Indigo (4 page)

Hester ignored his sneer but as she showed them to the door, she had a question. "What makes you think this Black Daniel is hiding around here, Mr. Shoe?"

"I got my ways of knowin'," he said smoothly. "I also heard he had a knife stuck in his gut, so he couldn't've gotten far. He's here somewhere."

"What does he look like?" she asked.

"Mulatto and tall, according to my source."

A chill went up her spine at his words. Was the Black Daniel correct? Did her community indeed harbor a traitor?

"Oh, and gal?"

Hester turned to Shoe.

"When I find the bastard, and I will, I hope you're involved. I'd love to put you on the block."

"Let's go, Shoe," Sheriff Lawson barked.

Shoe gave Hester one last soul-chilling leer then followed the sheriff back out into the night.

Hester watched until they'd ridden away. Only after she closed the door did she notice that her hands were shaking.

Her friends rushed to her side, all eager to get her to a seat where she could calm herself. Hester waved them away, sat down, and took a deep breath. After a few moments, her shaking subsided. Pulling off her gloves, she asked, "Lord, could you smell that man?"

"You could smell that man in Ohio," one of the women offered. The dry tone first drew snickers, then gales of laughter. It broke the tension and for the next few minutes they took turns giving their reactions to his odor and his stupidity. The hilarity ended when Hester summed up what they all knew. "Any man that ignorant is very dangerous. Let's hope he gives up and goes back south."

"He's probably not smart enough for that," someone remarked seriously. Although Hester could still hear Shoe's promise in her mind, none of her friends voiced reactions to Shoe's threats to put Hester on the block.

The women left soon after, promising to alert their husbands and neighbors to Shoe's presence, and Hester hurried down to the cellar. Her fears of the Daniel bellowing and bringing Shoe and his men down on their heads proved unfounded. She found him asleep, and so quietly withdrew.

When Hester first came north, the sounds of the house at night always frightened her until her grandfather explained the creakings were just her ancestors tipping around making sure everyone was having good dreams. As she grew older, she knew her grandfather's tale had been just that; a tale to soothe the fears of a scared child. However, she clung to that memory now, lying in her bed, listening to the house settle in for the night. She wondered if her aunt would now join the corps of tipping ancestors? The mental picture of Aunt Katherine tipping around brought a smile to Hester's face; Katherine Wyatt never tipped anywhere. When she entered a room, people knew immediately, either by her full-bodied laugh or by the knot of people surrounding her and arguing over her stand on some issue of the day. She loved to argue, or as she always termed it, debate. The day the town buried Katherine Wyatt, the weather had been glorious up until the moment the bearers set the coffin in the ground. A thunderstorm came up out of nowhere to pelt the mourners with rain, wind, thunder, lightning, and hail the size of crabapples. As they all ran for cover to await the storm's passing, one of her aunt's friends swore Katherine was up in heaven arguing with the Lord.

Katherine, for all her unorthodox ways, would not have argued with Ezra Shoe tonight. She would've handled the situation just as Hester had done—seen Shoe for an ignorant wastrel and held her tongue until he exited. Katherine would not have jeopardized years of work for an unwashed slave catcher. However, Hester did not know how her aunt would have handled the Black Daniel. The man was a walking mystery, but she supposed one needed to be to steal slaves.

The next morning when Hester entered the cellar room with his breakfast tray, he was gone. She assumed he'd gone to the privy, so she set the tray on the table beside the bed and took a seat on the rocker to await his return. She tried not to be upset by his disappearance. After all, everyone had needs, especially first thing in the morning, but thinking of slave catchers searching for him made her nervous. She felt as if he were deliberately placing the entire community in the path of danger simply because he had an aversion to using the pot in the corner. She calmed herself and decided it wouldn't do to get upset. In less than a week's time he would be recovered enough to travel, and thus be out of her hair.

He came hobbling in a few moments later, aided by the cane Bea had loaned him. He took one glance at her stern face and said, "You look like a disapproving school teacher rocking in that chair, Miss Wyatt."

He eased himself down to the cot, the strain on his face showing plainly.

Hester chose not to reply to his unflattering description. Instead she said, "Slave catchers stopped by for tea last evening."

He turned and stared. She was pleased to see she'd finally gained his undivided attention. He assessed her a moment, then said, "Start from the beginning."

Hester related the story of Shoe's visit. The only detail she didn't divulge was Shoe's vow to place her on the block. When she finished, Hester asked, "Do you see now why I'm rocking like a disappointed school teacher? By venturing outside, you're jeopardizing everything we've worked for to keep this route safe. I don't mind emptying the pot, I do it for passengers all the time."

"Where I prefer to relieve my needs is none of your concern, Miss Wyatt."

"It is when slave catchers are on my front porch, Mr.—" She had no idea what to call him. "How do you prefer to be addressed?"

He smiled inwardly. She was a virago one moment then primly polite the next. The beating he'd received from the slave catchers had left him with a pounding head. The throbbing had lessened considerably since last night, but having her in here menacing him seemed to be making the ache worse. At full strength he'd be able to handle Hester Wyatt and her bossy nature, but right now he was at her mercy.

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"This is the fourth day." Hester was still waiting to hear the name he wanted her to use.

"Name's Galen."

Hester was certain he'd plucked the name from the air. He would hardly reveal his true identity to her, a stranger, but for his remaining stay, she'd address him as Galen.

Galen wished he had two sound eyes; it hurt to try and keep her in focus. Because of the swelling, he had only a hazy picture of what she actually looked like: small, dark-skinned, passable looks, a full head of thick, ebony hair worn coiled on her nape like a spinster.

