Destiny's Embrace

by Beverly Jenkins

  After her departure, Logan took a good honest look around and supposed it could use some help. Although he’d never admit it aloud, she was right about the stink, too; it was the first thing he noticed upon entering. But the last thing he wanted was a dried-up, back-East biddy underfoot ordering him around. He gave the orders. He didn’t take them.

  “Dona Alanza still complaining about the house?”

  Logan turned to see his partner and friend, Eli Braden, entering from the back of the house. The spectacle-wearing Texan was one of the finest horsemen Logan had ever met. “Were you hiding so she wouldn’t see you?”

  “Yep. Didn’t want her lighting into me, too. Reminds me too much of my own mama.” Eli took a long look around. “This place could use some cleaning, though. If we could bottle the smell, we’d make a fortune selling it as rat poison.”

  Logan rolled his eyes. Eli’s digs were reminiscent of ones often flung Logan’s way by his siblings, both of whom believed provoking him to be their main mission in life. “The horses settled in?”

  “Yeah. Stallion still pitching a fit, but he’ll come around. You really going to hire a housekeeper?”

  “Alanza is.”

  “I wish her luck. If it were me, I’d take one look at this mess and hightail it out of here like my saddle was on fire.”

  “Go home.”

  “Going. See you tomorrow.” He left, cheerily whistling “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

  After his much longed for bath, Logan walked out to check on the white stallion. It was still angrily charging around the confines of the corral. After spending life unbridled and free, it wasn’t happy being penned in, and reminded him in many ways of how angry his own stallion Diablo had been after capture. Logan understood the mustang’s distress, but he didn’t let empathy take precedence over the fine price the horse would bring when sold. He spent another few minutes marveling over its beautiful strong lines before leaving the horse under the watchful eyes of his hands and slowly making his way back to the house.

  Logan was thirty-seven years old, and as he’d aged, recovering from the long rides to Montana and back seemed to take longer and longer. It wasn’t something he admitted out loud; as it stood, some of the younger hands had already affectionately taken to calling him or Eli “Old Man.” And at the moment he certainly felt like one. Five years ago, his left knee was nearly shattered by a kick from a stallion similar to the one now rearing and bellowing with rage in the corral, and although the knee healed, it never fully recovered. Long rides made it ache, as did the winter rains. Some of the other ranchers his age had long since turned their more arduous tasks over to the younger men in their employ but Logan refused to follow suit. Whether it stemmed from pride, arrogance, or just plain stubbornness he didn’t know, but he’d been the man on the Destiny ranch since his father returned from a trip to Montana dead and laid across the back of his horse. Logan had been fourteen. He and the then twenty-three-year-old Alanza had worked their fingers to the bone to keep their land, but they’d known much less about ranching back then and as a result wound up so destitute that at one point, there’d been no money and even less food. When life finally got better, he’d vowed that as long as he lived, she and his brothers would never have to endure such hardship again. So far, that vow had been kept.

  He made his way through the cluttered hallway and into his bedroom. The sight of the clean bedding brought on a smile because he knew Alanza’s servants were responsible. Lying down, he thought about her wish for grandchildren. He supposed one of her sons would eventually have to tie the knot in order to make her dreams come true and to ensure Destiny’s land stayed in the family, but he didn’t see himself as a candidate. He enjoyed the company of his mistress, Valencia. She was a fine woman, even if she was a bit hesitant in bed, and she’d made it plain that she didn’t want to marry. He didn’t see Andrew Antonio as a likely candidate, either. Drew lived in San Francisco and had a remuda of mistresses that snaked from the Bay to Mexico City. No way was he going to give Alanza her desired grandbabies. So that left his baby brother, Noah. Turning over to make himself comfortable, Logan made a mental note to send the captain of the Alanza a letter informing him of his duty. Smiling at the thought of Noah’s probable reaction, the weary Logan closed his eyes and instantaneously fell asleep.

