by Eve Gaddy
He snorted. “That’s foolishness. Master’s wife ain’t no slave.”
“No?” Angrily, she turned on him. “I have no choice in matters. I have to do my husband’s bidding or suffer the consequences. If I defy him, I’m beaten. Or kept in my room on bread and water. He can beat me, rape me, even kill me, at his whim. I’m no more free than you, Elijah.”
His eyes darkened. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, so honest, but she couldn’t take it back. “He . . . he forces you?”
Elijah knew her husband hit her. He’d seen the bruises, and they’d talked about it. No one, until now, knew that he raped her. Most wouldn’t consider it rape. She was his wife, after all. She lifted a shoulder. As long as she didn’t defy Victor when he wanted her to pleasure him, or do anything else he bade her do, then her life wasn’t too bad. When he was courting her, he’d indulged her, been proud of her beauty. Those days were long gone. Once they married he’d settled into indifference except for a strong desire to get her with child. But dear Lord, just once she wanted to feel a man’s arms around her who cared for her, even loved her. A man who didn’t look on her as a chattel. Someone to breed. Someone he owned, same as a slave.
“No worse than many husbands.”
“It be wrong, forcin’ a woman agin’ her will.” His voice was low and fierce.
“Victor doesn’t think so. We’re married. He doesn’t think of it that way.”
“Does he beat you often?”
“No worse than many,” she repeated.
“A man shouldn’t never raise a hand to a woman. That’s what my daddy taught me.”
Sarah didn’t want to think about her own father. What agony he must go through suspecting the truth of the life she led. While the decision had been hers, her father knew she’d married Victor for him and her sister, so that they could lead a better life. And to avoid ruin by a vindictive man. The reasoning didn’t matter. What was done was done.
“Let’s talk of something else. Something more pleasant. Tell me about your parents. Do they love each other?” In her world, love and marriage didn’t go together. Did they in his? The world he’d lost so many years ago.
Elijah smiled, nodded. “‘Til death, they always said. Never knew what happened to them. Wonder if they is still free, along with my brothers and sisters, or was they all took same as me.”
“Do you think they were?”
“No way of knowin’. Don’t expect I ever will.”
“What was their last name, Elijah?”
“Calvin. My daddy’s name was Elijah Calvin.”
October Present Day
GODDAMN IT, WHY couldn’t he catch a break? Lawrence looked at the report his assistant, Leon, had emailed him. A painstakingly extensive report, complete with links to stories about Calvin Davis’s murder—links he had no desire to investigate, but he obviously was going to be forced to look at them. Who would have thought that so much information about an unimportant death forty-something years ago would still be available on the damn Internet? To Lawrence that was more of a crime than the black bastard’s death.
The reason Lawrence’s assistant Leon had included those links? Because Calvin Davis, that son-of-a-bitch nigger, was a cousin of Naomi Clark’s. Naomi Clark, Jonas Clark’s mother.
When Leon had researched Jonas Clark, he’d done it thoroughly. Not only was there a pile of crap about the bastard’s education and professional life—like Lawrence was supposed to be impressed—but Leon had also delved into Clark’s family history. He’d included the whole fucking family tree. Lawrence concentrated on the sixties and ignored the rest. He had vague recollections of a colored girl hanging around Bella, especially after she’d taken up with Davis, but to be honest, the little black bitch hadn’t really been on his radar.
Now she was. What the hell did Naomi Clark know about Calvin Davis’s death? What did she suspect? Did she believe, like most people, that Buster Cantrell had been the one to pull the trigger? A simple matter of a man protecting his daughter, and Buster then using his considerable influence to cover it up. Lawrence hoped she believed it. He didn’t want to have to take care of another problem.
Surely if Naomi had believed someone else had killed the kid, she’d have raised a ruckus years ago. Or sometime in the years since. The woman had worked for a lawyer for years, so you’d think she’d have used that to her advantage. So, no, he didn’t think he was in danger from Naomi Clark.
But he’d keep an eye out and an ear to the ground. Maybe call Frank Dervish. The ex-cop could see if anyone had been nosing around any cold cases. Not to mention, Dervish had been involved in the investigation into Davis’s death. The investigation that had gone nowhere, thank God and Buster Cantrell’s influence. And thanks to Lawrence’s willingness to come to Dervish’s aid over the years. Money, influence, whatever Dervish had needed, Lawrence had provided. Dervish drank like a fish, so it wouldn’t be too hard to have him over, ply him with single malt scotch, and get him to gossiping. Not hard at all.
JONAS TALKED TO Claire several times over the next week, but he didn’t see her outside of work. He wanted to see her, wanted to be with her, but the timing was up to her. He wasn’t sure how they’d gone from a kiss to being on the verge of becoming lovers, but although neither had spoken the words, they both knew that lovers was where they were heading.
How had Claire become so important to him so quickly? A few months ago he hadn’t even known her. Yet already she was an important part of his life. Important, maybe even essential.
His doorbell rang. He opened the door, surprised to see Claire, yet not, knowing she’d been thinking of him as often as he had thought about her. Knowing, feeling the connection between them.
