Violet Fire (16 page)

“You had better say a prayer,” Rathe advised, “that that is the truth.”

“I'm shakin' in my boots, boy. An' jest what are you gonna do if it's not?”

“You'll find out,” Rathe said. “Don't worry about that.”

Ford's laugh followed them outside. Grace peeked at Rathe's face. He was really furious, but visibly restraining himself. Grace should have felt elation for having maneuvered him into standing up against Ford, but she didn't. She felt apprehension.

“Go home, Grace,” Rathe said, not looking at her, his strides hard and purposeful.

Grace knew better than to test her luck. Meekly, she
slowed and stopped, watching his rigid back. “What are you going to do now?” she called after him.

There was no answer.

“Rathe! Where are you going?”

“Where the hell do you think,” he flung back. “To the waterfront. And don't you even
think
about coming with me.”

“Maybe Ford was telling the truth!” she cried, worried about his safety. “Maybe they really did leave town!” She crossed her arms tightly against her chest and gazed after him until he turned a corner and disappeared from view. “Oh, what have I done?”

The next day the one dozen members of the Natchez Christian Temperance Union crowded into the open doorway of the Black Heel Saloon.

Grace, who'd recently been elected president, had the honor of being smack in the front, with Sarah Bellsley and Martha Grimes flanking her. For Grace, it was hard to focus on this event. Rathe had not appeared at Harriet's for supper last night. She had been frantic by the time all the occupants of the house had turned in for the night, and, feeling like a fool, she had waited in the dark parlor for him to return.

Then, just as Grace had tried to tell herself her fear was justified, that she would be frightened for anyone who'd gone to take the law into his own hands on that rough waterfront, he'd returned. It was midnight, and she hadn't alerted him to the fact that she was there, awake and waiting for him. Only after he had disappeared up the stairs to the second floor and all sound of movement had ceased did she go up to her own room.

He hadn't been at breakfast. Grace had assumed that he was sleeping late. She could well understand that—she was exhausted herself. But she was irked. She wanted to know what had happened. Had he found the sailors? Perversely, she couldn't help wishing that the sailors had left town—that Ford had been telling the truth.

Now, Grace surveyed the crowded saloon, pleased that they had chosen a Saturday, when the establishment was
full, to do their work. The ladies all carried pamphlets and hymnals. They were also all wide-eyed, staring at the plush furnishings, the vast, shimmering chandeliers, and the massive rosewood ceiling fans. The floors were polished, gleaming oak, covered with bright Persian rugs. The walls were paneled with shiny mahogany. Grace was just as surprised as her cohorts at the elegant interior of this establishment.

A tall man hurriedly came toward them, having arisen from one of the card tables. “That's Sam Patterson, the owner,” Sarah whispered in her ear. “And the big ox behind him must be the one who keeps the riffraff out.”

“Gentlemen,” Grace cried loudly. “Gentlemen, please give me your attention!”

The saloon was noisy with conversation, drunken laughter, and music from an elegant Heinreich piano that seemed out of place in the raucous saloon. Sam confronted them, pulling on his sideburns. “Ladies, what are you doing? Please, you can't come in here, it's not proper!” He was aghast.

“Oh, but we can and we will,” Grace assured him sweetly. All around her the patrons were oblivious, playing cards, drinking and conversing, although a few men sitting at the front tables had turned to gawk.

“There's my Benjamin,” cried Beth Ferguson.

Benjamin, his eyes almost popping out of his head at the sight of them, went red and hastily ducked.

“Oh my Lord,” Martha whispered, and as one entity the ladies followed her gaze.

A beautiful woman in a very short skirt that showed her entire calf and her knees had arisen from a gentleman's lap to saunter forward, laughing at the good women of the Natchez Christian Temperance Union. Grace could not prevent herself from staring at the prostitute. Despite her scandalous attire, the woman was very beautiful. “What's this?” the blonde cried. “Ladies, I do believe you made a wrong turn somewhere.”

A few men at the front tables laughed. The rest of the
saloon remained unimpressed at the historic event occurring.

“Sing, ladies. Sing now,” Grace directed, determined to get everyone's attention.

The ladies broke into a harmonious, rousing rendition of “Glory, Glory Hallelujah.” The laughter and conversation in the saloon died. The piano music stopped. Every man jack there turned to gaze upon the spectacle of some of Natchez' finest examples of gentility and motherhood crowded in the doorway of the Black Heel Saloon.

“Oh my God,” Sam Patterson said when the song had ended.

“Gentlemen!” Grace cried. “The Christian spirit has descended. It is time for us to examine the evils of intemperance!”

