“Daddy.” The admonition slipped out before she could think better of it. And now that she’d already earned his scowl, she might as well earn it right and proper. “He’s a good man.”
“He’s black.”
She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Of course he is. What does that matter? And how can you make such an objection without hypocrisy? Wasn’t Salina’s mother black too?”
“That was different.”
“You’re right. It was.” She let his hand drop to the mattress. “She wasn’t ever given a choice. But Salina should be—she shouldn’t be judged for your sins. And she certainly shouldn’t be refused happiness because of your convoluted ideas about your precious blood making her better than her mother, better than River. Because let me just tell you, Daddy, your blood doesn’t have that power. There’s only one man’s blood in all of history that can make us better than we are—and you are not Him.”
At least it brought a bit of color to his cheeks. “Watch how you speak to me, young lady.”
She breathed an incredulous laugh. “Daddy, I love you. I will obey you. I will honor you. But that means caring enough about you—heart, body, and soul—to tell you when I see something that could cause you harm. And this . . . this stance of yours will lose you Salina forever.”
His eyes flashed, and he tried to sit up, only to relent when she squeaked and pressed a hand to his shoulder. Pallor washed over him again. “Does she mean to run? I won’t have it. I won’t—”
“Daddy, stop. Please.” Tears stung for the millionth time since that morning. Why was she yet again pushing when she should give way? He was in no condition for this conversation. “You’re going to give yourself another episode.”
He made a visible effort to relax, though his breathing was too quick for her liking. “She can’t run. It’s too dangerous. Tell her to stay here, where I can protect her.”
“But you can’t.” Her voice broke on the truth of it. She reached for his hand. “From Julius, maybe. But not from Mama. Not from the fate she’d dole out if anything happened to you.”
She watched as it sank in, degree by degree. Until he closed his eyes in what could only be termed defeat. “Was it that close? Whatever this was?” He lifted an arm like it weighed a ton, let his hand fall on his chest, and opened his eyes again to look at her.
Cordelia could only nod, sure she’d break into a sob if she dared try to say more.
He let out a long, slow breath. “I only want the best for her.”
That much she knew. “What if your judgment of what’s best isn’t right, Daddy?” Like with Julius, though she knew she didn’t need to say that. Not now. He was already thinking it. “What if the best is freedom? A husband? A family? What if it’s helping others? What if it’s something bigger than us?”
The fingers she held again went stiff. He said nothing for so long that she feared he didn’t mean to speak to her again, ever.
Long enough that she had time to wonder what Salina’s story would end up being.
Long enough to know that her own story might never be more than this. Paying the price for her decisions concerning her sister. Too afraid for her father’s health to speak against him when it was for herself instead of someone else. Her own dreams forever out of reach.
But they weren’t. The old dreams, maybe—the ones she’d spun yarns about. But she didn’t need to be a heroine in some fantastic tale of derring-do. That wasn’t what the Lord had given her.
No, He’d given her words. Words to live by. Words to create with. Words that maybe, just maybe, could change the world beyond her house as surely as they had changed the one within.
She didn’t need to live some grand tale. She only needed the freedom to write whatever God put on her heart. If helping Salina gain freedom meant forfeiting most of her own—so be it. If that was the price she had to pay to avoid being a villain in anyone else’s story, then she would pay it most gladly.
When Daddy shifted, she jumped in surprise. He looked tired again, but his mouth had its familiar set of determination. He lifted a hand and motioned toward his bureau against the wall. “The bottom drawer. Right back corner. There’s a small box. Would you?”
She stood and moved to the piece of furniture, though she cast a curious look at him over her shoulder. He said no more, just watched her. She crouched down and pulled open the bottom drawer, feeling around among his socks until the edges of the box met her fingers. She pulled it out, nudged the drawer shut again, and took it over to him.
He accepted it from her hands and opened it up. Stared at whatever was inside for a long, long moment. She couldn’t see within, could only watch his face as emotions flitted over it.
Sorrow. Longing. Regret. He touched a finger to the insides of the box and then held it out to her, still open.
Too curious to do anything but take it, she felt her brows crease when she saw the locket nestled into the pillow of cotton. It was open to reveal a miniature of a beautiful woman with Salina’s face shape, chin, brow. Her murruh, no question.
Daddy cleared his throat. “I always meant to give it to her. But I was afraid of what would happen if your mother found it, so I’ve kept it these many years. Figured I’d give it to her when you got married.”
Cordelia drew in a breath, let it hitch, let it slide back out. She closed the locket’s gold face over the tiny portrait within and then the lid of the box over it all.
“Give it to her now. Tell her . . . tell her I only ever tried to protect her, as I promised her mother I would.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. Salina would be at the Dunns’ already. Or perhaps even on her way to the river. Maybe if she hurried—maybe—she’d be able to get this parting gift into her hands before she began the journey. But . . .
A tap sounded on the door, and it creaked open, Fiona’s familiar face peeking in. “I’s ready for my shift, Miss Delia. You get on to bed now.”
She had to have been listening at the door, to know that Cordelia needed help in making a quick escape. And she’d thank her profusely for it tomorrow. For now, she just leaned down, kissed Daddy’s cheek, and said, “I’ll get it to her.”
