Baldwin, Barbara - Indigo Bay.txt

by Indigo Bay (lit)

  in the light of day, I can determine the cause.”

  “We’re going to the cliffs?”

  Logan shot her a look of disbelief. “How did you know

  cliffs edged this end of the island?”

  Mica stared ahead of them, her eyes searching wildly for a

  safe answer. Damn, she mentally cringed. How was she

  supposed get out of this one? Even if the buildings didn’t look

  familiar, the lay of the land wouldn’t have changed that much

  over a hundred years, and she searched for some way to save

  her from her faux pas.

  “Well, you can see the rise of the land up ahead.” She

  pointed vaguely off in the distance. To add credence to her

  answer, she smiled weakly at him. “Besides, don’t all islands

  have cliffs, and sandy coves, and waterfalls, and...”

  He laughed at her exaggeration, shaking his head. “It really

  is too bad they don’t teach ladies something besides watercolors

  and menu planning. If you like, I will gladly give you some

  instruction in geography.”

  Mica had to grit her teeth and clench her fists beneath the

  folds of her skirt to keep from punching Logan in the jaw. She

  had purposely led him down this path to cover her blunder, but

  she hated his macho male attitude and longed to tell him as

  much.

  However, in 1850, he was perfectly within his rights in a

  male-dominated world to express such thoughts. There would

  come a time, she thought, when he would be sorry for all the

  rude comments he had made. She would see to that.

  She changed the subject, so she wouldn’t forget what

  century she resided in and give him a lecture. “What are those?”

  She pointed to a series of large brick structures that stair-stepped

  down from each other in groups of three.

  “Fermentation vats. They are used to create the dye that

  carries our name. The process is quite lengthy. Once the plants

  are cut, they must be placed in the largest vat at the top of the

  tier and covered with water. When the indigo leaves are

  saturated, the fermentation process begins. The liquid must be

  the right taste and color before it is drawn off into the lower

  vat where the process continues.”

  “The right taste?” Mica gave him an incredulous look.

  “Isn’t dye poisonous?”

  “Not at all. It must be exactly the right sweetness. An hour

  too long of fermentation could endanger the entire yield. Once

  the process at the vats is complete, the indigo is transferred to

  the building over there.” He swung his arm to the buildings to

  the left of the road.

  “The raw indigo is heated to remove impurities, then

  strained through linen cloth and formed into cakes, all of which

  bear our island stamp.” He pointed to other buildings farther

  on. “That is the drying and storage shed, and farther along are

  the dyeing and weaving sheds. We not only grow and process

  the indigo, but we buy raw cotton thread which is dyed and

  woven into world famous Indigo Bay cloth.”

  Mica couldn’t help being impressed at the work involved

  in such a venture, even though she had never heard of Indigo

  Bay cloth before. So used to ready-to-wear clothes, convenience

  stores, and electronic mail, she had no concept of the time and

  effort it took to create a product in this era.

  “I am very impressed. You must be very proud of what

  your father and stepfather have done.”

  An instant scowl crossed Logan’s face, his dark brows

  coming together over menacing eyes. Mica leaned back,

  unaware of the blunder she had committed.

  “Charles Seaton had nothing to do with the success of

  Indigo Bay. In fact, because of his incompetent dealings, the

  island barely survived.” He snapped his mouth shut, and Mica

  realized he had said more than he intended.

  Why was it men thought they didn’t need anyone to listen

  to them, or to help out once in a while? That trait hadn’t changed

  over the years. She placed a hand on his thigh and felt the

  muscle tighten beneath her touch.

  “Logan, please. As I tried to tell you earlier, I’m quite

  capable of understanding business and economics.” She smiled

  as she thought of her own tangled affairs. “And family.”

  She studied his profile as he concentrated on keeping the

  horses on the narrow dirt path, passing the buildings without

  further comment and leading them towards the northern end of

  the island.

  “Logan?” She watched as his jaw tensed in aggravation.

  She added what she hoped was an element of trust. “You asked

  me to stay here and get to know you, to learn the legacy of

  your island. How can I do that if you won’t talk to me?” She

  could feel the tension in his leg beneath her hand and knew the

  moment he let go of his frustration.

  Logan glanced her way, and Mica could see the surprise in

  his gaze. “It’s not considered polite to talk about family

  problems with outsiders. Besides, most women don’t care about

  the land. Or economics or politics, for that matter.” Somehow,

  Mica should have expected such an answer.

  “I understand that, but as you have pointed out on more

  than one occasion, I am not your ordinary woman.” She grinned

  at him.