  Chapter 2

  On the other side of the country, Mariah Cooper was seated on the floor of her mother’s dress shop in Philadelphia wishing the portly Mrs. Julia Porter would stand still. Every time Mariah tried to set a pin in the hem of the gown the woman was wearing, she’d swivel around to speak to the other customers in the shop, thus making it difficult to set the next pin evenly. Julia Porter was the biggest gossip in the city of Philadelphia, and when she wasn’t spreading false, lurid tales, she was openly seeking information to spread more. Today’s subject was the impending marriage of Mariah’s friend, Kathleen Jennings, to Carson Wales, a wealthy, older gentleman. Mariah knew Carson worshipped the ground Kaye walked on, but Julia Porter had her own take on the impending nuptials. “She’s after his funds. Plain and simple.” Julia turned again and made the silk move before the pin could be set. “Heaven knows what he sees in her, besides the obvious. Those bosoms of her have been drawing male attention since she was old enough to wear a corset.”

  Mariah wanted to speak up in defense of her friend, but kept her lips tightly sealed. Julia Porter, like the other women in the shop, was among her mother’s best customers. Were Mariah to tell the old bat what she really thought, her mother, Bernice, would lose the business, and as it was, Mariah had a hard enough time staying in her mother’s good graces.

  “Mariah!” her mother called sharply. “Are you woolgathering or pinning that hem?”

  “Pinning, Mother.”

  Julia Porter peered down. “Why on earth is it taking you so long?”

  Mariah kept her head down so as to mask her reaction. “Almost done, Mrs. Porter.”

  The woman huffed with impatience. “And to think this dull-witted girl aspires to marry my Tillman. Can you imagine having a grandchild with her witch eyes?”

  The ladies laughed.

  The caustic remark made Mariah tighten with embarrassment. Her odd-colored eyes had been the subject of taunting for as long as she could remember. One would expect a mother to come to the defense of her child on the heels of such a nasty remark, but Mariah knew better than to expect that from her own. Tillman was Julia’s only son. Although he’d professed his undying love for Mariah, his mother was having none of it. Witch Hazel Mariah was too old and lacked the social stature Julia preferred her future daughter-in-law to have. To Mariah’s disappointment, Tillman refused to go against her wishes. “I’m done now, Mrs. Porter.”

  “It’s about time.”

  Mariah gathered up the pins and got to her feet. “Mother, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll go start dinner.”

  Julia Porter drawled, “I hope she cooks faster than she pins, Bernice, otherwise you may starve to death.”

  Chin raised, Mariah ignored the chuckles and walked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster. Climbing the short staircase to the living space she and her mother shared above the shop, she wiped away the angry tears in her eyes and walked into the kitchen. She knew hate was a strong word, but nothing else adequately defined how she felt about her life. It was 1885, she was thirty years old and the world seemed to have passed her by. Unlike her friend Kaye, there’d be no marriage or children for her, at least not unless Tillman grew a spine. For the rest of her life, all she had to look forward to was more of the same. When she wasn’t catering to her mother’s viperous customers, she was cooking and cleaning for her. It had been that way since Mariah became old enough to handle the stove and push a needle through fabric. According to Bernice, Mariah’s father died when she was three years old, and for some unknown reason, Bernice found fault with her daughter no matter the task. Mariah yearned to have the warm and loving relationship Kaye had w
ith her mother, Winnie, but learned at an early age that the sun would rise in the west first. Bernice was mean, caustic, and short-tempered. The only joys in Mariah’s life came from the books she borrowed from the local lending library, and the charity work she did alongside the matrons at Mother Bethel, the AME church. Twice a month she and the other women visited the sick, checked on the children in the orphanages, and dispensed food and medicine to those in need. It was satisfying work, and a tradition that had begun during abolition. She dearly enjoyed helping others but wished her own life held more caring and kindness.

  By the time her mother entered an hour later, dinner was done, but instead of being offered thanks, Mariah was scolded instead. “How dare you make me a laughingstock!”

