“So are we decided?” Eddy asked.
Everyone nodded except Mamie Cordell, the wife of the African Methodist Episcopal pastor and the mother of Portia’s suitor James. “I’ll have to see if my Bertram will let me go,” she confessed. “You know he’s not a forward-thinking man sometimes.”
Eunice Forth, Mamie’s sister, groaned, “Oh my goodness, Mamie, I told you twenty years ago not to marry that man.”
Julia Lane, said, “So did I.”
“I thought he’d change.”
“Into who, Fred Douglass?” her sister asked. “Even with all his personal scandals, Fred the Great supports women’s suffrage.”
Suffrage for women continued to be one of the most widely discussed topics on the nation’s agenda. More and more women of the race were jumping on the bandwagon even as some White women were doing their best to keep their darker sisters away from their conventions. In response, the Colored women were sponsoring their own conferences and the gathering being held in San Francisco would be one.
Apparently knowing she was losing her battle, Mamie said, “I’m changing the subject. Portia, when are you going to give my son, James, the time of day?”
Portia sighed. Before she could explain to Mrs. Cordell for the two hundredth time why she had no plans to marry, her son or anyone else, Eddy came to her rescue. “Mamie, you know he and Portia would never suit. James is much too shy. He hardly says a word when he’s near her.”
“But marriage may change that.”
Julia laughed. “The same way you marrying Bertram changed him? Leave our Portia alone. As much as I love my husband, Howard, had times then been like they are now, I may have chosen not to marry either.”
Eunice added, “Stick to your guns, Portia. If you don’t wish to marry, don’t. You young women have opportunities we old hens never even imagined having. You’re doctors and teachers. You’re working in banks and writing for newspapers. All we were expected to do was marry and birth children.”
Portia loved them all. They’d been a supportive group of mother hens since she was young. When she and Regan went to Oberlin, the ladies took turns writing to them and occasionally sent little gifts like ear bobs, combs for their hair, and writing tablets and pens to let them know they were thought of and loved.
With the issue of her courting stance tabled, the conversation moved back to the convention and speculation as to who the sponsors might bring in as the main speaker. Portia hoped it would be Frances Watkins Harper the former abolitionist she’d always wanted to hear speak. Portia was about to say that when a harried-looking Missy Landry came over to where they were sitting and asked, “Ladies, can you give me a hand in the kitchen? The girls I hired have to go home and I need to fry more chicken.”
Portia couldn’t believe all the chicken Eddy and her friends supplied was gone but the crowd was a large one. Since it was well-known that she’d be of little assistance, the ladies gathered up their blankets and followed Missy, leaving Portia alone. Before she could get to her feet and make her way back to the house to find Regan, James Cordell walked up and said shyly, “Hello, Miss Portia. How are you?”
She looked up. “Hello, James.” Given the way he kept glancing from her to the blanket, she assumed he was waiting for an invitation to join her. She got to her feet instead, just as Darian Day walked up. Wondering what she’d done to deserve such a boon, the situation went from bad to worse when Edward Salt suddenly appeared. Why he was at the wake was beyond her since she was pretty sure he didn’t even know Mr. Blanchard. The men all began talking at once, but James, apparently intimidated by the blustering Day stood silently while Salt did his best to lord it over Day with pompous boasting about his Howard education and the school he planned to open. Portia felt a headache coming on.
When Kent walked up, the posturing and bluster petered out into silence and she wanted to shout with joy.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “How are you this evening?” His eyes brushed Portia’s and as if he’d read her silent plea, he handed her his plate. “Brought you a plate,” he said as if they were alone. Salt and Day both bristled. Cordell’s thin lips tightened.
“Thank you.” She sat down again and placed the plate on the blanket beside her. Day dressed in a brown and gray window pane suit sneered, “New shirt, Randolph?”
Kent studied him for a silent moment. His hands moved to his gun belt and the three wide eyed men took a quick step back. Watching them with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he slowly untied the strings of the belt, removed it and the Colt it held, then sat at her side—bold as day. Finally, in reply to Day’s question, he said, “Yes. Bought it from Mr. Krause. Nice man.” He didn’t add more.
As the silence lengthened, Cordell waked away without a word. Day and Edward Salt seemed to want to challenge his presence but apparently thought better of it because they stayed just long enough to glare their displeasure before moving off.
Watching them go, he asked her, “How in the world did you get trapped out here with them?”
Portia saw the curiosity on the faces of some of the other people seated nearby and wondered if sitting with Kent would cause gossip, but she went ahead and told him about Eddy and the other ladies leaving her to help in the kitchen.
“You didn’t want to help?”
She smiled ruefully. “Let’s just say I’m better with numbers than I am with pots.”
“Can’t cook, huh?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll need a man who can.”
“Are you volunteering?”
He shrugged. “If it’ll keep you from starving to death, I suppose I can make myself available, if called upon.”
She wondered if he had this effect on all women.
“How’s the managing of that passion going?” he asked.
Her heart thumped. “Fine.” His eyes were so piercing, she trembled in response.
