“Then Mr. Blake and I will be in touch with you, hopefully no later than this Friday with final details, like maps and such, so get your packing started.”
The women were buzzing with excitement as they gathered up their coats and other belongings and headed for the door. When they were gone, Grace looked over to Jackson. “Everything went wonderfully.”
“Yes, it did. You’re very good at this.”
“Thank you. We seem to do well together.”
“I agree.”
Grace could feel him tempting her, but she fought her response and began gathering up her things. “I meant, we
work
well together.”
“It’s what I meant, too,” he lied, and followed her to the door.
Outside, the night air held the chill of early spring. “How’re you getting home?” he asked her, not sure he was ready to part from her just yet.
“A hack, as soon as I can hail one.”
“At this time of night?”
“It’s only half past nine, Mr. Blake,” Grace pointed out easily. “It isn’t awfully late.”
“It’s too late to be out here alone.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m accustomed to it. Sometimes I’m at the bank much later than this.”
Jackson didn’t like hearing that. She was a beautiful woman who probably knew little about defending herself. It made her ripe pickings for someone intending her harm. “I’ll see you home.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Yes, it is.”
Grace sighed with frustration. “Mr. Blake, I am a grown woman, and as a grown woman, I—”
Jackson listened as she went on and on about women, society, and a woman’s place in it, and when he’d heard enough, he pulled her to him and kissed her so thoroughly and completely, Grace melted like a rose in heat. She saw sunsets, heard bells ring, and when he finally turned her loose, he looked down at her lying limp across his arm and asked, “You were saying?”
Grace couldn’t remember what she’d been saying.
“Shall I hail us a hack?”
Still tottering, she nodded.
A smile flitted across his dark eyes. “I’ll be right back.”
As they rode in the seat behind the driver through the dark Chicago streets, Grace used the cover of the shadows to openly observe the man at her side. Less than four months ago she’d sworn never to risk her heart again, yet her attraction to Blake seemed to be sending her down that slippery slope once again.
In spite of all her pledges and vows, his kisses left her wanting more. Of course, she would never admit that fact to him; she was certain females had been falling over him since primary school and he didn’t need another notch on his bed post, but how did she combat the pull of such an overwhelming man.
You just ignore it
, her inner voice declared.
It doesn’t matter if his kisses make you see sunsets and hear bells ring, Nothing good will come of it—nothing. You don’t need a man in your life, and you certainly don’t need to journey all the way to Kansas with a broken heart
. Sighing with rightness of the advice, Grace grudgingly admitted to herself it was true.
The driver stopped the hack in front of her house. Jackson helped her out, then escorted her up to the porch. As they stood there in the darkness, she looked up at him outlined against the moonlight.
Lord, he’s gorgeous.
In direct contrast to the sage advice she’d given herself only moments ago, some unknown part of herself wanted to throw caution to the wind and act upon the wild call that seemed to be arching between them.
Jackson knew that he should say goodnight and head back to the hack, but he couldn’t move, didn’t want to. He realized he could stand here all night just looking at her. As the need for her broke through his defenses, he husked out, “Aw hell, one more…” and he gathered her back into his arms. He kissed her again, this time so long and well, her knees turned to butter. When he eased away, her eyes were closed and her body echoed with a pulsing, yearning heat.
“Goodnight, Grace,” he whispered, watching her, wanting her. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
As Grace stood braced against the door, her senses still echoing, she remembered whispering goodnight in reply, but had only a hazy recollection of his departure.
Entering the house, Grace found a note from the aunts saying they were out with the Henderson twins again. In a way, she was glad to find the house empty. This way nothing would intrude upon how she felt.
As she prepared for bed, her lips and senses were still tingling. Standing before the mirror in her muslin nightgown, she touched her mouth wondrously. Before meeting Jackson Blake she’d no idea that a man’s kisses could leave a woman so singed. When she and Garth
were courting, they’d shared quick pecks on the lips, but she’d never caught fire as she had with the Texan. In just a few days, Jackson Blake had turned her sedate, controlled life upside down and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
His kisses are magnificent, though,
came another voice in her head. The volatile feelings and sensations Blake had somehow planted inside her were as tantalizing as they were shocking. Grace wondered how it would be to have him kiss her without inhibition, then forced her mind away from that thought. Well-raised women weren’t supposed to speculate on such things.