She stood on his doorstep, looking beautiful in a thin blue sweater and jeans. Her bruises were still evident, though they had faded quite a bit. He took her hand and pulled her inside without speaking.
They stared at each other, searching each other’s eyes. He cupped her face in his hands. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, even though he knew she wouldn’t be there if she weren’t.
In answer she put her arms around his neck and raised her face to his. “I’m sure. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you forever.”
So did he, but he wasn’t going to think of that now. He laid his lips on hers, sank into the warm welcome of her kiss. Her mouth opened, and he stroked his tongue inside. Their tongues touched, tangled. She tasted sweet-hot, a shot of whiskey burning a fire in his blood. He left her mouth long enough to trail his lips down her neck, to taste the pulse hammering at her throat.
Claire groaned, then leaned back enough to pull her sweater over her head. She wore a peach-colored lacy bra that showcased gorgeous breasts. He wanted her out of it. He wanted her naked. Now.
She pushed her hands beneath his T-shirt and pushed it up. “Take this off. Now.”
He laughed and did it. She studied him, placed her hand, warm and gentle, on his chest. Pale, so pale against the darkness of his skin. Soft against hard. He let her touch him, stroke her hands over him, but he couldn’t take it for long.
Oh, baby. He filled his hands with her breasts and kissed her again, pressing her back against the door. Thumbed her nipples through the bra. She was hot, burning in his arms. On fire. He stripped off the bra and went to work on her jeans, still with her backed up against his door. He unfastened them and pulled them down. Claire kicked off her shoes, then gave a wiggle to help him take the jeans off completely. In moments she wore only a wisp of peach panties. He lifted her leg up and settled her against him. The thin weight of his scrubs didn’t provide much of a barrier, but it was more than he wanted. He pushed against her, his cock already hard. They both groaned. Her breasts nestled against his chest, soft, so amazingly soft.
“Jonas,” she gasped between kisses.
“What?” He buried
his face in her throat and trailed his lips down it.
“Just Jonas. God, I want you.” Her arms around his neck held him tight, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go.
He cupped her face in his hands again, rubbed his thumb over her lips before he kissed her, slow and deep. “I want you too.” He swung her up in his arms and carried her to his bedroom. Dropped her on the bed and followed her down. Her arms and hands raced over him, her mouth melded with his. He stripped his pants and boxers while she wiggled out of her panties. Took a moment to appreciate the beautiful, naked woman in his bed before he grabbed for a condom.
Her hands were there, helping him, stroking him, wanting him. “Hurry,” she said.
He’d wanted to take his time, to caress her breasts, to learn her body, to push them both to a frenzy, but they were already there. Claire opened her legs and urged him between them, her hips lifting even as he entered her in a hard, deep thrust.
“God.” She moaned and murmured his name. “Jonas,” she said it on a sigh.
Her legs wrapped around him. He thrust once, twice. Said a guttural, “God,” as he shoved into her a final time and exploded, her body milking him, as she cried out her climax.
It seemed like eons later when he drew back and looked at her. She smiled, pulled him down, and kissed him. God, she was so beautiful, so. . . . His vision swam. No. God, no.
She was so beautiful. Long, dark hair flowing over her body. Naked and trusting. So damn trusting. He’d hurt her, he knew he had, but she didn’t care. She swore he hadn’t and that she loved him. Bella loved him.
His dreams. Oh, God, his dreams.
Jonas blinked hard. The scene faded, and he saw Claire. Beautiful, naked, blonde Claire. Not a girl, but a woman. A woman who looked nothing like the girl he’d just seen, the girl in his dreams. Except for one thing.
The girl of his dreams and Claire had the same eyes.
“JONAS? IS SOMETHING wrong?” For a moment there he’d looked blank, completely blank. Then his expression had changed but she was hard put to classify it. Shock? Anger? A combination of both?
“No, nothing.” He rolled off her and took her with him, snuggled her in his arms. “Not one damn thing is wrong. In fact, everything’s right.”
She sighed, content to be with him. Deciding he’d talk when he was ready, she didn’t push him for answers. “Not yet. But it will be. Once I’m . . . free.”
Free, as Sarah and Elijah had never been. Why was she thinking of two people who were long dead when she was finally with Jonas? She was afraid of the answer to that question, and quickly pushed the thought away.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But I’m glad you are.”
“There’s nothing he can do to me now, except make me wait longer to be free of him. And he’d do that regardless. I couldn’t stay away from you any longer.” She laughed. “I know we haven’t known each other that long but it feels like we’ve known each other forever, doesn’t it?”
He rolled over and kissed her. She felt him growing hard against her leg. “Jonas? Do you feel like we were meant to be together?”
He had gathered her breasts in his hands and was kissing them but he looked up at her question. “You mean, like fate?”
She touched his cheek, smiled at him. “Yes, like we’re fated to be together.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” he said after a long pause. “But I know that I want you and you want me. That’s enough for me. Is it enough for you?”
She looked into his eyes. Dark brown soulfully deep eyes. It made him uneasy, she realized, to think about fate. So they wouldn’t. “You’re enough for me,” she said and kissed him.