  Countering that she was the one who’d borne the embarrassing brunt of Julia Porter’s sharp tongue would only evoke more railing, so again, she kept her lips sealed.

  “You dawdled over that hem as if we have a fully stocked larder and no need to pay bills.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Bernice mimicked cruelly. “If Mrs. Porter and her friends decide to take their trade elsewhere because you can’t pin a hem with reasonable speed, then what? How will I keep this shop open so that I can continue to clothe and house you? It’s not as if you have a prospective husband waiting in the wings to take you off my hands.”

  Mariah wondered if her skin would ever grow thick enough to blunt the razor-sharp cut of her mother’s vicious tongue.

  Bernice said with disgust, “Go. Eat your supper, clean up in here, then get to work on those sketches. I’ll be meeting Mrs. Crandall in the morning.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Growing up, it was not uncommon for her to be sent to her room without supper as punishment for sins real or imagined, so she took the small gift and departed.

  Later, upstairs in the attic space that served as her bedroom, she pulled out her sketchbook and pencils. One of her other small joys was designing gowns. Her mother often sold the sketches she created to Mrs. Crandall, the modiste of choice for the city’s wealthy White women. Although it was never discussed, Mariah was fairly certain her mother had Mrs. Crandall convinced that Bernice had drawn them all. Her mother did have the decency to give Mariah a small percentage of the sale price, which she immediately socked away in her account at the bank, but she was also certain she wasn’t being paid anywhere close to what the sketches were actually being sold for. On more than a few occasions she’d secretly gone over to Mrs. Crandall’s shop and seen the readymade gowns based on her sketches displayed on dress forms in the window. The asking prices were jaw-dropping.

  It took two hours to finish the three sketches: one of a traveling ensemble with a scalloped hem on the formfitting bodice, the second, a flowing velvet coat fit for the opera or some other fancy affair, and the last, a peignoir that could be included in a bridal trousseau, something she doubted she’d ever have. Done, she massaged her weary eyes and went to stand by the tiny triangle-shaped pane that functioned as her window. Dusk was descending on another day. Somewhere in the city of Philadelphia were women her age, dressing for a night out at the theater with their friends, or putting children to bed, or spending a quiet evening at home with their husbands. Although she knew it wasn’t charitable, she often wondered what her life would be like had she been born in another time or place. According to the reverend, everyone was where the Good Lord intended for them to be. To question one’s existence was to border on being blasphemous. Yet and still, she’d always felt as if her destiny lay elsewhere. Ever since she was small she often wondered about people in other places and if somewhere in the wide world there was a girl like her standing in a window in London or Cathay or another exotic place peering out just as she was. Turning away from the window, she prepared herself for sleep. Undoubtedly tomorrow would mirror today, but she had to face it none the same.

  The next morning, while Bernice was away peddling Mariah’s sketches, Tillman paid a visit to the shop. She was sewing the final stitches into the hem of the gown his mother was scheduled to pick up later in the week. At his entrance she set it aside. She supposed she should be pleased to see the only man who’d ever paid her court, but because they both knew his mother would never approve his suit for her hand, her feelings were mixed. “Morning, Tillman.”

  He was a handsome man who very much resembled his father, a bellman at one of the big hotels downtown. Tillman was a graduate of Howard College and was presently employed as the accountant for the city’s year-old Black newspaper, the Tribune. Because its editor, Mr. Christopher Perry, couldn’t afford to pay him very much, he supplemented his income as a waiter at the same establishment where his father worked. “Morning, Mariah. How are you?”

  “I’m well, and you?”

  “On my way to the paper, thought I’d come by and sneak a kiss to sweeten my day.”

  She gave him a leveling look even as she smiled. “No kisses for you until you stand up to your mama.”

  “Aw, ’Riah, come on. You know I can’t afford to do that. At least not until I make enough to be able to survive on my own.”

  He crossed the distance between them. Taking her by the hands he gently urged her to her feet. “You know you enjoy kissing me just as much.”

  She was about to respond when her mother came through the door. The glare in her eyes froze them both.