His growling stomach interrupted his thoughts. He glanced over at the tray that presumably held his breakfast. "Are you punishing me for going outdoors by letting my meal get cold?"

Hester looked at the tray and wondered if he had any manners at all. Silently, she brought the tray to the bed and set it beside him. Up close she could see the perspiration beaded on his face. She placed her palm on his forehead and was not pleased to discover he'd worked himself into a rise in temperature again by going outdoors. She felt his shirt front. The blue flannel was damp with sweat. "You," she said to him, "need a keeper."

She strode over to the old chest and extracted another worn shirt which appeared large enough to fit his muscular build. She returned and thrust it at him. In an even voice she made a request. "Put this on, please."

She thought he smiled for a moment, but with the damaged face, she couldn't be sure.

He took the shirt from her hand and she waited while he struggled out of the old and into the new. Because of his bound ribs, she made a move to help him at one point, but one flash from that coal-black eye made her keep her distance.

When he finished, he asked, "How cold is my meal now?"

Hester replied, "Not nearly as cold as I'd like, I'm sure."

He did smile then. "You always this combative, Miss Wyatt?"

"Not as a rule, no."

"That's too bad. A combative woman is usually a passionate woman," he added.

Something in the low tone of his voice touched her like the faintest brush of a breeze, then was gone. "I thought you stole slaves. I didn't realize you were also an authority on women."

"Women are no great study. They are either passionate or they're not."

Hester knew women to be a bit more complex than he
espoused. She thought to herself how convenient it must be to be male and confident enough in that maleness to give such short shrift to the supposed weaker sex. She simply shook her head and said, "I would love to debate the merits of your argument but there are none, so I will take my leave."

"I thought you were combative."

His soft voice stopped her. She replied, "Not with an injured opponent. Trouncing you in a debate seems hardly fair, considering your condition, sir."

That softly spoken barb struck bone. Galen eyed her in a new light. "You've very sharp claws, Indigo. Are you one of those women who has no use for men?"

Hester almost missed the question because her brain stuck on hearing him name her Indigo. "No. Some of the men I'm acquainted with are stellar individuals."

Galen thought the name Indigo fit her well. Her hands were the only parts of her he could see without real difficulty. However, it did occur to him that she might find the appellation offensive, so he said, "I didn't mean to offend you by pegging you Indigo, Miss Wyatt. Code names are
de rigeur
in my line of work. Since your hands are so distinctive—" He shrugged. "I apologize."

"The name does not offend me," she replied truthfully. She found his gentle regard for her feelings surprising, though. "I was once told my hands would brand me a slave for the remainder of my years."

"They were correct, but as long as it doesn't brand who you are in your heart, the color of your hands, like the color of your skin, is of no consequence."

She gave him a kind smile. "You sound very much like my Aunt Katherine. She raised me to be proud of the life I've led."

"Where is she now?"

"She passed away a few months ago. I still miss her dearly."

Galen waited while she paused a moment to linger over her grief. She said then, "This was her house. She and my father grew up under this roof."

Galen asked, "Is your father out on the Road somewhere?"

"No. He died before my third birthday."

"And your mother?"

"I've no idea. She and I were sold to separate places after I was born. My aunt was never able to learn her whereabouts."

Galen thought how similar their lives were. Even though he'd been born free, he, too, had grown to adulthood not knowing his parents. "Surely you have a husband, you don't live here alone, do you?"

"Yes, I live alone. I have a fiance but he's in England until spring."

Galen wondered for a moment if the fiance was an abolitionist, then asked, "When did your family escape and come north?"

Hester shook her head at his faulty assumption. "Only I escaped. My aunt and the rest of the Wyatts have been free since my great-grandfather was given freedom in exchange for enlisting during the War for Independence."

Galen's aching head began to pound as he tried to make some sense of her tale. If her aunt and father were free, how had Hester and her mother wound up being sold? By law, children born of free women could not be placed on the block. He cast around for an answer to the riddle. "Then your mother was a slave?"

"Yes. My father sold himself into slavery to marry her."

Galen stared in shock. He'd never heard of such a thing!

Hester saw his look and responded with a bitter chuckle. "Yes. He was a free merchant seaman. According to one of my father's mates, my mother and her master came onto the ship one morning to look over the hold's manifest, and my father fell in love."

"Why didn't he offer to buy her?"

Hester shrugged. "The mate said my father tried, but the owner wouldn't agree. In the letter my father wrote to Aunt Katherine, he said selling himself seemed to be the only solution available at the time." After a quiet moment, Hester added, "Love must be a terrible thing." She shook herself free of the melancholy threatening to claim her over the tragic plight of her parents, then picked up his tray. "I'll rewarm your breakfast."

Galen nodded and watched her depart.

She returned with his breakfast a few minutes later, then left him to eat. When she came back to fetch his tray, she found he'd eaten all of the soft-cooked eggs and potatoes, but the draught he was supposed to drink for the pain in his ribs and ankle stood untouched in the small tin cup. "You didn't drink your medicine," she stated.

"It puts me to sleep. I can't think if I'm asleep."

"You won't be able to think at all if you don't recover fully."

He still bore a startling resemblance to Homer's Cyclops. The one eye, so riveting, stared out of a face less swollen but more distinctively colored in bruises of violet, yellow, and blue. "You must drink this draught."

He answered by asking, "How long have you lived in this house?"

"Since my ninth year, but I am not the person under discussion here. Drink this."

She thrust the cup at him. He looked up at her, and although she could feel herself begin to shake, she neither flinched nor backed down.