by Kaki Warner
But it hurt.
Too base for one, too disparate for the other. Neither black nor white, but the bastard product of an alliance that was an affront to God and the law, she was welcomed nowhere, and belonged nowhere. Except in Heartbreak Creek. There both she and Thomas were accepted and loved despite their skin colors. It would be the perfect place to raise Lillie.
But first, she had to get through this fundraiser.
The irony of it didn’t escape her: wealthy white people assuaging their guilt over the mistreatment of blacks by promoting the Negro cause, while she used that same Negro cause to lessen her own guilt that she had never been one of those mistreated blacks. When had her life become this convoluted?
It was so laughable it made her want to weep.
Instead, with the humility and gratitude expected of her, she tucked Lillie’s hand into her elbow and followed Brother Sampson and Marsh around the room, pretending it didn’t matter that she would always be an outsider with either race.
It was a lavish gathering, with goblets of fine champagne and trays of delicate treats. The men all wore dark suits. The women were elegantly flounced, bustled, and bejeweled. Pru felt rather dowdy in her Sunday best linsey-woolsey. And itchy. Had she known this was a dress-up affair, she would have worn her less warm but more fashionable blue worsted linen. Fancy enough to show respect, but inferior enough to assure everyone she knew her place.
In an effort to bolster Lillie’s hurt over Thomas’s absence, Pru had given her the dress she had bought her for Christmas. The bright color of the worsted wool looked quite festive, and when Pru put matching ribbons in Lillie’s pigtails, the child looked just the thing. It helped lighten Lillie’s mood somewhat, but she still seemed downcast without Thomas nearby.
Pru understood. She felt it, too—that vague uneasiness that kept her looking restlessly about, as if some vital part of her was missing and her nerves could only settle once everything—and everyone—was back in the proper place.
Or maybe that fidgety feeling was due to the wool in her dress. She hated wool. It made her feel like tiny ants were crawling over her skin. And she especially hated linsey-woolsey, despite its durability, practicality, and warmth. It always reminded her of Pricilla Whitney and the combined expressions of smug superiority and barely concealed distaste her father’s wife wore when she passed out the annual set of linsey-woolsey clothing to the slaves at Rose Hill.
But that was then, and this was now. And no matter the guilt that had brought them all here tonight, Pru was grateful for the opportunity to present her proposal to wealthy people who might be able to move it along. Then, once that was done, she and Lillie and Miss Minty could happily leave them to their champagne and go back to the hotel. It was of utmost importance that she be there when Thomas returned.
They both had a lot to talk about.
“Try this.” Pru set a chocolate-dipped strawberry in Lillie’s free hand.
“What it is?” The child wrinkled her nose. “It feel sticky. And sweaty.”
“If you don’t like it, put it in your napkin. Don’t throw it on the floor like you did with the goose liver sandwiches.”
“Miss Minty do that, not me.” She gave a lick. “Mmm . . . Chocolate. I jist loves chocolate.” Grinning, she stuffed the entire strawberry in her mouth. “Got more?” she asked, juice dripping down her chin.
“I see you’re enjoying yourselves.” Marsh sidled up beside them, unsuccessfully masking his distaste as Pru mopped up Lillie’s face. He motioned to the man beside him. “You remember Senator Brooks?”
Pru tucked the soiled napkin into her reticule. “Of course.”
Which was apparently all the encouragement the officious man needed to drone on for ten minutes about his school and the great work being done there. “We could do wonders for Lillian.”
“Perhaps,” Pru allowed. “But I’ve been working with Lillie myself, teaching her to read by Braille.” She decided not to tell them about her intent to adopt Lillie until the papers were on the judge’s desk.
“Have you?” The senator stared down at the child licking chocolate off her palm, his bushy white brows arching above cold, gray eyes. “You find she’s intelligent enough to comprehend the six-dot method?”
Pru almost struck him.
Luckily, Marsh stepped in to remind her it was time for her talk. “Brother Sampson is introducing you now.”
“But Lillie—”
“I’ll keep an eye on her.” Marsh reached out to put his hand on Lillie’s shoulder. Then, seeing Pru’s hesitation, he took the sticky little hand instead. “I know where there’s a whole tray of chocolate-covered strawberries, Lillian. Would you care for another?”
Lillie perked up. “I jist loves chocolate strawberries. Miss Minty do, too.”
“Then let’s go get them, shall we?”
With a nod to Pru, Marsh and the senator led the child away just as Brother Sampson concluded his introduction.
“So let’s give a warm welcome to Miss Prudence Lincoln, the author of the fine education initiative you’ve been hearing about. Miss Lincoln?”
With a last glance toward the back corner where Lillie was happily gobbling more chocolate-covered strawberries, Pru reluctantly walked through the crowd to do what she had come to do.
* * *
The first bullet drilled through the high cantle of Mose Solomon’s saddle, came out the other side, and lodged in his side.
Thomas saw him lurch sideways and grabbed the reins of the black man’s sorrel before they slipped from his slack hand. “Hang on!” Bending low over the pommel of his saddle, Thomas turned his bay sharply toward a group of trees and kicked him into a run, pulling the sorrel behind him.