“Oh, shit,” a man at a front table said.

“I never thought I'd see this day in Natchez,” someone else muttered.

“I want you out of my saloon,” Sam cried.

“Let 'em speak, Sam.” The blonde laughed. “They're just making fools of themselves.”

“While you are here drinking merrily,” Grace shouted, “where are your wives and children? Sitting at home, gazing upon a barren hearth, looking into an empty larder? Weeping with loneliness, with hunger! And why? Why? Because you are drinking away your family's income, leaving nothing but suffering victims and widowed hearts behind! Have you no shame?” She signaled to her women. They burst into another deafening chorus.

Sam Patterson moaned, and when finally the singing ended, he warned, “I'm going to get the sheriff.”

“Go right ahead,” Grace said pleasantly. “I do not think I need to tell ugly tales,” she cried, then faltered abruptly for one moment when her gaze met a vivid, piercing blue one. Rathe did not look pleased. Grace tried to ignore him. Oh, why did he have to be here!

“But I will tell you ugly tales,” she continued, her voice ringing loud and clear. “Tales of drunken men who spend
every penny in their pockets, leaving nothing for their family. Men who are perfect Christian husbands until they imbibe. And then, they are known to assault their wives and children, sell off their property, even apprentice their own children to fill their pockets again—and for what? For more drink! Ladies, let's hear another chorus.”

“What do you want me to do, boss?” the big man asked Sam Patterson.

“Go get the sheriff,” Sam said.

“We don't need the sheriff,” a large redheaded man shouted, standing. “Ladies, I for one don't want to hear another goddamn word. You're interrupting my poker game and I've got the best hand I've had all day!”

“Yeah!” someone seconded. Soon the room sounded like a den of roaring lions.

Grace clenched her fists. “If we prize our loved ones,” she cried, “if we cherish our homes, our American institutions, our country and our God, it is our Christian duty to overcome this evil!”

Some of the men had risen at the poker player's angry statement. Now he came forward to confront Grace, towering over her. “Listen, lady, we've had enough.”

“You'd better go,” Sam Patterson said nervously. “Please, ma'am, before there's trouble. Red can be mean.”

“I am not afraid,” Grace stated.

“We are not afraid,” Sarah affirmed, although most of the ladies were white with tension.

Someone in the back shouted, “It's high time we had a temperance union in Natchez!”

A roar of male disapproval and fury sounded, all heads turning to spot the culprit. Grace's heart constricted. It was Allen. Dear, dear Allen. She should have known he would guess her plan.

“The ladies are right,” he continued loudly. “If a man is irresponsible because of drink, he shouldn't imbibe. Isn't it up to us to protect and cherish our wives, the moth
ers of our children, the guardians of our Christian morality?”

There were a few hesitant murmurs of agreement.

“Ladies,” Grace cried with aplomb. “Another chorus!”

They sang.

“No-good Yank traitor,” the man called Red bellowed.

“Get outta here, Yank,” someone else shouted. The voice was familiar. Grace instantly spotted Rawlins, the young man who'd threatened Allen last Sunday, and felt sick with dread. Then, instinctively, she glanced at Rathe. He was standing tensed and ready, watching everyone.

“Get the Yank traitor outta here!” a man in the back echoed.

“Get the ladies outta here!” someone closer to the women added.

“Remember your Christian duty,” a blond, bewhiskered fellow admonished. “They are ladies and wives and mothers and the finest flower of Southern society.”

But this latter went unheard, for suddenly two men were swinging punches at each other, and for an instant, everyone stared. Then Rawlins leapt at Allen. Grace screamed. The saloon exploded into a free-for-all.

“Allen!” Grace rushed forward. All around her men were wrestling and fighting. Grace could see that Rawlins had knocked Allen onto the bar with a series of hate-filled punches. Grace was afraid—Allen wasn't a fighter. She shoved through two pairs of wrestling men. Her foot hooked on someone and she sprawled onto the floor. She felt a hand in her hair, yanking, and she cried out, rolling over and twisting to get up. A strange man had one hand anchored in her hair, his fist raised for a blow. His eyes went wide when he realized he held a woman; then, with a whoop and a grin, he pulled her beneath him and gave her a wet, slobbering kiss.

Grace kneed him ruthlessly in the groin, then leapt to her feet, panting, ignoring her victim, who was now moaning in agony on the floor. The man directly in front
of her received a violent blow, and he staggered with the force of a locomotive into Grace. She went flying backward, landing on a table, sending glasses of whiskey tumbling.

