by Sarah Monzon
She lowered herself to the ground and lay back, the tall grasses offering a cushion for her aching body. She stared up into the sky and watched the wind lackadaisically blow the clouds across the canvas above. The life in her rolled, her too-tight stomach rippling. She covered the bulge with her hand and cooed, “Soon, little one. Soon you’ll have all the room you need to roam.”
Though that wasn’t exactly the case. Spain had ceded its rights of Florida over to the United States, and already the leaders in Washington were sending men to determine the fate of both the Native and Black Seminole. Though Nokosi tried to shelter her from such talks, she’d heard the whispering. Felt his presence ever near her as if he was afraid to let her leave his sight.
Slave owners were demanding their runaway property be returned to them, sending catchers to retrieve those who’d found refuge among the Native people. The government was even pressuring the elders to round up and return the Black Seminole that they’d called their brothers, that they’d fought alongside of.
Such talk caused her husband’s jaw to harden even more than normal, and she feared his teeth would be ground to nothing in little time. But the protectiveness he showered upon her as well as the other runaways warmed her heart. Though some of his people might consider Winnie and the other Black Seminole their slaves, her husband considered them a part of his tribe, his clan, and therefore family.
A shadow covered her face, and she tilted her head back, grinning when she stared up into the eyes of her husband.
Nokosi moved to her side and settled at her hip, placing his big palm over the back of her hand still on her middle, where the baby kicked against his tight confinement. “Our son is strong.”
“A warrior like his father.”
He looked out over the grasses, his body present but his gaze far away in another place. Too often she’d come upon him like this. Sometimes she worried that memories plagued him as they sometimes still did her. He didn’t talk much of past battles where he’d been made to take another’s life in order to protect those he loved, nor did he ask her to share about what it had been like as a slave. They simply accepted that some things were better left unsaid.
Now, though, she wondered if his absentmindedness was not pondering but listening to the drums of change that beat a cadence on the air and reverberated between their ribs. That foreboding of the river’s bend.
Winnie lifted her hand and rested it on her husband’s cheek, turning his face so she could look into his eyes. She couldn’t offer words of reassurance. Neither one knew if all would be well. Who was made aware of the future but God in heaven?
A pain stabbed her lower back, then shot to the front, where it wrapped around her middle. She sucked in a breath as she pitched forward and doubled over, her muscles contracting and stealing her breath away. Seconds passed all too slowly, and she thought the pain would rip her in half before it released her. Nokosi gripped her upper arm in support. Then little by little, her tightened body unwound, and the knifelike stabbing ebbed away. She felt unsteady even though she still reclined on the bed of a meadow, and her lips wobbled as she forced them to bow. “Seems our little warrior is fightin’ to get out.”
Nokosi’s face remained as solemn and unmoved as it ever did, except for a pinch along his brow. He shot a look to her middle, then returned her gaze with widening eyes. “It is time.”
She nodded, gritting her teeth against the sweep of another contraction. She wouldn’t cry out, though the pressure built. Her muscles tightened until she thought they’d snap.
As if she weighed nothing more than the babe itself, Nokosi scooped her up in his arms and started across the meadow on fast feet.
“Down, husband,” she panted as her body once again released itself from its constriction and she could breathe. “It’s good to walk.”
He paused, indecision carved into his face before he softened. “You are sure?”
She wasn’t sure of anything, but a need to move itched across her body. She’d seen other women labor to bring forth their children. Some swayed, some walked, but few held still until the time came to push the babe from their bodies. Winnie’s pains had only begun. It could be hours until she’d hold her little one in her arms.
“I’m sure.” She had to move, work out the kinks tightening in her back. Try to keep her muscles loose between the stabs of contractions.
He lowered her feet to the ground but kept an arm wrapped around her back for support. She leaned into him, allowing his strength to buoy her up. Each time a contraction hit, she stopped and doubled over. The fourth time the pain became too much, and she screamed out against the agony. Nokosi set his jaw and collected her once more against his chest despite her protests. Once they reached the village, he barked out orders, sending people scurrying to do his bidding. Martha rushed over, her face calm yet determined.
“Over here.” She directed Nokosi to the birthing lodge that they had recently erected for this occasion. Two upright poles supported the structure, a depression dug out beneath for the woman to squat or kneel, gravity helping bring the baby into the world. “I heard her screams and prepared.”
Nokosi carried Winnie into the lodge, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. “Pakse.”
Hearing his special name for her imbued Winnie with strength. Another wave of pain washed through her body, and she gripped Nokosi’s fingers still in her hand. An overwhelming urge to push built in her pelvis, and she coiled in on herself. She reached for Martha on the other side of her. Her nostrils flared against the torment of labor. Sweat coated her body. Through gritted teeth, she managed to say “He’s coming” as she lowered into a squat.
Nokosi’s eyes flashed before he took up residence behind her, holding her up. He shouldn’t be there, but the babe was coming too fast. Martha moved in front of Winnie, hands ready to catch the baby. Winnie’s body shook with her efforts to push, but as quickly as the labor had come on, a small body slipped from her own, and she fell back into her husband’s arms in exhaustion.