Chapter Fourteen
JONAS HELD CLAIRE as she slept. She had drifted off immediately after they made love, but he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw that scene from his dreams. It had to be from his dreams. Otherwise, what was it? A vision?
Absolutely not. He didn’t buy into visions, for Chrissake.
So, it was a dream. Still, it was disturbing because he now knew he was dreaming about real people, but he had no idea why. Would he dream again? And if he did, would he remember it?
Something told him that remembering his dreams was not going to make everything all better.
November 1968
BELLA WAS WAITING for him at the lake when he drove up. “What’s wrong?” he asked, catching her as she threw herself into his arms. She’d called and asked to meet, which was weird. She never called. She thought his mother didn’t like her.
She was wrong. Fay Davis liked Bella, but she didn’t want Calvin dating her.
“I don’t know what to do. Oh, Calvin, everything’s such a mess. It’s all my fault. I should have been more careful.”
“Careful about what?”
“About seeing you. Being with you. I never imagined but . . . oh, God, he saw us, Calvin.”
He made her sit on the blanket she’d brought with her. “Who saw us? Your father? Slow down and tell me what happened. You’re not making sense.”
“It’s Larry. You know my father wants me to go out with him?”
Calvin nodded. Yeah, he knew. The guy was a jerk, from what Calvin knew about him.
“So far I’ve been able to put him off, but he’s been getting more insistent. Then today, Larry cornered me after school.” She shuddered.
“What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?” If the bastard had laid a finger on her, Cal was going to break every one of them.
“No, not physically. He threatened me.”
“Threatened you? About what?”
“He knows about us. He saw us kissing at the drive-in. He saw me get in your truck and he watched us.” She covered her face with her hands. “It makes me sick to think of him watching us like that.”
“Damn it, I knew we shouldn’t have risked it.”
She looked up. “We have to go somewhere. We can’t always come to the lake. I hate sneaking around. I’m not ashamed of you.”
Determined not to be distracted, he ignored that. “What did he threaten to do?”
“Unless I go out with him, he said he’d tell my father what he saw. And you know what Daddy will do.”
“Jesus.” The very last thing they needed was for Buster Cantrell to find out about the two of them.
“I told him I was just flirting. I made it sound like nothing, and that I did it to get back at my father. I told him go ahead and tell my father. That was just what I wanted.” She grasped his hand. “I felt awful talking about us like that, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s not important. You did the right thing. Did Larry believe you?”
“I don’t know.” She started to cry. “He said he wouldn’t tell Daddy. Yet. But he looked so strange. Scary, like I’ve never seen him before. I don’t want to go out with Larry. He gives me the creeps. I’ve heard other girls talk about him. They say he just wants one thing. I’m afraid of what he might do if I won’t go out with him. But I’m more afraid of what he’ll do if I do date him. Calvin, it makes me sick to think about.”
“Don’t worry. You’re not going out with that scuzzball. We’ll think of something.” What, he didn’t know. He looked down at her and saw her gazing at him with such trust in her eyes. His heart turned over. He held her close, kissing the tears from her cheeks, then kissed her mouth. She tasted salty. Sweet. So loving.
She put her arms around him and pulled him down on the blanket. “I love you, Calvin,” she whispered. “Make love to me. I want you so, so much.”
He groaned, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you too.” He didn’t know how much longer he could resist her. Or even why he should try. They loved each other. They should be together.
“Are you sure? You have to be sure, Bella.”
>
She moved away from him and sat up. Pulled her top over her head and knelt to unzip her jeans. In minutes she was naked in the moonlight, dark hair flowing over her shoulders and breasts. So beautiful, so in love.
He was drowning, in lust, in love. He couldn’t resist her, didn’t want to resist her. He took off his clothes, lay between her legs. Looked down at her, so beautiful in the moonlight. “I love you, Bella.”
“I love you too, Calvin.” And she welcomed him home.
May 1859
HE WAS WAITING for her at the lake. Dream Lake, Sarah had named it. It was a pond, really, but other than the Trinity River, the only water for miles around. Sarah’s heart leapt at the sight of him. For though they both waited for the slaves they were helping to escape, it seemed as if Elijah waited for her alone.
She knew some would think she was wrong to care so deeply about another man. Everyone she knew, honestly. Even her sister would believe she was wrong, though she would support Sarah’s choice, whatever it was.
Even if she chose her husband’s slave?
How could love be wrong? How could these feelings of joy and anticipation whenever she thought of Elijah be wrong? How could the pure happiness she felt when she was with him be wrong?
Because she was married. A loveless marriage to a man who thought more of his horses than he did his wife. Who treated his horses better than he did his wife. Who treated his horses better than he treated his slaves.
Her heart fell as reality warred with desire. No matter her feelings, she could never admit them. To do so would not only risk her own life, but Elijah’s as well. And even if she counted the risk well worth it for her sake, she would not be the instrument of Elijah’s destruction.
She would be his friend. Nothing more. No matter how her heart yearned for him, she could only be his friend. Even that was danger enough.
Yet friendship with a slave was nothing compared to aiding fugitive slaves. And she knew she would continue her work with the Underground Railroad no matter the risk.