“My husband. He’s injured.”
M’dear came over and looked in the bed of the wagon. As she laid eyes on Jackson, she peered at him for a moment, then looked up at Iva. “He looks very familiar. Do I know him?”
“He’s Royce’s oldest son, Jack.”
M’dear placed a thin hand against her lips. Concern on her face, she then felt his head. “Help me up into the wagon, William.”
The giant stepped forward and lifted her slight weight into the bed. She knelt with difficulty, but was soon opening Jackson’s eyes, peeling back his lips and running her hands over his ribs and limbs. “He is almost gone,” she said, then her eyes softened. “But you brought him here in time. What happened?”
“He was dragged behind a horse.”
“Lane Trent’s men,” Iva added tightly.
M’dear looked into Grace’s worry-filled eyes and pledged with kindness, “We will save him. You and I.”
M’dear then withdrew from the pocket of her dress a small leather pouch. Opening the strings, she extracted a tiny leaf and placed it in Jackson’s mouth. “It will ease the bleeding inside and help him to sleep. In a few hours we will give him something for the pain and fever.”
Grace nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Grace. Once we get him settled we will let you rest. You and your babies need it.”
Grace went stock-still. For a moment, she searched M’dear’s brown eyes and then whispered, “Babies?”
M’dear simply smiled and William lifted her down from the wagon bed.
Grace’s shocked eyes went to Iva.
In response, Iva shrugged. “I’ve never known her to be wrong.”
Grace’s hand went to her still flat stomach. Babies?
William picked Jackson up as if he were a fragile child and carried him the short distance down to the water’s edge. There, a large wooden raft bobbed waiting, anchored to a large cypress. The big man gently laid him down on a large pallet. Once Grace, M’dear, and Iva got aboard, William freed the rope; then, using a long pole, he pushed the raft away from the grassy bank and guided it upstream.
Once again Grace felt as if she’d entered a strange new world. She feasted her eyes on the many strange but beautiful birds, the wild, thick vegetation and the occasional small deer. She could’ve done without the horde of insects, though; she spent a lot of time slapping her arms and neck.
Jackson seemed more restful, she noted with relief, looking down at him as he lay with his head resting in her lap. The babbling had ceased but his breathing remained soft and shallow. She tenderly ran her hand over his forehead.
They reached M’dear’s sprawling cabin later that afternoon. William secured the raft to the trunk of a cypress, then carefully carried Jackson toward a smaller log cabin set back from the water’s edge. Grace followed him while M’dear and Iva went to her cabin to fetch the items M’dear would need to aid Jackson.
The cabin Grace entered was clean and neat. There was a small, beautifully carved table and chair, and against the wall, a large short-legged bed covered with a crisp, clean saffron-colored sheet. He placed Jackson’s unmoving body atop it.
Once William backed away, Grace knelt at her husband’s side and stroked his bruised and battered face. Tears slowly filled her eyes.
“I love you,” she whispered.
A few hours ago he’d been at death’s door, and now M’dear pledged he’d have a fighting chance at life. Grace dearly hoped so because she had no desire to stand over his grave. He meant too much.
She whispered fiercely, “Don’t you dare die on me, Jackson Blake. Don’t you dare.”
The sound of someone entering behind her drew Grace’s eyes to the door. It was M’dear and Iva.
M’dear said, “I’ve brought the things we’ll need to bring down his fever and to wrap his ribs.”
“Thank you.”
With Iva’s help, Grace got Jackson undressed. His skin had been scraped from his chest and shoulders by the dragging, leaving him as raw and bloody as freshly ground meat. Grace mentally cursed Lane Trent as she gently bathed away the dirt and the dried blood. Jackson’s answering grimaces and strangled moans let her know just how much pain he was in and she cursed Trent even more.
Once his chest looked sufficiently clean, M’dear applied a light salve to the area, covered it with a lightweight cloth, and then wrapped his broken ribs. “That should ease his breathing a bit.”
“Now for the boots and trousers.”
That task proved a lot more difficult because his ankles were so swollen from his injuries, but between Grace and Iva they managed, causing him minimal additional pain.
Upon seeing how raw the fronts of his muscular thighs and chest were, Grace bit down on her lip to keep her emotions under control.
“Glory,” Iva murmured sympathetically.
M’dear simply shook her head sadly, then began cleaning the wounds. She also treated his rope-burned wrists and the scraped backs of his hands.
M’dear then handed Grace a small wooden bowl filled with a warm dark liquid. “Try and get as much of that into him as you can. It’s for his fever.”
Using a small spoon, Grace dribbled the liquid across his lips. Most of it ran down his chin, but she kept at it. She somehow managed to empty the bowl, but it took time. When she was done, Iva handed her a blanket.
“We should let him sleep.”
Grace draped the blanket over him and caressed his forehead. “Thank you both for all your help,” she said to Iva and M’dear.
“He’s grown in to a fine man,” the old woman said.
Grace smiled softly as she scanned his quiet form. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“He’d just turned three, and such a little thing. Is he still bossy?”
“As the dickens.”
Iva chuckled. “He got that from his father Royce. The two were like peas in a pod.”