“You’re fibbing of course, but that’s okay.”
“I am not.”
“Uh-huh.”
She leaned closer so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I am not. One kiss was all I needed and now I’m fine, just as I said I would be.”
“Duchess, your uppity mouth’s been wanting another taste all day.”
Heat sent her senses galloping. “It has not, and stop calling it that.”
“Okay. Your sweet mouth has been wanting another taste all day.”
She almost keeled over.
“I do like those high-collared blouses you wear.”
She looked down at herself.
“Makes me want to undo all the little buttons and see how you manage with my kisses against your bare throat. Curious about what scent you place there, too.”
Her eyes widened.
He smiled. “No?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just something for you to think about later. Do you want the legs or the wings?”
Her mind was stuck like it had stepped in tar. How in the world was she going to remain unmoved by his teasing ways without wanting to box his ears or wonder how his kisses would feel against bare throat? “I’ll take the wings.”
“We have only one set of flatware. Shall I feed you or do you want to feed me?”
Scandalized by the suggestion, she forced herself not to glance around to see how closely they were being observed. “Neither,” she said. “I’ll have the wing. You can eat the rest.”
“Thought I’d ask.”
They ate in silence, sharing the occasional glance. Him smiling. Her not.
Regan walked up. “How are you two?”
He replied, “We’re fine. At least I am. Your sister’s managing, I believe.”
Portia wanted to punch him in the nose.
Regan said, “I told him about your garters catching fire, Portia.”
Portia choked on a bite of chicken and before she could punch her sister in the nose, the smiling Regan walked back towards the house.
“I like her,” he said.
“Then mayb
e you should direct your attention her way.”
“I prefer the challenge of you.”
In response, her body bloomed like a rose opening to the sun.
As if oblivious to his effects on her, he added, “So, now we have two items on your management list: me kissing your throat and your garters catching fire. Are you writing all this down?”
She firmed her lips to keep her smile hidden. “No. I think I can remember.”
“You sure?”
They were so close to each other she could feel the kiss about to come. “If you kiss me in front of all these people, I will hit you so hard you’ll wake up in Florida.”
He laughed with such gusto he fell back on the blanket. Her humor died upon seeing Rhine watching them from a few feet away. “Here comes Uncle Rhine.”
He sat up and was still smiling when Rhine arrived.
Hoping to distract her uncle, she asked, “Why is Edward Salt here? Kent saved me from having to endure his company.”
“And from that ass of a dandy Day,” Kent added.
“I wish someone would save me from Salt,” Rhine said. “He wants me to help fund his school in addition to his father’s grocery.” Although his words were about the Salts, his green eyes were focused on Portia and Kent. She knew him well enough to know he was trying to determine what was really going on between them. She also knew he’d be speaking to Eddy about it, and in turn Eddy would find a way to speak to her. To keep him off balance, she asked, “Are we going home soon?”
“In a while. Have you seen your sister?”
“She was here a few minutes ago but I believe she was on her way back inside. Is something wrong?”
“No. Just trying to keep up with the ladies Carmichael. Where’s Eddy?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to head home. Kent, you’re the official unwanted-suitor sheriff for the rest of the evening.”
Kent saluted.
Rhine chuckled and left.
Kent looked her way. “I now have an official title. Can I shoot them if they get too close?”
“Are you planning on shooting yourself?”
“I’m not unwanted.”
“Yes, you are.”
“That’s not what your garters are going to say.”
She said quietly but with emphasis. “You aren’t going to get close enough to my garters to hear them say anything.”
“Remember you said that.”
“As long as you remember what I said.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be writing it down just so I can make you read it once we put the fire out.”
She rolled her eyes even as she wondered how fiery garters might feel.
“Be grateful for all these people, though. Otherwise . . .”
He didn’t need to say more. The timbre of his voice and the look in his eyes were enough to put a shimmering in her blood.
“I’ll never put you in a position to be gossiped about. Okay?”
She nodded and her opinion of him rose higher. “Where did you work before coming here?”
“Spread up in Colorado.”
“Cattle or horses?”
“Both, plus the owners ran a sawmill so we cut lumber on the side.”
“What made you leave?”
He shrugged. “Restless, I guess. I never like staying in a place for very long.”
“And before Colorado?”
“Montana and Wyoming. And before that Canada.”
“My. And how long will you be here?”
“Not sure. I’m getting kind of tired of pulling up stakes and starting over. So who knows, I may stick around for a while. That okay with you?”
Portia wanted to say it didn’t matter but found herself nodding instead.
“Good,” he replied with a smile. He’d finished his food. “I’m going to take this plate back inside. Thanks for the company, Duchess.”