“Grace!”

For a moment she remained on the table, the only safe place in this sea of fighting men. She scanned the throng and found Rathe, who had called out to her. Their gazes met. He was livid. He jammed his hand at her, and somehow she knew he was ordering her stay put until he could come to her. Then she saw a man coming up behind him with a chair raised in his hands, about to send it crashing down on his head. “Rathe!” she screamed.

Just in time he turned and caught the man's hands, wrestling with him for the chair. Rathe finally yanked it away and sent it flying across the room. Grace watched it hit some unsuspecting duelist in the back and send him to his knees, leaving his opponent staggering above him in drunken shock. Rathe and his adversary were now exchanging serious blows. Grace searched the crowd for Allen, and swallowed a scream. A man was holding him while Rawlins hit him repeatedly.

She cautiously slid off the other side of the table, this time careful not to get into anyone's way. Furious, she picked up a whiskey bottle and shoved through the rioting crowd. Without even thinking, she slammed the bottle down on the back of Rawlins' partner's head. He crumpled at her feet.

Allen was only semi-conscious. Grace's gaze met Rawlins'. Rawlins grinned. “Howdy, lil' lady.”

He grabbed her so quickly, Grace didn't have a chance. He kissed her ruthlessly. She felt her hair cascading free of its pins; she writhed like a wildcat, but he caught her wrists and jerked her hard against him.

That was when Rathe hauled Rawlins away. Grace went down on her knees, panting, as Rathe hit Rawlins hard, first in his abdomen, knocking the wind out of him, and then in his face, possibly cracking his jaw. Grace saw the
redheaded poker player reaching out for Rathe from his left side. Still on the floor, she screamed a warning and dove for Red's feet, tugging wildly. It was as hopeless as trying to fell a California redwood tree.

Red kicked her off, sending her rolling away, a million shafts of pain shooting through her ribs. For a moment she lay still and stunned.

Rathe saw it. Fury might have given him the superhuman strength he needed to take on Red, but Rathe wasn't interested in finding out. As the man reached for him Rathe drew his knife. Red froze. Then the man behind Red raised a bottle and smashed it on Red's head. With a roar, Red turned to find this latest opponent.

Rathe reached Grace in a second and lifted her in his arms. “You damn fool,” he shouted, as he shouldered his way through the crowd.

“Wait, Rathe, please,” she cried. “I can't possibly leave all the ladies behind…and Allen. He was hurt; I saw it.”

“The rest of the women have a lot more sense than you,” he snapped as he carried her through the doorway, out into the bright afternoon sunlight. “They got out of there as soon as the punches started to fly. And I'll come back for Allen.” The thought of looking after her Yankee beau irritated him, but then he reminded himself that he actually liked Allen.

As he hurried down the street with Grace in his arms, he saw the pain on her face and the tears welling in her eyes. Her long, impossibly thick, curly hair hung to his knees, tangling around him with every stride. “Hang on, Grace,” he said hoarsely. “Just hang on a little longer.”

 

After
he saw how badly hurt she was,
then
he would kill her.

His heart was in his throat, practically choking him as he carried her up the stairs, and into her room, bellowing for Harriet. She was very still in his arms, and very pale. Her full, lush mouth was narrowed in obvious pain. When
he set her on the bed, as gently as he could, she whimpered and opened her eyes. His hand moved into the untamable thickness of her red hair. “Everything's going to be okay now, Grace,” he murmured.

Her eyes focused on his. “Allen?”

His heart clenched. Anger and jealousy swept over him. “Is it your ribs?”

“Is Allen okay?” she whispered.

“I don't know.” He had slid his hands beneath her to unhook her gown. She didn't even protest. It was a sure sign of the state she was in and it made him even grimmer. He gently eased her gown off her shoulders and down to her waist.

“Grace, I've known you for less than a week,” he growled, “and I've saved your pretty little hide more times than I can count.”

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

She wasn't wearing a corset, just a chemise and the godawful heavy linen she used to bind her breasts. For the moment he ignored it.

“Rathe, what are you doing?”

“What do you think?” He cut her off. “Dammit, Grace, I want to see how badly you are hurt.”

Her mouth closed. He pulled the chemise out from her skirts and lifted it to expose her torso. Ugly red bruises were already turning purple. The sight hurt him unbearably.

“How bad is it?” she asked tremblingly.

He gently slid his hands over her ribs. Her skin was like satin—not a timely observation. “Nothing's broken,” he announced, feeling greatly relieved. “Just bruised.” His look was dark. “You're lucky.”