More bullets. A searing pain. Thomas glanced down and saw a long tear in his jacket where a bullet had creased his upper arm.
They reached the trees. Another bullet cracked against a branch overhead, sending down a shower of splinters. A fourth plowed into the trunk of a tree beside Thomas’s head.
They rode hard until they came up against a wall of brush and brambles. Thomas jumped down, grabbed the revolver and box of bullets from his saddlebag, and ran back to Mose.
The black man had already dismounted and was clinging to the saddle with both hands. Blood darkened the left side of his poncho. Thomas waved toward the brush. “Run! Stay low!”
Holding his side, Mose Solomon staggered out of sight.
Thomas slapped the horses, sending them back the way they’d come, then crouched behind a tree trunk as their pursuers charged through the trees behind them. Shouts. Curses. Two horses. Two riders.
Thomas checked the cylinder of his Colt. Six rounds. Thumbing back the hammer, he braced his arm against the tree trunk and sighted down the barrel.
The front rider crashed through the brush.
Thomas fired.
The man flew backward, blood spurting from his neck.
The second man kept coming.
Deafened by the blast, his eyes burning from spent powder, Thomas cocked and fired again. His shot went wide.
The second rider continued toward him, firing as he came.
Thomas ducked behind the tree again, struggling to listen through the ringing in his ears. Four shots? Or was it five? When the firing stopped, Thomas rose up, the gun cocked and ready.
An unfamiliar horse stood twenty feet away. His saddle was empty.
Thomas scanned the trees, saw nothing. He slid behind the trunk again, shaking his head to clear the buzzing in his ears.
“You killed my partner, you bastard!” The voice came from the right.
Thomas inched to the left and waited, gun ready. A bird flitted by. Somewhere overhead, a squirrel scolded. When the noise in his head began to fade and he could hear again, Thomas stepped around the tree again, caught movement, and lurched back too late.
* * *
“You’re a success,” Brother Sampson murmured at Pru’s shoulder as they moved through the guests, nodding to well-wishers congratulating her on her speech.
“Let’s hope the initiative is as well received.”
“It already is. Look at the crowd standing at the table where donations are being taken.”
Not a crowd, perhaps, but enough to ensure she hadn’t wasted her time coming here tonight. Rising on tiptoes, she strained to see past the people milling about. “Do you see Mr. Marsh and Lillie?” She had tried to keep an eye on them while she gave her talk, but without a raised dais, she hadn’t been able to see over the heads of the taller listeners.
“I believe they stepped out.”
Panic brought her to a stop. “Stepped out? When? Where did they go?”
His smile faded. “Toward the entry. You don’t think—”
“Oh, God.” She shoved her way through the crowd. But when she reached the foyer, there was only a single footman standing beside the front door.
“Did a man and a little black girl come through here?”
The footman blinked at her in surprise, then nodded. “About five minutes ago. They went outside with Senator Brooks.”
Panic escalated into full-blown fear. Ignoring the befuddled footman’s attempts to help, she threw open the front door.
Marsh and the senator stood at the street next to a boxy black carriage.
Pru raced down the steps. “What are you doing? Where’s Lillie?”
“I here!” A dark, tear-streaked face appeared in the coach window. “Miss Pru!” Small fists banged on the glass before a hand jerked her back.
“Lillie!” Pru ran down the walk.
At a nod from the senator, the carriage pulled away. High-pitched shrieks sounded from inside.
“No! Stop!” Waving frantically, Pru ran toward the carriage, but the coachman flicked the whip and sent the horses faster. Panting, she turned to the two men by the curb. “What’s happening? Where are they taking her?”
Marsh glanced at the house and the people crowding the open doorway. “Calm yourself, Miss Lincoln. You’re making a scene.”
“Why are you doing this?” she cried, her voice shrill with tears. “Where are you sending her?”
“To my school, Miss Lincoln,” the senator said. “For her own good.”
“Her own good? What’s good for her is to be with me! You have no right!”
“I have every right.” Face flushed with anger, the senator said to Marsh, “I was afraid this would happen. These people are so excitable.”
“These people?” Pru charged toward him. “You stole my—”
Marsh moved forward to block her way. “Miss Lincoln!”
“Stole your what?” The senator’s voice was mild, but ice crackled in those cold eyes. “She’s not your daughter, Miss Lincoln. She’s not kin to you at all. By her own admission, she’s an orphan and, as such, is under the protection of the State of Indiana.”
“You can’t—”
Marsh gripped her shoulder. Hard. She twisted, trying to break his hold. “Let me go! You can’t do this! You’ll be sorry for this! Both of you!”
Marsh’s fingers dug deeper. “Go back inside now, Senator. I’ll handle this.”
Unable to pull from Marsh’s grip, Pru stood shaking, breath rasping in her throat, her mind in tatters.
As soon as the door closed behind the senator and the front porch gawkers, Marsh shoved Pru away with an expression of disgust. “Do be quiet, Miss Lincoln. All this weeping and wailing won’t get the pickaninny back.”
Teeth bared, Pru ran at him, hands curled like claws.
