Ride A Cowboy: Romance Novel

by Jamila Jasper

  Aja was one of these people. Aja Robinson. That black bitch. He had loved her. He had wanted to make her love him. Serve him. There had even been a time- back when Drew was still a little blue-eyed toddler- when Joe had been this close to getting her to marry him. She had refused then, and kept refusing for twelve years, no matter how many promises he made, no matter how much money and presents he put at her feet. She was a stubborn cuss, but Joe was so sure she would turn around eventually. After he had ravished her that fateful night- with the help of Pat Tucker- he’d been sure she’d see reason and agree to be his woman.

  Many a night Joe had lain awake and thought about what he’d done. He felt no remorse, of course. Just a seething rage. The look on Aja’s face when he’d finished! As if she had a right to look that way! As if he hadn’t honored her, as if he hadn’t put it all on the line for her. In the years since he’d tried to do better by her, be sweet, to lure her back to his side; she hadn’t deserved the good treatment, but he’d done it. Still, it hadn’t worked.

  He’d been a fool. But he’d have the last laugh.

  Joe finished his work, sloshing the last few drops in the doorway. He pulled out his lighter and struck it.

  It didn’t catch.

  He stared. You’ve got to be joking. He thumbed it furiously, but the spark fizzled weakly and died. He shook it; there was plenty of liquid in the chamber. The thing was just dead.

  “Need some help, honey?”

  The voice sounded like nails rattling in a bucket, like stones rolling down a mountain. Joe Snell jumped out of his skin. He turned face to face with a woman he thought he’d never see again. Lyn Thompson. Or, as she had once been called, Lynette Murphy.

  ***

  6 HOURS EARLIER

  It was late in the night, or early in the morning- depending on how you looked at it- and Steel was intertwined with the woman he loved, his hands resting on her generous ass, reflecting. They had spent most of the past couple days out riding. The horses were like ghosts beneath them. They were gentle creatures, and strong. Aja hadn’t ridden a horse in years, but Dream was such an easy and forgiving creature that soon it was all coming back. Steel had named his Wanderer. Like Dream, Wanderer had taken to Steel immediately. They spent all day on horseback, ambling through the rolling hills of Boyd, visiting every farm they crossed. Steel had to admit he liked seeing Aja on horseback. But he also liked the feeling of the big animal beneath his thighs. It reminded him of his youth herding cattle through the Texas prairie.

  “You were a real cowboy, huh?” Aja had teased.

  “Sure was,” Steel said, exaggerating his Texas drawl. Aja laughed, as he knew she would.

  “You ever miss it?”

  “All the time. I’ve been thinking of going back. ”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Steel had been doing his homework. He had his eye on a ranch in Texas, a little bit smaller than Boyd. He’d put out the notice, secretly, through his connections, that black farmers across the state could purchase the land or cheap. That way the boys would never have to feel out of place again. Aja could, for the first time, be with her people.

  Even if he never picked up herding again, he’d have something to leave for his children, and Aja’s brothers, for the rest of their lives.

  He thought about that as he lay in Aja’s bed, her soft body twined around him. He stroked her hair, thinking. It was all working out. They would be happy. He drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  Aja woke an hour later to the sight of her grandfather’s face, drawn with concern. He was clutching something to his chest.

  “Wake up, girl. Wake up.”

  “Huh?” It was dark outside. Her grandfather was never up this late. Something was wrong.

  Grandpa Buck put a finger to his lips. “Shush, now. Git up. Don’t wake up your man.”

  Aja slid out of bed, careful not to touch Steel. He gave a little snore.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered. Her grandfather led her out of the room and closed the door. His voice was low and urgent.

  “I found it.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a book. It was leather-bound, with gold leaf pages. Aja took it and flipped it open. The spidery handwriting was unmistakable. This was Fiona Tucker’s diary.

  “How?” Aja said. She couldn’t believe it.

  “It was in your Grandma Sara’s old quarters,” said Grandpa Buck. “The last place anyone would look. The old closet.”

  “You were in the house? You broke in?”

  “I found it, didn’t I?” the old man said defensively. “Here.” He flipped through to the end of the book. Aja strained to read the writing in the dim light.

  The Lord is forgiving. I have left my last requests in a place few would think to look, where Sara and I would play as children. In the cradle of our Lord Jesus Christ, where he lay humbly as a baby when all men had turned him away. It is to the Lord I look for deliverance and forgiveness. My father’s evil has left a poison legacy on this family. I am as guilty as the rest of my blood, for the abuses inflicted on this woman, and on the Robinson family.

  Here I shall write an account of what happened between our families.

  Sara Smith, as she was then called, was given to the Tucker family as a little girl. They purchased her for fifteen dollars, though I could find no receipt of her purchase amongst my father’s belongings. She was not paid; to put it plainly, she was a slave. In those times no one questioned her presence. My father John Tucker and my mother Lydia Tucker kept her a secret. I regret to say that Sarah endured all manner of abuse from my father. He kept her as a bedmate when she was not yet fourteen, a fact that drove my mother, in turn, to beat her when my father was not around. For many years she suffered, and I, of an age with Sara, was ignorant to many of these abuses. My father allowed his friends to use her when they came to visit. She also bore a child for my father, to my recollection. They were torn from her breast and spirited away in the night. The Good Lord in his mercy only knows what happened to the child. I believe it was a boy. Sarah never saw him again.