M’dear then placed a comforting hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Sister Iva and I are going to get something to eat. I’ll have William bring you a plate.”
Grace nodded.
“I’ll stop in and check on you later,” Iva promised, then she and M’dear exited, leaving Grace and her husband alone.
Jackson was dreaming. He was at Grace’s house in Chicago, looking for her, calling for her, but all he kept finding were hordes of brown-skinned, redheaded children laughing and playing and running all over the place. They were on the stairs, in the closets, underneath the big desk in Grace’s study. He searched everywhere for her, but all he kept finding were more and more children.
Suddenly, the front parlor turned into a river, and the children, both boys and girls, were floating by him in little sailboats, waving child-sized cutlasses. Next he knew, a dragon rose up out of the water and in its bloody mouth were Black people screaming and trying to get free. Their anguished and tortured cries filled his head but he could only look on helplessly because he was afraid.
The dragon, now with Lane Trent’s face, began moving toward the children in their little boats. Jackson began calling to them, telling them to turn back because he knew Trent would harm them. But the flotilla continued to bear down upon the monster. The children, seemingly intent upon the battle, raised their swords.
He began to call for Grace, hoping she could rescue the children, but she didn’t answer. He called again and again. He was still calling when the dream faded and he was dropped back into the black depths of sleep…
Grace bathed his head with the cool lake water and prayed it would help keep his fever down. They’d been here three days and nights now, and every night she’d sponged him down and every night when he finally quieted she slept by his side in the bed. But this night seemed to be the worst. He’d been tossing and turning and croaking out her name for hours. M’dear had looked in on him before she turned in and said he was restless because the fever was breaking. She advised Grace to keep sponging him down and that by daybreak he should awak
en.
In the wee hours of the morning he finally quieted and Grace was relieved to feel the coolness of his forehead. Hoping the fever had left him for good, she snuggled in beside him, draped her arm protectively across his chest, and slept the sleep of the dead.
When Jackson opened his eyes that next morning, he’d no idea where he was. Looking around the small cabin, he scanned the unfamiliar surroundings and for the life of him could not remember being here before. He noticed Grace sleeping silently beside him and that gave him a measure of familiarity, but where or what was this place, and why were they here? He moved to sit up, but pain crackled over his body like lightning and he instantly went still. The pain echoed and he had to draw in a series of quick, shallow breaths until it faded and he could relax again. That he’d somehow been injured only added to the puzzle. What the hell happened to me, and where am I?
“Grace?” His mouth felt as dry as a desert and he was thirsty enough to down an ocean.
“Grace, get up.”
Grace came awake slowly. Seeing his eyes open and clearly holding her own, she smiled broadly. “You’re up!”
Happy tears filled her eyes and she began kissing him all over his face. “I’m so glad, so glad!”
Her enthusiasm was infectious and he found himself smiling too, but—“Grace, where are we?”
“The Caddo Swamp.”
His eyes widened. “Caddo Swamp? Why?”
“You don’t remember.” She posed it as a statement.
“No.”
“Iva brought us here after your run-in with Lane Trent.”
Everything came flooding back then; being caught by Trent’s men on his way back to the cabin, being trussed up and tied to the horse, then being dragged until he’d lost consciousness. He had no memories after that. “How long have we been here?”
“This starts the fourth day. You’ve been unconscious since we arrived.”
Grace could barely contain her joy. He was alive and well. It might take awhile for him to fully recover, but recover he would, just as M’dear had promised. “I’m so glad you’re back with me. You gave me quite a fright, Jackson Blake.”
He reached out and wiped away the lone tear sliding down her cheek. “My apologies.”
He felt like the luckiest man in the world, having Grace to wake up to. She was strong, brave, and true. She looked like hell, though, but that had become part of her charm. “How’d I get away from Trent? He swore he was going to kill me.”
“Well, when I stuck a rifle in his back and promised I’d send him to hell if his men didn’t untie you and let you go, he had a change of heart.”
Jackson stared, amazed. “You took on Trent, alone?”
“Yep. Told you you’d need me, didn’t I?”
Grace then revealed the full story of what had happened on the porch that day and how the woman Grace had assumed to be Mrs. Lane Trent had silently aided her efforts. “She had tears in her eyes watching them hurt you. She could’ve alerted her husband, but she didn’t. I’ll owe her for the rest of my life.”
Jackson couldn’t get over the part his beautiful redheaded Grace had played in his liberation. “I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. How’s our baby doing?”
“Babies, Jackson. M’dear says I’m having more than one.”
He stared. “More than one?”
Grace nodded. “That’s what she said.”
“Who’s M’dear?”
“The woman who helped you heal. She knew your father.”
“I owe her too, then.”
“We both do.”
“More than one?” he asked again.
Grace nodded with a smile. “More than one, but I’m still waiting for real proof.”
Over the next few days, Jackson worked on getting his strength back while Grace and M’dear clucked over him like two mother hens. His appetite returned and he ate all the fish and game and roots and fruit William put before him. He and M’dear had become fast friends, playing checkers, slapping dominoes. Grace looked on with love in her eyes but wondered how’d he react when she told him she was going home and planned to insist he come too. She understood why he’d come here, but trying to bring down Lane Trent was not worth losing his life.