Martha turned with a bundle in her arms, and all Winnie could see was her friend’s back. She met Nokosi’s gaze as he lowered them both to the ground and gathered her up to lean against his chest.
A hearty cry ripped through the hushed silence, and Winnie’s face split into a smile as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. Martha wrapped the bundle, then handed the baby into Winnie’s eager arms.
“What will you name him?” she asked.
“Otter. His name is Otter.” Winnie stared into the little face that scrunched as he worked himself up for a squall. The hair on top of his head was black with a curl that matched her own, but the structure of bones that made up his face matched the proud and strong heritage of his father. “My little Otter. Cunning against the alligator. Swift as the current. A mighty hunter with a playfulness that causes all to smile.”
“It is a good name.” Nokosi kissed her temple.
Otter cried, his arms straining against the material Martha had wrapped him in. His head turned toward Winnie, and he rooted around, his mouth opening and closing in his search for food.
“Hungry, my little warrior?” Winnie directed him to a breast, where he latched on and suckled with such force she winced.
“Word is I’m now a grandfather.” Asa stepped into the lodge, his face beaming with pride. He squatted to be eye level with Winnie, Nokosi, and the baby. His eyes glistened, and Winnie reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. He hadn’t shown such emotion since they’d first escaped and found refuge among the Seminole. Not since he’d grieved Temperance’s loss. This time, though, his lips quivered from joy and not grief.
Winnie trailed a finger down her son’s plump cheek. “A grandson. Born into freedom.” She met her father’s eye. “Because of you.”
She blinked back her own tears, letting the memories of other young mothers’ cries as their babies were ripped from their arms and sold fill her mind. Then she let gratefulness wash the sights a
nd sounds away, focusing again on the miracle in her arms. Refusing to entertain any thoughts that she or her baby could be separated from Nokosi and returned to slavery. That everything they’d fought so hard for could be reversed in a single moment.
The lodge’s flap pulled back, Isaac filling the entrance, unsure if he should enter or remain outside.
Nokosi’s chest vibrated at Winnie’s back as he spoke. “You are this child’s pawa now. It is your responsibility to teach him the ways of the land. To hunt. To fight. To believe.”
Isaac fisted his hand and brought it to cover his heart. “I’ll protect him and teach him well.”
Winnie’s eyes felt heavy and her smile dreamy as she peered at her brother through hooded lids. “We know you will.”
She looked down at her precious bundle, who’d fallen asleep at her breast, and snuggled deeper within the confines of Nokosi’s warmth before drifting off to sleep in safety.
Chapter 21
Present Day, Florida
Olivia was used to the atmosphere of a kitchen, but being in the middle of it was all kinds of new exhilaration. Instead of standing on the sidelines, she was in the game. The knife felt familiar in her hands, the sizzle of the blackened fish cooking on the flattop behind her and the smells permeating the air and soaking into her body and igniting her senses. Cooking in a professional kitchen, even of the food-truck variety, was thrilling. Exciting. Comfortable—like she’d found her place and belonged right there.
“One fish and grits, one salad!” Adam called as he slid an order into the bar above the grill. He’d relinquished his cooking utensils for a pad of paper and a pencil an hour ago, effectively handing over the reins of dinner service to her.
She scooped a portion of cheese grits into a serving boat, then used a spatula to lift the tilapia fillets off the grill and over the grits. “Order up!” She smiled at him as she set the boat on the counter, where he’d finish it off with fresh salsa and assemble the salad.
She’d arrived straight from her shift at Seaside to find him prepping in the ridiculous apron Trent had bought, all five layers of pink ruffles. Even she wouldn’t wear something like that. But he was actually going to follow through with the bet. Somehow, she’d known he would, even after she’d reassured him she wouldn’t hold him to it. That was just how he was. A man of his word. Which was why she’d taken the liberty of ordering a few T-shirts made with Southern Charm’s logo on it.
He’d turned to her when she’d entered through the back of the truck, the corners of his mouth pulled down as if distressed. “I know you’re going to be disappointed that you don’t get to wear this awesomeness today”—he swept a hand down his front—“but I couldn’t find another one for you at the store. We’ll have to keep looking or put in a special order so you can get outfitted in the new uniform.”
She stabbed a finger at him. “That is not going to be the new uniform.” The plastic bag in her hand landed next to an onion he’d been chopping. “This is.”
He wiped his hands on the most hideous of the ruffle materials and used a finger to peel back the bag’s mouth. “What’s this?”
Olivia stepped forward and pulled out a black shirt, holding it up at her shoulders so it cascaded down her front. “The new uniform.”
Adam looked it over before raising his gaze to meet hers. His eyes twinkled. “Getting a mite handsy with my business, don’t ya think?”
She stepped around him and untied the apron strings at his lower back. “You can thank me later.”
He removed his hat, then lifted the apron over his head. Turning his back to her, he reached behind him and tugged off his shirt. Corded muscles ran along the sides of his spine, his shoulders bunching as he wadded up the cotton material and threw it into the passenger’s seat of the truck.
