Freedom's Kiss

by Sarah Monzon

  Nokosi dismounted and held up his hands to her. Leaning forward, she slid into his waiting arms. When her feet were firmly on the ground, he stepped away and retrieved Otter. Tickling him under his chin, he handed their son to her. Isaac slid from his horse without a sound and stepped behind her. Nokosi caught her brother’s gaze and held it, communicating without words before finally engaging his tongue. “Keep my family safe.”

  He turned then and, back straight, walked out of the cover of the trees and into the open. Soldiers shouted when they spotted him, and Winnie sucked in a breath, her heart stilling in her chest. He raised his hands palms out but continued walking. His voice rose. From the distance she couldn’t make out the words. A door attached to one of the buildings opened, and out stepped a man in military regalia. The man listened before waving his sentries away and allowing Nokosi to step in front of him and into the structure.

  She tried to slow her breathing but couldn’t focus past the drumming in her ears. They wouldn’t hurt him, would they? Not in a time of peace? Not when they already had the natives under their thumb?

  Isaac must have sensed her distress, because he laid a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  She whipped around to look at him, Otter clutching at her shirt as she swung about. Prying his fingers from around the material, she thrust him at her brother. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “What? Winnie, stop,” Isaac hissed, but she’d already picked her way through the underbrush to get behind the building. “Winnie!”

  It was a bad idea. Reckless. But need spurred her on.

  On silent feet she crouched close to the ground and sprinted across the open space between the wood and the back of the log cabin. No shouts were raised. No guns fired. She sucked in huge lungfuls of air and pressed her ear to the crack between the timbers.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” The man’s voice sounded friendly enough. No edge of threat sliced through his words.

  Winnie closed one eye and squinted, trying to see through the small gap between the rough-hewn logs. She could make out shadows mostly, shapes to give her an idea of the layout within. Nokosi stood, his tall frame ramrod straight, while the officer reclined in a chair too small for his bulk. He didn’t seem intimidated or threatened by her husband. In fact, if not for his hand near the gun at his hip holster, she would think him totally at ease.

  “My people are starving.” Nokosi got right to the point.

  The officer sighed, and Winnie heard the sincerity in the exhale. “That I am sorry for.”

  “Apologies will not fill their empty bellies.”

  “No, they won’t, will they?” The chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “Look, technically we have fulfilled our end of the treaty. Governor DuVal, on good faith, even began paying your people the allotted five thousand per year before you settled onto the reservation.”

  “But the land you forced us on has been uninhabitable, and though we toil the land, it does not produce the food we need for survival.”

  “DuVal knows this too. It is why he has written Washington for help. As my position of commander of this post, I too have sent my own missives, alerting the government of your plight and seeking aid.”

  “And?”

  Silence stretched, and Winnie’s innards cramped. That intuition that bespoke nothing good was to come whispered in her ear.

  “I wish I had better news to give you.” The commander sounded resigned. “Though I should keep these words to myself, I will share them with you. There is still a divide among the thinking of those to the north of us, those in power higher up than my own concerning your people and the slaves you yet harbor. Voices are growing and gaining ground that the Seminole and other natives in the land should be moved west of the Mississippi.”

  Winnie slapped a hand over her mouth so that her sharp intake of breath would not be heard. Why this news should surprise her, she couldn’t say. All she knew was that a sense of injustice, one that had been her constant companion since birth, rose up and railed in her chest, as if her very ribs were its prison bars. The prodding that had placed Asa’s feet, along with the rest of her family’s, upon the path to escape, the same one that had risen their voices along with the Seminoles’ in a battle cry during the last war, pushed to be released.

  The chair creaked again, and this time the fort commander stood. “If your people would hold to the terms of the treaty and return all the slaves in your possession, I am sure the consensus in Washington will turn to your favor. More plantations are being built upon Florida soil every day, bringing in waves of more slaves. These new settlers are worried, and rightly so, that their property will escape into your territory. People argue that there will be a slave rebellion or an Indian uprising, and if these new settlers are heard, even more troops will be sent to ensure peace. But if you return your slaves in good faith…”

  “What you and your people call property, I call family. I call wife. I call son.” Winnie couldn’t see Nokosi because the military man blocked her small view, but she could hear her husband’s gritted teeth and imagine the tight coil of his body. “Never will they be taken from me as long as my heart pumps lifeblood through my body.”

  The commander pressed his fingertips along a desk in the center of the room. “I understand your position. I am sorry your journey here has been in vain, but I encourage you now to return to the reservation.”

  Winnie didn’t wait another second. Folding her body in half to get as close to the ground as possible, she traced her footsteps from earlier and returned to Isaac and Otter in the woods. By the time she reached them, her heart pounded, and blood rushed in her ears. Though she wanted to, she couldn’t attribute it to her sprint across the open space or the sliver of worry that she’d be spotted by the guards. No. What had her chest constricting was the knowledge that another storm loomed in the distant horizon for her and her family. Could they weather another such onslaught, or would this be the one that would finally drive their bodies back into the ground from whence they came?