Chapter 12
By the first week of August Jackson’s wounds had healed well enough for M’dear to pronounce him whole. The skin on his chest, shoulders, and thighs no longer resembled raw meat, and the swelling and bruising had faded. In spite of the still-mending ribs, he’d become his old vibrant self again and Grace couldn’t’ve been more pleased.
It also pleased her that by all indications she was indeed carrying a child.
“So, you’ve accepted the fact,” he asked, as they sat on their porch eating dinner at a small table.
“It wasn’t so much accepting the idea, I just wasn’t sure.”
“And now you are?”
“Yes. M’dear says I have all the signs: I can’t stay awake. My courses haven’t come, and I’m eating every-thing that moves. Do you want that last piece of fish?” she asked him, indicating the piece on the platter between them. Grace had never really liked fish prior to coming to the swamp, but now it seemed as if she couldn’t get enough.
Across the table Jackson shook his head at her and her burgeoning appetite. “No, go ahead.”
He watched her fork the last piece of the grilled bass onto her plate and consume it with delicate gusto.
He chuckled and shook his head again. “If you’re eating like this now, what’ll you be like six or seven months out?”
“I’ve no idea, but M’dear says fish is good for the babies and that it won’t make me particularly fat.”
“That’s good to know, otherwise we might need to hire a circus strong man to get you in and out of the buckboard.”
She shot him a quelling look that held a smile. “Get all of your jokes out now, funny man, because I guarantee when I do get big and fat, I might not be of a mind to entertain them.” “No?”
“No.”
“Will you be of a mind to entertain me?”
His double-edged question made her remember past entertaining encounters and she gave him a sultry smile. “For as long as I can.”
“You’re outrageous, do you know that?”
She pointed to herself and asked with wide, innocent eyes, “Me? I’m just a stiff-necked lady banker from Chicago.”
“Eat, woman, before I show you something a whole lot stiffer than that neck of yours.”
“Soon?”
His laughter filled the cabin. A grinning Grace went back to her meal.
Although Grace had yet to approach Jackson about returning north, she did reveal her thinking on the matter to M’dear one morning a few days later.
“I’m afraid he’ll lose his life if he goes hunting for Trent again.”
“That’s a real fear,” M’dear responded sympathetically, looking up from her knitting.
“But how do I convince him to leave?”
M’dear shrugged. “Have you told him how you feel?”
Grace shook her head, “No.”
“Then maybe that is where you should begin.”
Grace looked out over the rich, verdant paradise she now called home and supposed that would be the logical approach, but she didn’t want to cause another rift. Her anger over being pressured into marrying, his anger over her following him to Texas, had faded, and in the aftermath of his injuries, they’d found true peace, not only here in M’dear’s Sanctuary, but in each other. She didn’t want that jeopardized, but on the other hand, his quest for justice and her desire that they return north were destined to clash.
Grace turned back and found M’dear watching her with understanding in her old eyes.
M’dear said softly, “Leave it for now, if you must, but the longer you put it off, the harder it will be.”
“I know.”
But for the next few weeks, Grace kept her fears un-spoken, preferring to bask in her husband
’s recovery. He’d grown strong enough to help William with the hunting and fishing. William hunted with a bow, but since Jackson showed little aptitude for that method of hunting, he concentrated on the fishing, something he’d learned to do as a child. In addition to bringing in strings of fish, he often returned bearing bouquets of flowering plants and long-stemmed exotic blooms for Grace as well. The simple gifts brought her pleasure, increasing her love and deepening her feelings of peace.
One afternoon as she, Jackson, and M’dear sat on the porch of M’dear’s cabin, trying to escape the heat of the late August day, Grace asked M’dear about her past.
“I’ve lived like this all my life,” she replied as she fanned herself with a large rattan fan. “Born in the Carolinas, though. A placed called the Great Dismal Swamp between North Carolina and Virginia. My parents made it their home after they escaped captivity.”
The story brought up memories for Grace, too. “I remember my father saying he stayed in the Virginia swamps for a while after he escaped from Maryland.”
M’dear nodded. “The Great Dismal was home to several thousand runaways before Emancipation.”
“How’d you wind up here, so far away?” Jackson asked.
“Love.” And her soft smile seemed to hold memories. “His name was Jupiter and he was a healer. Learned all I know from him.”
She paused for a moment, as if reflecting. “We went from the swamps of the Carolinas to the swamps of Florida and Louisiana, healing, learning, loving. Finally wound up here and set down roots. He built this house. There was a good-sized community in here at that time, but after the war, things changed. Folks started leaving for the outside. In the last few years, night riders have pushed folks back, but they don’t stay very long. They hide for a while and then find a way to head north or east or west.”
“What happened to your man, Jupiter?” Grace asked softly.
“Died three years ago,” she said sadly, then quieted for a moment before adding softly, “Miss him. Even though his spirit’s here, it’s not the same.”
Staring off into the distance, she said, “I will see him soon, though. Promised me he’d be here to help me cross over when the time comes, and that time is almost here.”
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