  He laughed in return, relieving the tension. “That is of a

  certainty, lovely lady.” He concentrated on the horses, and she

  supposed it was because the path had narrowed. Indigo plants

  high enough to block the surrounding area gave Mica a feeling

  of seclusion.

  He didn’t speak, and she began to think he wouldn’t tell

  her any more. When he did begin, his voice sounded far away,

  as though he pulled memories from the deepest part of his soul.

  “The island has always belonged to my family, for as far

  back as anyone can remember. When indigo was introduced

  back in 1740, my ancestors decided the island was ideal for

  growing the plant. Thus the name Indigo Bay. My father learned

  from his father, and I from him.

  “I never wanted anything else except to work the land, to

  be part of it. I understood at an early age that if I took care of

  the land, it, in turn, would take care of me and mine.” He sighed.

  “But Father died when I turned only thirteen, and when Mother

  married Charles Seaton, he left no place for me in the scheme

  of things.”

  Mica could hear the heartbreak in his words and ached for

  a little boy’s lost dreams. She gave his thigh a gentle squeeze.

  He chuckled, but she could hear no mirth in his voice.

  “I tried so hard to take care of the island and Mother. But

  every improvement I wanted to make—every time I suggested

  a change—Seaton would have none of it. Neither my mother

  nor I could persuade him from his course. Over the years, he

  planted more and more, refusing to rotate crops or allow the

  fields to lay fallow. If he hadn’t died when he had, he would

  surely have killed the land.”

  Mica realized how important family and this land had been


  to Logan, and she lost her heart to the boy who had been

  determined to take on a man’s responsibility. Before she could

  say anything further, he gave a shout and jerked the horses to a

  halt. Tossing her the reins, he jumped clear of the still-moving

  carriage.

  She glanced wildly around her, her hands automatically

  clutching the reins and pulling. She spied the source of Logan’s

  aggravation at the same time he pounced, hauling a large man

  off a small African American boy.

  Even as she tied the horses off and climbed down from the

  carriage, she could hear fists connecting with flesh. The boy

  appeared none the worse for wear and scooted backwards out

  of reach.

  The two men continued to roll back and forth on the ground.

  Mica twisted her hands in despair, wanting to help, but afraid

  of getting in the way. She couldn’t recall from her self-defense

  training just how to end a fight when it didn’t involve her.

  She needn’t have worried. Within minutes, Logan had the

  other man pinned to the ground. Using his weight for leverage,

  he straddled the larger man, his hands still throttling his neck.

  “Logan!” Her cry of appeal had no effect, and she rushed

  to his side to grab his arm. “Logan, stop it! You’re going to kill

  him.”

  “I should kill the son of a bitch!” Though his voice was

  choked with anger, Mica was relieved to see him release the

  pressure on the man’s neck. He rolled to the side and jumped

  gracefully to his feet all in one motion, but he never turned his

  back to the other man, who continued to lie breathless in the

  dirt.

  “Get to your feet, Jacobs, and get off my land,” Logan

  said, jerking the man up by the collar.

  Mica watched in awe, for Logan stood several inches

  shorter and much leaner than the husky man he now handled

  so roughly. Yet he had shown no fear. He had acted on impulse,

  coming to the aid of someone unable to defend himself.

  The man called Jacobs spat blood off to the side then rubbed

  the back of his hand across his mouth. “Those darkies need to

  know their place.”

  “These are people and work here because they wish it.

  They are no different than you or I.”

  Mica could see the anger build in Logan’s eyes as he spoke,

  but she couldn’t understand the reasoning behind his defense

  of the boy. After all, it was 1850, and everyone in the South

  owned slaves.

  “They’re niggers, Rutledge. Stupid nigger slaves. Mister

  Seaton kept them in their place and let me do my job overseeing

  them.” The man balled his fists, and Mica feared he would

  throw a punch.

  In the next instant, Logan drew a pistol from beneath his

  coat, leveling the barrel at the man’s heart.

  “Seaton does not own this land. I do, and I have been in

  charge for the past month. You have apparently forgotten who

  pays your wages, but that shall not be a problem any longer.

  You have one hour to be off this island. I will forward your

  pay, if I decide to pay you at all.”

  The surly man grabbed his hat from the edge of the road,

  knocking it against his leg to shake the dust. He refused to

  meet Logan’s gaze, but as he turned to leave, he grumbled,

  “You’ll be plenty sorry for this, I guarantee. You ain’t seen the

  last of me.”

  As the man disappeared around a bend in the road, Logan

  breathed an audible sigh of relief and lowered the pistol to his

  side. He glanced around. “Where’s the boy?”

  Mica stepped to his side, lifting the corner of her skirt to

  wipe away the dust and blood from his face. “He ran away as

  soon as you freed him.” Her intense relief that Logan had come

  out of the fight unhurt turned to anger at his foolishness.