  The veins along her brother’s temple pulsed as she came to a stop before him. Needing to assure her son was safe, she plucked Otter from where he drew pictures in the sand with a stick and shifted him onto her lap.

  Isaac paced before her, and in that moment, he looked so much like their father.

  “What were you thinkin’? Nokosi is gonna scalp me when he hears what you did. He told me to keep you safe.”

  She glanced up, half sorry that she’d given him a fright. “I’m unharmed. Your promise to my husband has been fulfilled.”

  He cursed under his breath. “That’s not the point, and you know it.” Stopping his pacing, he crouched in front of her, curiosity taking the edge away from his anger. “What did you hear?”

  Nokosi’s shadow fell over them, and both looked up guiltily. Winnie felt the displeasure of his glare all the way to her heart.

  “We will speak of this later.” He snatched the horse’s ropes from where they’d been ground tied. “For now, we must see to our starving people.”

  Chapter 27

  Present Day, Florida

  Olivia shifted the car into park and peered down at her phone to check the address. Yep. She was at the right place. She lifted her head and looked out the front windshield just in time for the wipers to swipe away the droplets of rain cascading down the glass, only to be quickly replaced by the steady downpour.

  Who would have thought Adam lived in an RV park? The No Vacancy neon sign she’d seen as she turned into the site was redundant. The slots were packed. Large coaches, midsized RVs, fifth wheels—the recreational vehicles one would expect to find on acreage set apart for the vacationing populace. Except site 219.

  The wipers swished again, clearing her view. The house built on a twenty-or-so-foot trailer could be pulled by a truck but looked out of place among the weekend dwellings. She knew tiny homes were a thing, but she’d never actually known anyone personally who lived in one—unt
il now.

  Her throat tightened as she sat there. The house looked homey. Like the cutest dollhouse in the history of pampered little girls. Beachy with light-gray siding and a silver tin roof. She could imagine the gentle pinging sound the rain made on that roof. The long rectangular windows, which must be in the loft, slanted half open to let in the cooler weather of the evening shower.

  But no matter how cute the little house appeared, her gut twisted. The gentle prodding that had been poking at her pushed a little harder. She sighed and laid her head back against the headrest, tired of fighting the constant insistence and knowing from whence it came.

  From memory, she recited, “The Lord said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountain apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.”

  Olivia knew why God hadn’t tried to use wind, lightning, earthquake, or fire when He spoke to her, and maybe the reasons were the same for the prophet Elijah. A flash of lightning or crack of thunder, even the shaking of an earthquake or the heat of a fire—they were but momentary. Something she could either justify away or allow time to fade them from her memory. But a gentle, stirring, constant whisper? A voice that was unrelenting until one acknowledged the sovereignty of the source? That was something she couldn’t ignore.

  The wipers swished again.

  She could procrastinate, but not ignore the prodding.

  She dumped her phone into her purse, then turned the key to shut off her car and tossed her key ring in as well.

  “Give me the words.” Because heaven knew she didn’t have a clue how to broach this subject with Adam, and the selfish side of her, the one that just wanted to bask in the happiness of a budding relationship and employ her lips with kisses instead of words, didn’t want to be the reason his smile would fall victim to that haunting look that had come over him more than once.

  She’d even convinced herself she could do it too—be the person to chase away that darkness for good. But no matter how tender her touch or how funny her jokes, the shadow remained behind the brightness of his silvery eyes.

  Rain splattered her head and shoulders as she sprinted the short distance to his front door and knocked. The door opened, and she was pulled in—into the house and Adam’s arms. Her nose buried into his cotton shirt. He smelled fresh and clean, the scent of his soap registering before the aroma wafting from the kitchen.

  She lifted her head and gave an exaggerated sniff. “Italian?”

  He wiped a raindrop from her cheek. “Homemade noodles with a fresh marinara sauce.”

  “Smells divine.” It did. But the aroma couldn’t be blamed for her tumultuous gut at the moment.

  “It’s almost ready. Want a tour of my place first?”

  She grasped the suggestion like a lifeline. “Sure.” She couldn’t very well spring the truth on him—that he was running away from his calling and hiding out in the food truck, not to mention his complete misunderstanding of the theology of atonement—right when she stepped through the door. Those things would settle better on a full stomach.

  He took a step back and opened his arms wide with a grin. She rotated in place. Bright shiplap walls were painted white, and a small ladder led up to the sleeping loft. The kitchen resided under the loft, also painted a bright white with butcher-block countertops. A half-sized gas stove sat in the middle, with a mini stainless-steel fridge off to the side. She continued her slow spin, taking in the built-in bench with a padded seat and throw pillows, storage underneath.

  It was the cutest prison cell she’d ever seen, and it hurt that she immediately recognized his home as such. Her heart pinched as that gentle prompting pushed her spirit. She had to tell him. Now. Remind him of the freedom in forgiveness and the blood already spilled to make atonement.