Olivia told herself to avert her eyes, but the sight held her hypnotized. She blinked slowly as the new shirt lowered to cover his bare skin, and he turned to face her again.
In one smooth step he’d enfolded her in his arms and gave her a tight, quick squeeze. “I’ll thank you now.” He moved back and peered down at her. “Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
It doesn’t mean anything. Not the shirt and definitely not the hug. She needed to keep reminding herself that.
Except she was finding that she really really wanted it to.
Licking her lips, she shrugged. “No biggie. It’s just a shirt, right?”
He leaned his hip against the counter and studied her the same way he had the first time they’d had a conversation in this space—with patience and sincerity and a desire to really understand her. “No, it isn’t just a shirt. You actually believe I can do this.” He waved a hand in front of him to indicate their surroundings. “That all of this isn’t some big mistake. You’re the only one who understands my passion for food and thinks I can make it and that I’m not just running away from my ‘higher calling.’” He used air quotes.
She winced inwardly, his admission and gratitude more a slap than anything. Because while yes, she did understand his love of food, she also agreed with his family and thought he was running away from, well, dare she say his destiny? But she couldn’t voice that without admitting she’d let curiosity get the better of her and Googled him. Hundreds of pages of hits, some solely about him and his extensive résumé, but loads more about his specific cases. The stories behind the men and women he’d defended and why he’d felt it his duty and honor to fight for them.
There were pictures of him in the courtroom, where he looked like a bear protecting his young, his eyes shining with justice yet softened by compassion. Those pictures and stories were but a glimpse, and some not altogether objective, but even to her she could see that he was overcome by a sense a purpose, that he had been walking a path set before him. A path greater than himself.
Then she’d clicked on a case involving a young woman named Brittany Foresythe. Sixteen and brutally raped. It had been a high-profile case, and Olivia was surprised she hadn’t heard about it before. Too busy working extra shifts to pick up some of the bills pouring in for her parents, she guessed. But that case…
She’d watched the videos. Read the articles. Scrolled through the pictures. The fighter in a tailored suit shriveled to a shell of a man throughout the proceedings. He’d ended up winning the case for his client, but he’d lost so much in the process.
No wonder he’d reacted the way he had when his old partner had shown up on television defending another accused rapist. She’d learned that through her search too—that Hudson Burke, the hotshot defending the lacrosse captain in the Stephanie Singh case, was Adam’s old partner.
But she couldn’t reconcile the conviction of the man he’d been before all that to the man who hid in shadows and behind smiles and laughter. She’d felt like, looking at him in the courtroom, hearing videos of his closing arguments in cases, she’d been witnessing a small glimpse of what Jesus was doing on her behalf in heaven—the mediator pleading her case and crying my blood, my blood. I have taken her sin and washed it clean. I have paid the price. And because of that she was acquitted of all her sins. Because Jesus represented her case and threw himself on the mercy of the court. She’d felt that while watching Adam defend his clients.
But could she say that to him? Should she?
“Adam…”
He chucked her chin, all seriousness dropping from his face and voice. “Enough of this sap. Get back to work, or I’ll dock your pay.”
She let it drop, grateful for the out, and hip-checked him, pushing him a step to the side. Picking up the knife and positioning it over the onion, she said, “That would only work if you were paying me.”
He winked. “Touché.”
All had gone smoothly since then, but a heaviness rested on Olivia’s sternum, and she was afraid it wouldn’t lift until she told him the truth—that she thought he ought to return to law and the courtroom. He was even more at home there than she was here in his kitchen, and she cou
ld only imagine how much he’d miss it if he could see past the guilt that held him prisoner.
“Good evening. What can I get for you tonight?” Adam leaned across the narrow counter, ducking under the service window, pad and pencil poised.
A woman held a toddler on her cocked hip, her dark-blond hair even darker due to oils from needing a good washing. Her tank top pulled to the side she held the child, revealing the top of her grungy tan bra. Everything about her reeked of desperation, from her shallow eyes to her bone-thin body. The small boy sucked his thumb, dirt streaks marring his smooth cheeks. The mother cast nervous glances behind her before hoisting her son higher up on her hip. “Mr. Carrington? Adam Carrington?”
Adam lowered the pencil, his gaze narrowing. “Yes.”
His affirmation seemed to cause her more distress. Olivia paused in stirring the large pot of grits to observe the exchange.
The woman’s hand shook as she reached up and gripped the small overhang at the window, stepping even closer so her words wouldn’t be overheard. “Please, Mr. Carrington, you’ve gotta help me. I’m in some deep trouble and don’t know what to do. He said you’d help. He said you were the man I could come to. That you’d listen.”
“Who said?” Adam became still except for his eyes, which quickly swept down the sidewalk on each side and the large field in front.
Was he looking for danger? Or whoever had sent her? Or perhaps another customer he could use as an excuse to send this woman on her way? But there wasn’t anyone. The night had grown quiet, the crowds dying down.
“Mr. Burke. He said you’d know what to do. He said—”
Adam silenced her with a cut of his hand through the air. “Hudson Burke?”