before he was scheduled to leave, they made love again in front of the fire. The poignant, furiously tender farewell left them both sated, but no less sad at the prospect of another separation. He had no idea how long he would be gone, but the next morning, after they shared a lingering, parting kiss at the door, Chase promised to return as soon as he possibly could.

Watching him ride out, Cara waited until he disappeared into the crimson dawn before she let the tears roll down her cheeks.

In mid-April, three weeks after Chase’s departure, Sophie and Asa rode out to check on her. When Cara opened the door, surprised and very glad to see them, she nonetheless admonished them for venturing out on such a potentially stormy day. The dark gray sky, fat with ominous clouds, threatened to send down buckets at any moment.

Sophie thrust a package into Cara’s hands. It
was wrapped in brown paper, and Cara studied it while Sophie and Asa removed their coats.

“Open it,” Sophie advised.

Cara could only stare in wonder at the sender’s writing. “It’s from Chase!”

Asa and Sophie smiled at each other.

Cara hurried into the kitchen for her sewing basket. Her scissors cut through the twine and layers of paper easily. With shaking hands, she peeled away the outside wrappings and lifted out the small note which read: “Because I knew you would enjoy these more than anything else. Chase.”

“Are those newspapers?” Sophie asked.

Cara was choked up. “Yes, they are.” Chase knew of her keen interest in the state of the country; during his most recent stay, they’d spent many evenings discussing the political situation. He also knew she incorporated news events into her lesson plans.

There were only three, and from the looks of them, all had been well read, but they were no more than four months old, and they had been sent by her husband. She couldn’t have asked for a more precious gift.

“If I sent you newspapers, would you get all misty-eyed like this one here?” Asa asked Sophie.

“Not a chance,” she replied.

Cara’s predictions on the weather proved accurate. A little over an hour after she exchanged farewell hugs with Sophie and Asa, it poured and poured. She knew from experience that a rain this fierce would turn the outlying roads and the streets in town into impassable quagmires, so she hoped they’d made it back safely.

It didn’t take long for the force of the deluge to cause leaks in the low-slung roof over the kitchen. She spent the next few minutes scurrying around placing pots and bowls in strategic positions. When she found the upstairs dry, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Later that evening, Cara lay snug in her bed. Outside, the storm continued to rage, wind and rain lashing at the panes as if wanting it, but she ignored it. With her fire blazing in the grate, her body nice and warm beneath the mound of quilts, and her husband’s gift spread out on the bed, Cara didn’t care if it rained until next week.

She pored over the papers most of the night. That Chase took the time to acquire them gave further proof of his soft heart. Sophie and Asa may not have found the unusual gift endearing, but Cara did.

He’d sent copies of the
People’s Advocate,
published in Washington City; the
Cleveland Gazette;
and a February 17th issue of Mr. Fortune’s
New York Globe.
None of the editions was lengthy, but what they lacked in quantity, they more than made up for in quality. Like a majority of the other two hundred African-American newspapers in the country, they were true to the tradition set in motion by John Russwurm and Reverend Samuel Cornish. These two men, Cornish a militant young preacher and Russwurm the second man of African descent to graduate from an American college, published the first Black abolitionist paper,
Freedom’s Journal,
in 1827 in New York. Previously, the cause of Blacks, both slave and free, had been championed by publications owned and operated by white abolitionists.
Freedom’s Journal
debated the issues in a Black voice.

Now, over fifty years later, their descendants continued to carry the banner. Justice was the rallying cry, justice and expressions of outrage over
the government’s hands-off attitude toward the escalating violence in the South.

The papers also carried news of events on the African continent. Cara glanced over a story on the exploits of the explorer David Livingstone. Under the auspices of Leopold II of Belgium, he’d begun establishing bases in the Congo Basin. Also reported on were the French, who after reestablishing themselves on the coast of African Dahomey, were now expanding into the interior. Cara solemnly shook her head and read on.

The most pressing concern of the Black press and Black people in general revolved around the upcoming Supreme Court decision in the case involving William R. Davis. On November 22, 1879, Davis, a Black resident of New York, had been denied entrance to a matinee at the New York Grand Opera House, even though he had a ticket. The ticket, purchased by his mulatto girlfriend, was deemed no good by the Opera House doorman, Samuel Singleton. Singleton offered a refund, but Davis refused it, demanding entrance instead. In the end, the police were called and Davis was evicted from the premises.

Davis felt he had a clear criminal complaint. The Civil Rights Law, passed by Congress after the war to strengthen the Fourteenth Amendment, guaranteed equal access to public accommodations, transportation, restaurants, and places such as New York’s Grand Opera House. So the Black man, along with a United States Attorney, sued.

The doorman Singleton was indicted on December 9, 1879. When the case was heard on January 14, 1880, Singleton’s lawyer, Louis Post, argued the unconstitutionality of the Civil Rights Law, saying it “interfered with the right of citizens and their private property.”

The judge presiding over the case couldn’t decide and sent the matter on to the Circuit Court. When they were unable to come to a decision, Davis’s suit went to the Supreme Court.

The newspapers said the high court’s ruling would be coming soon. Some people held hope; after all, it was the law of the land. Why else had the country waged war?

Others were not so optimistic. The Supreme Court had been no friend to Blacks during
Dred Scott v. Sanford
in ‘56 and ‘57. That judgment and the recent establishment of the hated Black Codes were only two items on a long list of court-sanctioned injustices that dated back to colonial times.

Both the pessimists and the optimists agreed on one thing: If the Supreme Court did indeed find the Civil Rights Law unconstitutional, segregation would become the law of the land for generations to come.

Cara thought about the future. She and Chase had not discussed the possibility of another child, but she assumed there would be one and perhaps more. What kind of world would they inherit? Sometimes her heart ached for thinking about it.

By April’s end, spring finally wrestled winter to the ground.

Unlike the first winter when whole families died from exposure in sparsely heated underground dugouts and others might have found the same fate had it not been for the generosity of the Indians in the area, the Valley population came out of hibernation relatively unscathed. Preparations for planting began. Neighbors cut off by the fierce Kansas snows could visit one another again, checking to see if anyone needed help in shoring
up winter-damaged homesteads—or in burying their dead now that the ground had begun to thaw.