Two minutes later, she was running through the streets, the box tucked into her pocket. She hurried toward the Dunns’, glad she’d at least let Salina help her out of her big hoop and corset before she left, since she’d have had a time getting out of it all on her own. She’d changed into a low-profile dress she’d never dream of wearing out of the house, but it certainly made darting after her sister easier now.
She’d never been out at night alone before, certainly not on foot, but she didn’t have time to let her imagination run wild. The moment it tried to start at a shadow, she clamped down on it and focused all her energy on breathing in, breathing out, and pumping her legs down the familiar streets of home.
She’d walked to the Dunns’ before—in the daytime, of course. She knew the way, but even so, it was different. Without the sun to warm her, the air was far too cool for comfort, and she’d paused to grab no heavier wrap. She’d been wearing the lightweight shawl Phin had given her for Christmas, but that was all.
She hoped Salina and Vangie had something warmer. And the babe, especially. They’d need the little one to be so cozy and happy she’d stay quiet from the sheer comfort of it.
Something shifted in the shadows she was ignoring, something that made her heart pound faster and her breath turn jagged and frayed. They were moving, those shadows, as if they were themselves living creatures. Moving like a great writhing snake. Moving like a ferocious beast crouched behind the buildings, waiting to pounce.
Moving like four people ducking down to avoid notice.
Shaking hands clutching her shawl tight, she watched for a moment, holding otherwise entirely still in a cloaking shadow of her own.
Four figures darted across the intersection, heading away from her. Four figures that could be none other than Salina and River, Vangie and Luther. She didn’
t know whether to be glad or frustrated that they were so close yet she’d still missed the optimal time to catch them. She couldn’t exactly shout for their attention. What choice, then, did she have but to follow them?
As she trailed them toward the park, she couldn’t help but think that this was a foolish errand. Why put herself—and them, likely—at risk for a locket?
Because it was a locket that would remind Salina for the rest of her life that her father loved her. That she had a family. And if she never saw her again, if life took them in different directions from here, if . . . if Daddy didn’t recover, then that knowledge could make all the difference in her life.
What was that sound behind her? She looked over her shoulder but saw no more living shadows. Probably just a stray dog or cat. Certainly not a wolf or . . . or a cougar. Or any other wild thing set loose in the streets of Savannah by some mad scientist.
She nearly hissed at herself. Lord, I seem to have an inability to control this imagination of mine. If you would be so kind as to help me, help me to focus . . . and not to lose them in this night.
Another noise from behind made her spin around, and she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming when a shadow loomed, separating from the others around it.
“Delia!” the shadow whispered. “What in blazes are you doing out here?”
Phin? She didn’t know whether to laugh in relief or slap him for scaring her. So she did neither, just turned back toward the park. “I have something for Salina.”
Phin slid to her side, and she could feel the disapproval rolling off him in waves. “It had better be something mighty important, to take such a risk yourself instead of just sending it with Rock next time.”
Rock—she hadn’t even thought of that option. Even so, she wanted to give it to Salina herself. She swallowed. “It is.”
“Well, let’s hurry. We’ll catch them and then I’ll see you home.”
Before she could so much as agree, a sudden flare of light from the park drew their gaze.
Light that illuminated the four fugitives in stark relief.
Light held in the hand of Julius James.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Phin charged toward the park as fast as he could, praying with every footfall that the Lord would somehow redeem this night. It had seemed, half an hour ago, that everything had been going smoothly. But within minutes of the foursome slipping out of the well-oiled gate, the strangest feeling had overtaken him. He’d just intended to watch them out of sight. Convince himself the feeling was baseless fear, not some warning from on high.
Then he’d seen a shadow following them through the intersection and had known he’d better investigate.
Delia was certainly no threat to them—but James was another matter altogether. And a danger Phin wouldn’t have known was lurking if he hadn’t hurried after Delia.
Lord, help. They were the only two words he could think of as he tried to hurry on a leg still too weak to match the pace he attempted to set for it. He had to slow, just to keep from falling. Which at least meant he was approaching more quietly. James didn’t seem to have noticed him yet.
The lieutenant had his lantern raised and was laughing—laughing—at the stricken faces of Luther, River, Eva, and Salina. But he was also swaying a bit on his feet. And when he said, “Well, well, what’ve we here?” the slurring told Phin why.
Drunk. Which might make him easier to take down . . . but it could also make him unpredictable.
Phin knew River and Luther had both spotted him as he came up behind James. And from the flicking of Salina’s eyes to something beyond him, he had a bad feeling Delia was closing in on the scene. The only good thing, so far as he could tell, was that James appeared to be alone, and no one else from the area was rushing to the park to see what the commotion was about.
The worst thing, by far, was the pistol James had in his hand and was pointing in the general direction of Phin’s friends.
“Wonder what your masters would say if they knew a bunch of their slaves were making a run for it?” Another cold, oily laugh slid out, and the wobbling gun took a steadier aim—at Eva. “Bet I know what yours would say.”