  “You idiot! You could have been hurt. That man was twice

  your size. And why didn’t you just pull your pistol on him in

  the first place? Another thing, why do you even carry a pistol?

  They’re dangerous weapons.”

  He silenced her with a kiss, his lips barely touching hers.

  But the instant fire was enough to squelch any further argument

  from her. When he lifted his head, she bit her bottom lip to

  refrain from picking up where she’d left off.

  “I take care of what’s mine, Michaela Marie, by whatever

  means I need to use.” He tucked the pistol into the back of his

  trousers, took her by the elbow and guided her back to the

  carriage. “You would do well to remember that.”

  Mica’s breath caught at the intensity of his expression, and

  the heat from his hands as he lifted her onto the seat. She

  subconsciously touched the key around her neck, wondering if

  she shouldn’t make a hasty retreat back to her own world. While

  his touch thrilled her beyond words, she wondered if a mere

  door between the centuries would ever be enough to keep her

  from wanting him.

  He climbed aboard and released the horses, clicking softly

  to urge them forward. She turned her thoughts to other matters.

  “If you fire Mr. Jacobs, how will you manage your island?”

  “I’ll do it myself, if I have to. They all think the same.”

  Mica knew he referred to the slaves. “But the Afri…uh,

  Negroes are slaves.”

  “Mine aren’t,” he lashed out, then softened his tone. “You

  wouldn’t understand.”

  “Why? Because I’m a female?” Her statement brought a

  grin to his dirt-streaked face.

  “You are definitely female, but that isn’t why. I guess

  because so many people don’t understand, I assumed you

  wouldn’t, either. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion. I

  apologize.”

  His sincerity touched a chord deep within her. In the short

  span of a few days, she found she cared very much what Logan

  thought, not only about her, but also about his way of life.

  “Tell me. I promise I’ll try to understand. At least I won’t

  judge you.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees, letting the horses find

  their own leisurely way down the path. “Many years ago, when

  Father still lived, we discussed freeing the slaves and paying

  them a wage for their labors based on the profits we made. It

  only stood to reason that if they had an investment in the work

  they did, they would work harder to make the island a success.”

  He snorted. “Father died before he could find a lawyer

  willing to draw up the necessary legal documents to make

  Indigo Bay a slave-free island. At that time, it amounted to the

  same thing as treason against the South, as you probably well

  know.”

  Mica understood better than he would ever know. Even in

  her time, prejudice and segregation issues were still very volatile

  topics to many deep-rooted Southerners.

  “So how have you managed to free your slaves, especially

  when the abolition issue is beginning to heat up?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You have read about the abolition

  movement?” When Mica nodded, he
went on to answer her

  original question. “I went to school to become a lawyer. I felt

  the only way to make changes was through legal avenues. I’m

  not the only one to feel this way, though most of the antislavery

  sentiment is in the Northern states. Just last year, Representative

  Lincoln introduced a bill to end slavery.”

  “Abraham Lincoln?” Her astonishment must have been

  clearly written on her face, but Mica couldn’t help it. Her

  fantasy about jumping back two centuries had focused around

  Logan. Up until that instant she hadn’t given a thought to the

  historical people who were alive and doing their incredible

  work at this very moment.

  Logan misinterpreted her exclamation. “I see you have

  heard something about politics, then. Well, it did Mr. Lincoln

  no good, because our very own Senator J.C. Calhoun has blasted

  abolitionists at every turn.”

  Without thought, Mica stated, “It will lead to war, you

  know.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Logan countered. “The people of the

  United States are many things, but it would go against

  everything we believe in to fight against our own people, no

  matter what the issue. No, the President and the Northern

  constituents will eventually see that the South is capable of

  taking care of itself and will let us do so.”

  Mica realized she couldn’t fault his logic, nor could she

  dispute what he said unless she gave him evidence to the

  contrary. Whatever the rules governing this adventure of hers,

  she instinctively knew better than to make a comment about

  his future that was her past.

  “Damn! Look at that. Acres of lost crop. Why?”

  Muttering to himself, he climbed down from the carriage

  and stormed off, kicking clumps of dirt and jerking the charred

  remains of indigo plants from the ground.

  Left to fend for herself, Mica almost tripped over the

  cumbersome length of skirt before her feet hit the ground. Her

  training in law and associated work with detectives soon had

  her checking the ground for evidence as to the origins of the

  fire.

  “Do you smell anything peculiar?” Logan asked.

  Mica stopped and lifted her head into the breeze. “Nothing

  other than the burnt odor. What do you smell?”

  Instead of answering her, Logan knelt by a plant at the