  When Sara was eighteen we hired a gardener, one Buck Robinson, who in the years since Sara’s passing has become a close friend of mine. Sara and Mr. Robinson fell in love. I do not doubt that if my father had discovered this, he would have killed them both. It was through Mr. Robinson’s efforts, and with small help from myself, that Sara Smith was rescued from our family’s clutches. She and Mr. Robinson soon married. But I regret to say that would not be the last time the Robinsons were preyed upon by my family.

  I learned only recently that the grandchild of Sara Robinson, by name of Aja Robinson, was the victim of a violent sexual act perpetrated by my brother Patrick Tucker and the Sheriff of Boyd County, Joe Snell (to my understanding, Joe Snell is descended from one of my father’s bastards as well). Miss Robinson was then ostracized by the people of Boyd County, and has been the target of further abuses from Mr. Snell.

  My last request is an effort to put an end to this evil legacy of the Tucker family. I die with only two living relatives. One is my nephew, Carson Tucker. The other is a distant cousin of mine, by name of Steel Edward Gray, whose details I have given to Carson so the two may be in contact. Carson will inherit only a small fraction of the Tucker fortune. Steel will inherit nothing.

  Finally, I shall say for the record that my research has revealed that the Tucker fortune did not originate in Boyd, but in Plum Tree, South Carolina. My great-grandfather owned a large cotton plantation with over a hundred slaves. The monies from this formed the foundation of the Tucker fortune. As of today we are still the owners of this land, drawing rent from tenants monthly.

  This poisoned lineage ends with me. I have left the crucial details in my Will, which shall be discovered by the right person when it is time. I only ask for forgiveness from the Robinson family, and deliverance for myself.

  -Fiona Mae Tucker

  Aja read the entry agai
n and again, her mind reeling. Here it was. Concrete proof. Her grandfather hadn’t been crazy, there was a will left for the Robinson family.

  Her eyes filled with tears. What her grandmother had gone through! Seeing her son torn away, the rape, the abuse, the generational suffering. Even seeing her own name in print was shocking. Memories from that night flooded her mind. Patrick Tucker- Carson’s father- standing over Aja, waiting his turn...the sweat, the blood. Bile rose in Aja’s throat; she clenched her thighs together and slammed the journal shut.

  “How did you find this?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Ah remembered,” Grandpa Buck said miserably. “She’d tol’ me where it was. Before she died. Ah just forgot...forgot that she’d told me.” His own eyes were bright with tears.

  “It’s alright,” Aja said, hugging him. She remembered when her Grandpa had seemed like the strongest man in the world, so tall and muscular. He’d had a tongue as sharp as the devil’s, and a temper to match. No one had messed with Buck Robinson. Now he was weak and shrunken with age. His mind was fraying at the edges.

  “The Will,” Grandpa Buck said, grabbing her arm suddenly. “She left clues.”

  “I know,” Aja told him. Excitement coursed through her veins, like fire over gasoline. “I think I finally figured it out.”

  ***

  Aja climbed back into bed and fell asleep immediately, her mind dark as the night outside. She slept.

  ***

  Steel Gray was having a nightmare. It was the usual kind he had. He was in uniform, sweating under his fatigues, the grease in his hair sealing the helmet to his head like glue. He had to be quiet- quiet as a rabbit. No one could see him.

  His breath came heavily- fear. He was afraid. The red dust of Afghanistan was swirling all around him, choking him. He had seen enough fucking dust, that was all there was in this damned country- dust. Dust and fear and carnage. He was sick of it. He wanted to go home.

  He realized what building he was entering, and his mind rebelled. He did not like this part of the dream. He didn’t want to relive it again.

  Still, he walked, denied the relief of waking up. His dream self crossed the shattered doorframe of the mud house. He heard the child’s crying before he saw it. His stomach twisted preemptively.

  “No, no,” Steel said through clenched teeth, but his dream body moved forward. There was Major Green, fatigues around his feet- and the little girl’s headscarf was pulled up around her face. Hiding her from the shame.

  Steel’s temper flared. He was angry. He was the angriest he’d ever been in his life, the rage bursting in him like a bubble of hot poison. He raised his rifle-

  “Steel! Steel!”

  It was Aja, shaking him awake. He had been twisting violently in her bed. He sat up, disoriented, shaking the lingering effects of the dream from his head. Her face was framed in red light. That was the first thing that occured to him. The second was the smell.

  Smoke.

  He was instantly awake.

  “Baby? Baby, what’s wrong?”

  Aja looked frantic, terrified. She was covered in sweat.

  “Steel!” She sobbed, still shaking him. “The house is on fire!”

  He was on his feet in seconds, his training taking over. “Where are the boys?”

  “Outside. They got out the window. But Steel-”

  “And your grandfather?”