She watched him get to his feet, and as he walked away, she wanted to call him back. She’d enjoyed conversing with him and learning just a bit more about him. She also enjoyed their bantering. He was right about not many men being able to make her smile and yet she did with him. That he hadn’t wanted her to be the subject of gossip pleased her. Her mother had had no reputation to speak of. Those who knew her called her Corinne the Whore, as if it was the name she’d been born with. One of Portia’s most painful memories was being with her mother one day on the streets of Denver. She couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, but old enough to know how her mother made her living. She didn’t remember where they were going or why, but watching her mother be verbally confronted by another woman was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The woman screamed at her mother for entertaining her husband and said Corinne was going straight to hell. She then leaned down to Portia and snapped, “And you’re going to be a nasty little whore, too!” Portia remembered her terror and trying to shrink into herself so the raging woman would leave her be. Corinne finally snatched Portia by the hand and stalked away. Tears running down her face, Portia had hurried to keep up, all the while vowing never to be a whore or anything else that would allow anyone to make her feel so small and dirty again.
“Portia?”
She snapped back to the present. “Yes?”
It was Regan. “Are you okay?”
“Just wool gathering. Did Uncle Rhine find you?”
“Yes. Mrs. Landry just announced the funeral will be this evening, so we’ll be going to the cemetery first and then home.”
“What?” The funeral was supposed to be tomorrow at dusk.
“Reverend Cordell is as surprised as everyone else. Mrs. Landry said she forgot to tell him, but apparently the grave is ready and waiting.” Regan continued to study her as if hoping to discover why Portia had been lost in thought. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
Portia offered a small smile. “I’m sure. When are we leaving for the cemetery?”
“In a few minutes. We’re to meet at the buggy.”
Portia picked up Eddy’s blanket and folded it so it could be carried. “All right. Let’s go.”
After returning from the funeral, Portia took off her hat and walked outside onto the small porch attached to her bedroom. Taking a seat on the padded bench, she drew in a deep breath of the cool night air and looked up at the star-filled sky. She would miss Mr. Blanchard. He’d lived a long full life and she hoped he would rest in peace. As she savored the silence, the tension of the day melted away. Off in the distance came the familiar high pitched call of a coyote. She loved the night but it had taken moving to Virginia City to do so. Nights in Denver with Corinne had been filled with constant footfalls and the sounds of the old front door opening and closing as her mother plied her trade. Portia and Regan slept on a rag-filled pallet on the back stoop, which also doubled as her mother’s waiting area, so it was not unusual for them to be startled awake by a strange man standing nearby. But in Virginia City there’d been no rag-filled pallets or strange men, just the velvet night and the low-voiced hum of the mining machines. Jim Dade taught them the names of the stars and Rhine let them use his spyglass to take a closer look. She and Regan often sat out at night giggling and talking. Eddy hadn’t minded as long as their school work was done and they were up fresh and ready for lessons with their tutor the following morning. After the mob that burned their house made it impossible for them to remain in Nevada, she’d been afraid of the darkness and had nightmares for weeks, but eventually they passed and her connection to the night reestablished itself and again brought her peace.
Now however it was the disturbance of her daytime peace that worried her. Everything about Kent Randolph left her unsettled. Everything from his intense dark eyes to his beard-shrouded jaw was making her second-guess all she thought she knew about men and women, and she wasn’t sure how to proceed. On the one hand, it was best to nip this growing flirtation in the bud, but on the other hand, a seemingly uncontrollable curiosity about where it
might lead was gaining strength. She hated to admit it but she was no match for him in this. Eddy called him a cat house king, which of course meant he had much more experience with women than she would ever have with men. And as the daughter of a prostitute, she wasn’t sure how she should feel knowing he’d patronized such establishments. That he was unmarried certainly made her feel better. Whenever her mother’s married customers encountered Corinne on the streets or in shops, they went out of their way to avoid eye contact while the well-dressed women on their arms acted as if they’d catch the plague having to breathe the same air. Looking back, it had been an awful life but she was an adult now, her circumstances were radically different, and she had no business judging anything or anyone. The issue with Kent would eventually resolve itself, so putting him and the conundrum he created out of her mind for the moment, she left the bench and went inside to prepare for bed.
Chapter Seven
With so much going on during the wake last night, Kent hadn’t been able to get a sense of the Blanchard place. Riding over with Rhine the next day, he looked forward to seeing it devoid of people and commotion.
Upon arrival, he took in the small herd of longhorns milling off in the distance and the horses running free in the large fenced paddock. Men he assumed to be the hands stopped what they were doing to view their approach and he wondered what kind of reception he’d be given.
Rhine made the introductions and Kent saw the four men sizing him up while he did the same. The elderly Farley Wells, with his white mutton chops, sun-weathered skin, and keen brown eyes, immediately extended his hand. “Pleased to meet ya.”
Kent felt strength in the shake. “Thanks. Same here.”
Buck Green, short, dark-skinned, and as aged as Wells, also shook his hand. “Welcome.”
Blond haired Matt Iler was the youngest. Kent estimated him to be no more than eighteen. There was a shyness in his blue eyes when he shook Kent’s hand. “Nice meeting you.” The last man was brown-skinned Ty Parnell. Kent’s age maybe. Thin, wolflike, unshaven face. He wore a weathered black vest with silver buckles and his jaw bulged with a wad of tobacco. He offered a terse nod but nothing more.
Breathless Page 8