Luther stepped in front of his wife, thunder in his eyes. “She has no master but Christ the Lord.”
No doubt James was unconvinced by the argument—but the words themselves, the accent, seemed to confuse him for a moment. Enough that he lowered the gun a few critical degrees.
It was all the opening Phin needed. He lunged for the man’s central mass, yelling, “Run!” to his friends as he knocked James to the ground. Phin’s leg screamed in more pain than he’d felt in months as he went down hard with him, but he’d gladly suffer in his leg if it saved their lives. He heard pounding feet, but he could spare no more thought to them than that, not given the way James writhed underneath him, growling and cursing.
The gun hadn’t fired, at least, which meant they might still avoid the attention of others in the area. And though it came swinging at his head, Phin managed to land a blow on James’s arm, sending the weapon sliding along the path.
In his mind’s eye, he was back, for one horrible instant, on the deck of the Cuba. A Yankee captain aiming a gun at him, his best friend playing a part in their betrayal. In that moment, Julius’s face blended with Spencer’s, and all the uncertainty came crashing in on him like the waves that had tried to take his life.
He tried to land a punch, but James bucked, threw Phin off him, and lunged. The waves crashed again over his mind, dragging him, drowning him.
Saving him. He blinked furiously, but still his mind couldn’t quite process it when James seemed to rise under a power not his own, floating there in the air above him. Only when the man gasped, “Put me down!” did Phin realize hands had grabbed him and were holding him, suspended, by the throat.
Luther. And River was even now tugging Phin back to his feet. He met his old friend’s gaze as he tried to catch his breath. “I said to run.”
Luther snorted. “Since when do I listen to you, Phineas Dunn?”
Phin’s laugh came out shaky and low.
James, however, didn’t seem to realize the fight was over. He was still thrashing. And he reached even now for something at his side. Only then did Phin catch the glint of a burnished hilt by the fallen lamplight.
Delia stepped into the weak circle of illumination, arms extended and steady, with James’s pistol clutched expertly between her joined hands. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Cousin.”
Luther must have loosened his grip a bit, because James was able to snarl and say, “As if you know what to do with that.”
She lifted one golden brow in perfect mockery. “Every good heroine knows how to shoot a pistol with shocking skill. Test me. I dare you.”
Instead, Luther dropped him back to his feet so suddenly he stumbled, though River was there to steady him—and plow a fist into his jaw. As the lieutenant slumped to the ground, unconscious, River shook out his hand. “I was hopin to git another one a-dose in.”
Phin slid over to Delia, who had lowered the gun, following Julius’s motion with her own. “Do you really know how to shoot?”
“Are you kidding?” She handed the pistol to him, her bravado slipping into a shaky exhale. “I’ve never even held one before.”
He took the weapon and leaned over to press a kiss to her temple. “Well, you certainly looked like you did. Quite the heroine.”
She shook her head, gaze still on James’s prone form. “I’m not a heroine, Phin. Just a writer ready to tell other people’s stories.”
“Suits me fine. I’m not much of a hero either.” He sent a pointed look to River and Luther. “Now y’all had better get moving. I’ll make sure this one stays where he is.”
“Oh! Salina, wait.” Delia rushed over to her, giving the fallen man a wide berth. She tugged something from the folds of her dress and handed it to her. “From Daddy.”
Salina took it with furrowed brows. �
�He sent you after me to give me something?”
“He didn’t know you were gone yet. But he realized you’d be going soon. It’s a locket, with a miniature of your mother. He’s had it, saved, to give to you. When it was safe for you to have it.”
Salina pressed the box, still closed, to her chest. “A picture of Murruh? Really?”
Delia nodded, then pulled her sister into a hug. Phin couldn’t hear exactly what she whispered, but Salina nodded as she pulled away. “I will. I promise.” Then she looked to River.
Phin clasped his and Luther’s hands one more time. And then stood with Delia as they melted into the night.
“Now what?” She frowned down at James. “What are we to do with him?”
He wasn’t entirely certain. At least not until an off-key song met his ears, growing louder by the second. A group of men, as drunk as James had been, clearly heading their direction. Phin nudged Delia toward the deeper shadows under a tree whose trunk was wide enough to hide her. “Stay out of sight. I have a plan.”
When the men drew nearer, he saw they, too, had lanterns—and they, too, wore Confederate uniforms. Thank you, Lord. It gave him the perfect excuse to hail them, not needing to feign the exasperation in his voice when he called out.
A minute later, they stumbled their way to him. “Can we be of assississ . . . astina . . . assistance?” one of them slurred.
It may have been amusing under different circumstances. Phin motioned toward Julius James, who even then let out a snore. “I believe you can. This fellow needs help rejoining his regiment.”
“Say, it’s Lieutenant James!” another of them said, then laughed. “Told him he’d had enough.”
“Indeed.” Phin backed up a few steps, not trying to hide either the wince or the limp, more pronounced than usual, thanks to the scuffle. “May I leave him in your charge?”
One of them toed James’s boot, looking like he might decline the invitation, but his buddy nudged him with an elbow. “We’d better. We’ll all pay for it tomorrow on the march if he wakes up here.”
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