  Aja moaned in despair. “I don’t know.”

  “Hold on to me.”

  The heat when he opened the door was overpowering. It was in the kitchen, on the bottom floor, and to Steel’s horror, tongues of orange flame were licking up the stairs. The boys’ window was on the second floor- they must have jumped.

  “Let’s go out their window, then.”

  “The documents- their birth certificates-”

  Steel ignored her, seizing her arm and dragging her to Daniel’s room forcefully. There wasn’t time to stand and dither. He pushed her in front of the window, which was small,but which would fit Aja- he wasn’t so sure about himself.

  He shut the door of the room, dragging the curtains off the window and stuffing them under the door.

  “Jump,” he said.

  “It’s-” Aja swallowed, looking at him. “What about you?”

  “JUMP!” Steel roared, shoving at her back. It was a twenty foot drop. She barely fit through the window. Aja could hear Daniel and Drew calling to her from below, their voices thin and tinny over the roaring in her ears. Steel was a furious tower behind her, barricading against her fear. If she didn’t jump, he might kill her before the fire did.

  She hit the ground rolling, as he’d instructed her to do. Smoke was pouring in through the doorframe; had the fire reached the second floor?

  He eyed the window. It was too small. He had to make it wider, somehow, or he’d die. Painfully.

  The frame was only wood and drywall- hardwood, he thought grimly. This house was old, after all.

  His eyes scanned the room. Daniel and Travis shared this room. The bunk bed was wrought iron, but he couldn’t lift it. Posters on the wall. A basketball. A bookshelf. Baseball bat- but that was aluminum, not strong enough.

  His eyes settled on a baseball bat with resignation. It would have to do. But in his gut, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He was going to die. Here, of all places. After all he had lived through- this was it. The room steadily filled with smoke. A few more minutes and it would be hard to breathe. He’d lose oxygen, wouldn’t be able to think-

  The door banged open, smoke pouring into the room. It was Drew Robinson. The boy was coughing harshly, his blue eyes streaming. The tips of his shirt were singed. He was holding his shirt to his nose. In his left hand he held an axe. The kind for splitting wood.

  “Drew?!” Steel exclaimed in disbelief. The boy had come back in the house- somehow, insanely. “Are you crazy?”

  “S-shut up!” Drew coughed, dropping the hatchet at his feet. “Hurry!”

  “How the hell-”

  It was his turn to get yelled at. “Get the window!” the boy screamed.

  Steel wasted no time. He tore into the window frame with all his strength, chips flying, his eyes bright with determination. The axe was a blur in his hands. Adrenaline coursed through his body. It took him only a minute. Drew was wide enough to fit through but he refused to jump until Steel was finished.

  The axe flew for a final time. Panting, Steel turned to the boy, who was wheezing on the floor. His nose was stuffed in the shirt, and he was struggling to breathe. Drew turned desperate eyes to him.

  In the distance, sirens.

  ***

  Buck Robinson avoided mirrors. Since he’d hit his sixties, he’d started to hate the damn things. He supposed it was vanity- he’d been a handsome young guy, that was sure. Tall and strong and capable. When old age started to come down on him, the sight of his liver spots, wrinkles, shaking hands and yellow nails were horrifying. They made him recoil in disgust. He was repulsed by his own reflection; by the weak thing he had become.

  And he’d never admit it either, but Buck Robinson was afraid of death.

  Not that death was a stranger to him. It was precisely because he’d been so familiar with it that he feared it. To hell with what anyone said. You didn’t grow numb to death. You just pushed the fear away.

  As Buck moved towards the Tucker barn, something made him stop. He listened. It was the sound of sirens, coming on the wind like a wolf’s howl. Buck spun around; smoke was rising from the place over the hill. Thick, black smoke- the kind that meant burning houses. He sniffed, his eyes suddenly watering.

  Was it the Robinson house? With Aja and the boys?

  The thought came to him from a distant place. It was too surreal- surreal- a word Daniel, his grandson, had taught him. Feeling emotionless, he turned around and started to limp towards the sirens. Then he paused.

  Heated voices came from the porch of the Tucker House. Buck heard them and ducked behind a hydrangea bush. Maybe it was Aja and Steel
- maybe the boys were with them.

  It was not Aja and it was not Steel. It was actually Lyn Thompson, a woman Buck had thought he’d never see again, and Joe Snell. The Sheriff.

  Snell was clutching onto the woman’s arms with a deathly grip. Her hands were ziptied. She was hurling all kinds of abuses at him. He backhanded her viciously across the face. She fell in a heap to the ground, her white hair a frazzled halo. Buck watched in astonishment as Joe dragged the woman’s crumpled body inside the foyer, and shut the door on her.

  The tall man then jogged down the steps to his car, which was hidden in a clump of bushes. Buck stood frozen in place, watching it all unfold like a horrible sick movie. Joe hauled a container of gasoline behind him. He doused the porch liberally, then set the canister down and jogged back to his car again. This time he returned with strips of plywood and a clear plastic bag full of nails. He held the hammer between his teeth.