  Tillman stammered, “Um, morning, Mrs. Cooper. I—I just stopped in to ask about my mother’s gown.”

  “Is that why you two are holding hands?”

  He released hers as if they were suddenly red hot. Mariah’s lips tightened.

  “Your mother’s gown will be delivered on Thursday. Now, I’m sure you have pressing duties, elsewhere. Am I correct?”

  He gave her a quick nod and moved to the door. “Good day, ma’am.” He had no parting words for Mariah.

  In the silence that rose on the heels of his hasty exit, Mariah braced herself for what would follow.

  “Why are you encouraging him to go against his mother? Hasn’t Mrs. Porter made it quite clear that she finds you and your witch eyes unacceptable? All that man wants is what’s between your legs, and until he takes a wife, you’ll do.” She then warned ominously, “Bring a bastard child into this world, and it and you will be on the street. Do you hear me, girl!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, get to work, and I don’t want to see him in my shop again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mariah hated being so weak, but like Tillman she had no choice but to endure. Her bank funds weren’t nearly enough to allow her to set out on her own. And even if they were, for all her longings for another life in another place, she didn’t know if she had the inner fortitude to just up and leave. Bernice was her mother. The Bible specifically stated she was to honor that bond; so, instead of placing the blame for the visit on Tillman’s head, where it rightly belonged, Mariah did as she was told and went back to hemming his mother’s gown.

  By the end of June, rumor had it that he’d gotten himself engaged to a young woman from Boston. Because his family traveled in different social circles and attended St. Thomas Episcopal instead of Mother Bethel, Mariah had no real way of knowing the truth. She hadn’t seen him since the ill-fated visit six weeks ago, nor had his mother stopped by the shop to order any new gowns. She supposed she should be happy for him, but found herself angered by the rumor instead.

  Her day was brightened by a visit from her good friend Kathleen Jennings. After sharing an affectionate hug of greeting, they took seats on the shop’s stools and Mariah said eagerly, “So tell me everything about the wedding plans.”

  “We’ve decided to marry in the fall, and I’d like for you to make my gown.”

  Mariah’s heart leapt excitedly. “I’d be honored and the gown’ll be my wedding gift to you.”

  Her mother came out of the back and the two friends sobered instantaneously.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Cooper.”

  They bot
h stood.

  “Kathleen. You’re aware that I don’t like Mariah visiting when she’s supposed to be working?”

  “I understand but I’m here to ask her to make my wedding gown.”

  “Really? At what price?”

  Mariah spoke up. “I want the gown to be my gift to her, so I won’t be charging her.”

  “And you made that decision all on your own, did you?”

  Sparks of anger flared to life in Mariah’s eyes. “Yes. It’s the least I can do to repay her for her friendship all these years.”

  “Is that friendship going to pay next month’s rent?”

  “Mother, I—”

  “Kathleen,” her mother said coolly. “Mariah’s very busy. I’ll come up with a price and talk to you and your mother about it in a day or so.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Clearly upset, Kaye gave Mariah’s hand a parting squeeze and departed.

  Once they were alone, Bernice stated pointedly, “When your name is on the sign outside you can be charitable, but until then nothing goes out of this shop for free.”

  Mariah was so weary of being walked upon and criticized and verbally flayed, she wanted to scream. Her friendship with Kaye meant everything. They’d known each other since primary school and were the sisters neither had. Growing up, they’d shared dreams and hopes and on those rare occasions Bernice allowed Mariah to visit the Jennings’s home and stay overnight, they’d giggled until dawn.

  Now, her mother was trying to deny Mariah the one way she knew to repay Kaye for her many years of kindness, and for being one of the few bright spots in her life. As she looked into the brittle face, something told her that if she didn’t take a stand there and then, she’d spend the rest of her life with Bernice’s foot on her neck until her spirit withered away. “I am going to make Kaye’s gown, and it will be at no cost to her. I’ll buy the fabric and threads out of my own money.”

  “Are you deaf now, girl?”