Marsh caught her wrists. Gave her a hard shake. “But I can. I can bring her back.”
She stilled. “Y-You can?”
“I can and I will.” Releasing her arms, he smoothed his waistcoat as though brushing away any filth her nearness might have left on the silk brocade. That predator’s smile thinned his pink lips. “Just as soon as you board the train for Washington, I’ll make sure she’s released.”
* * *
Thomas awoke on his back, a boot planted on his chest. He reached up to push it off, then froze when he heard the click of a hammer being cocked.
He slumped back, his head spinning, tasting blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek.
“Where’s the other one?” the man holding the gun asked.
Thomas cursed him in Cheyenne.
The barrel of the revolver cracked against his cheekbone. More blood dripped down into his ear.
“In English. You do know how to speak English, don’t you, redskin?”
When he did not answer, the man leaned down and rested his forearm across the knee of the leg propped on Thomas’s chest. “Now I can start shooting off parts of you,” he said in a friendly tone. “Or you can answer me.”
“What do you want to know, ve’ho’e?”
The spinning had slowed. As his head cleared, strength flowed back into Thomas’s arms and legs. Muscles flexed in readiness. Soon, he would kill this man. But first he would find out who had sent him after them.
The tip of the gun barrel poked his nose. “I’m asking for the last time, redskin. Where’s the other one?”
“He ran off. Who sent you?”
The man smiled, showing stained teeth and a wad of tobacco between his cheek and gums. “Someone who didn’t want you getting to Westfield, I’d guess.”
“A man named Marsh?”
“Maybe.” Another poke with the gun. “Ran off where?”
“Into the brush.”
Muttering, the man looked around.
He was not a big man. He did not wear the clothes of one who worked outside for his money, and his hands looked soft. The hands of a banker. Or maybe a gambler.
“I don’t see him. What’s he doing? Just hiding in there?”
Thomas filled his lungs and readied his body for the fight to come. “He is hurt.” He tipped his head toward the brambles. “He crawled over there.”
When the man turned his head to look, Thomas grabbed the ankle of the foot on his chest and pulled hard in one direction, and at the same time, drove the heel of his other hand into the side of the man’s knee from the other direction.
Something snapped. The gun fell. Screaming, the man grabbed at his leg and toppled sideways. By the time he hit the ground, Thomas was on top of him, his knife at his throat.
Silence, except for the rasp of their breathing.
Thomas watched blood from the cut on his temple drip onto the man’s face, leaving ribbons of red across his cheek. Blue eyes, wide with shock and pain, stared back at him, tears pooling in the corners.
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Ma’heo’o cannot help you now. Who sent you?”
“L-Like you said. Marsh.”
“He told you to kill us?”
“If we had to. Just so you didn’t come back.”
At a sound, Thomas looked back to see Mose Solomon crawling out of the brambles, his face marked by thorns, one hand clamped to the blood-soaked poncho over his side.
The man on the ground looked frantically over at him. “Help me! Don’t let him kill me!”
Thomas jiggled the knife to regain his attention. “Will you go back and tell Marsh that we still live?”
“No! No, I swear it!”
Thomas studied him for the space of a heartbeat. Then two. “I do not believe you,” he said, and drove the knife down.
When the twitching stopped, he wiped the blade clean on the man’s shirt and slipped his knife into the sheath at his back. He turned to find Mose Solomon regarding him with wide, f
earful eyes. “He dead?”
Thomas did not bother to answer. “How bad are you hurt?”
“N-Not too bad. Bullet go clean through. Why you kill him?”
“So he will not tell anyone where you are, or who the people are who helped you.” As he spoke, Thomas ripped off pieces of the dead man’s shirt, folded them into pads and pressed them against the holes in the black man’s side.
“I ain’t never seen so much blood. Ain’t never killed a white man, neither.”
“You did not kill this one. I did.” To distract Mose while he tore more strips to wrap around the black man’s belly, Thomas asked what he would do when he reached Canada.
“Blacksmith. Workin’ the forge and poundin’ iron all I knows how to do.”
“Will there be people there to help you?”
Mose winced as Thomas tied off the bandage holding the pads in place. “Cousin and his wife.”
“That is good.” Thomas rose. “To’estse. Get up. Gather the guns while I find our horses. We must hurry to reach the Quakers before full light.”
Once he’d collected all four horses, Thomas stripped those belonging to the dead men and drove them into the brush. As he helped Mose Solomon onto the sorrel, the black man stared down at the bodies sprawled on the ground.
“We just gonna leave them? Not even bury them?”
“Do you have a shovel?”
“No.”
“Then we cannot bury them. The coyotes will find them soon enough.”
They reached the barn on the outskirts of Westfield just as the town was awakening. Several plain-dressed men were there to meet them. When the Quakers saw their injuries, they sent for a healer and rushed Thomas and Mose inside the barn to a special room built beneath one of the stalls.
An old woman with a medicine basket came down the ladder. While she tended their wounds, the men muttered among themselves. After a moment, the leader of the group, an older man with a round belly, stepped forward, his hands on his hips. “Thee will explain to us how this happened.”