  Adam’s dark brows pulled low over his eyes. “What? I know it’s small, but…”

  At his voice trailing off, she wondered what he would’ve said. Would he have made excuses? Would he have voiced what he so obviously felt? That he deserved even less. That if he could, he’d likely sell this place too and live in a cardboard box if it would ease his guilt or make what he believed a wrong choice right.

  She touched his hand. “Adam, there’s something I need to say to you.” Please don’t be angry with me. This—her fear of his rejection—had sealed her lips up until then. She felt like she was backing him into a corner, forcing him to see things he’d stubbornly clenched his eyes against. But he needed to hear. To see. And be set free. Even if it meant he’d walk away from her.

  He threaded his fingers through hers, his throat bobbing. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, tortured. “Is it something I want to hear?”

  She stroked her thumb over the length of his forefinger, not able to reassure him any other way. A man running rarely felt relief over being caught.

  “Can it wait?” His pleading was like a fist to a cookie, leaving her heart in crumbs. How she hated to hurt him. But after pain came relief, didn’t it?

  With her other hand, she reached up and combed her fingers through the hair at his nape. She searched his eyes, reading the sorrow along the corners and sick with herself for putting it there. Gently, she tugged his head down and pressed her lips to his in a light touch. That a man as strong and capable and jovial as Adam could have a stamp on his soul that read handle with care stirred within her a longing to do just that.

  Withdrawing from the kiss but keeping her face only a breath away, she squeezed her eyes tight, surprised when something damp trailed down her cheek. His breath, warm and minty, tickled her lips, and she pushed up on her toes to meet his again. Her touch was firmer this time, and she hoped that while her first kiss relayed she would be tender with his heart, this second promised she would also fight for it.

  The buzzer on the stove rang, the jolt of it breaking their connection.

  “Garlic bread is done.” Adam smiled at her, the hint of panic that had risen when she’d said they needed to talk having receded. She let him go, hating that she let an opportunity pass but also a little relieved.

  He put on an oven mitt and pulled a baking sheet from the heat.

  “So a tiny house, huh?” Small talk would have to cut the tension.

  That persistent whisper roused her conscience. Tonight wasn’t for light and airy, no matter how much they both craved it. If she didn’t help him dig himself out of the press of guilt and self-condemnation, he’d bury himself alive with it.

  “Yeah. It’s relatively new to me, but since I don’t really need a lot…” Again, he let the rest of his sentence die. A bit of the tension she’d kissed away came creeping back through his shoulders as he dished up two plates of thin noodles and sauce made from fresh tomatoes. He handed her a plate, and they sat at the built-in bench and said grace.

  A kick of roasted garlic flavored the tang of bursted tomatoes as Olivia took her first bite. She held back a groan. The man had a way with flavors, that was for sure. Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she looked at him. “This house is as new to you as that beat-up car you drive around. As new to you as your new career, even, isn’t it?” Maybe she could get him to open up.

  He twirled pasta around the tines of his fork and shoved the bite into his mouth.

  “I saw a picture of you at your mom’s house,” she continued. “Gelled hair and fancy suit standing in front of a very expensive Porsche. Not really a man living the tiny-house lifestyle.”

  He chased his food with a drink of water, giving her a profile-only view.

  “Things change.”

  “Adam.” She said his name softly. He had to see it. Had to see how he had become both judge and jury of his own life, sentencing himself to a prison of his own making.

  He stood, walk
ing his plate back to the kitchen and returning with a laptop. He set the computer on his thighs and booted it up. “The reunion database is pretty straight forward, but we should probably get your name on the registry as soon as possible.” He typed FARR into the search engine and clicked on one of the hits.

  The adoption information center came up on the screen. He clicked a few links, and then the sound of a printer and the spitting out of paper filled the small space. Reaching over, he retrieved the paper and handed it to Olivia. “We need to fill this out and mail it in. Unfortunately, everything I read seems to say the process may take a few months. They need to verify your eligibility and run your info against some agencies.”

  Olivia stared down at the paper, silently reading the info they wanted her to fill in. She looked up at Adam, despair turning her resolve to gelatin. “They want my name at birth and even the number at the top right-hand corner of my original birth certificate? I don’t know those things! If I knew those things, wouldn’t it be easier to find my birth mom?”

  “We’ll fill it all in to the best of our knowledge. Just because some birth certificates change the date of birth and the baby’s name, doesn’t mean all do.”

  She took the pen he offered and began filling out the info. If anything, the process made her feel even more lost. Who didn’t know the day they were born? Or if their name was really the first name given to them? She could be a Rachel or a Zoey for all she knew.

  Now panic feasted on her.

  As if sensing the rise of emotion and increase in her breathing, Adam slid closer and pulled her to his side. “It’s going to be okay. This doesn’t change who you are.” His thumb caressed half-moons into her upper arm.

  Olivia took a deep breath and held it hostage in her lungs. Everyone is adopted. She let her breath out. She’d realized that particular truth the night before when, yet again, she couldn’t sleep. She’d pulled her Bible off her nightstand and opened the pages at random. Ephesians 1:5 had never made such an impression on her before. She’d spent the next twenty minutes reading the verse over and over, knowing she’d need its power on this new journey she trekked.