Grace turned down the lamps and plunged her bedroom into darkness. Crawling beneath the quilts, she decided that thinking about Blake would bear no fruit. It was obvious to her that he was practiced around women, and probably viewed her as just another conquest. As she’d stated to herself earlier, she’d no plans to be another notch on his bedpost, and she didn’t need to journey to Kansas with a broken heart, no matter how well he kissed.
The next morning, Grace had breakfast with the aunts.
“How was the recital last night?” she asked them, as she sugared her coffee.
“Dreadful,” Dahlia proclaimed. “The singer supposedly sang on the stage, but we’re not sure where this stage might’ve been.”
“I think it might’ve been a stage
coach,
” Tulip offered. “She was truly dreadful.”
Grace chuckled. “How are the Henderson twins?”
“Old,” Dahlia declared.
“Old and boring,” her sister added. “I don’t know why we keep stepping out with them.”
“Because presently, they’re the only fish in the sea.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
The aunts had been seeing the seventy-year-old Henderson twins for about a month now, and the men made it no secret how much they wanted the aunts to be their wives. In the eyes of widowers and pensioners, her aunts were quite a catch because of their education, good health, and financial independence, but Tulip and Dahlia had married and buried six husbands between them, and they’d been putting old codgers like the Henderson twins through paces for nearly two decades now.
Dahlia said, “Enough about our evening—what about yours? Are you ready to set up the camp?”
“Yes. We took care of the remaining details last night.”
“And how is Mr. Blake?” Tulip asked.
For a moment, Grace didn’t respond, as she turned over the dilemma of Jackson Blake in her mind. Whatever was she going to do about him?
Dahlia and Tulip shared a speculative look, then Dahlia leaned over, peered into Grace’s face, and said softly, “You’re going to stir a hole in that cup, dear.”
The remark brought Grace back to the present. “I’m sorry. Mr. Blake is fine. I just wish he’d stop kissing me.”
Both aunts paused, then Tulip asked, “Is there something wrong with them?”
“Oh, no,” Grace offered hastily. “They’re wonderful, frankly, but—”
“But?” Dahlia cajoled.
“I know he isn’t serious. I mean, it isn’t as if we’re going to be married when all is said and done. Not only are we from two different worlds, but when we reach Kansas, he’s going on to Texas, and I’ll be coming back here.”
“Then where’s the problem?”
“If I keep letting him kiss me, he’s going to think I’m some type of hussy.”
“Enjoying a man’s kisses and his company doesn’t necessarily make you a hussy, Grace,” Tulip pointed out.
“So what does it make me?”
“Human,” Dahlia said succinctly over her raised coffee cup. “Just like the rest of us. No more, no less.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting I encourage him?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Dahlia pointed out, “but there isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t experienced a stolen kiss or two.”
“Or three,” Tulip added with a merry twinkle. Then she said dreamily, “His name was Luis.”
Grace and Dahlia shared a mystified look.
“
Whose
name was Luis?” Dahlia asked suspiciously.
“A man I stole kisses with.”
Grace’s eyes widened.
“Ah, Luis…” As she spoke his name, Tulip’s whole presence seemed to glow. “The week we spent together were the most memorable seven days of my life.”
A startled Grace looked over at Dahlia, who appeared just as surprised. Dahlia then turned to her sister and asked, “Why haven’t you ever mentioned this Luis before now?”
Tulip’s reverie seemed to fade in reaction to her sister’s pointed question. “Because it was none of your business, Dahl, and besides, the subject never came up until now. Remember when I ran that ferry service to the gold fields in California back in the ’forties?”
Dahlia nodded.
“Well, I met him around that time, a year or so after Barney died.”
Grace knew that Barney had been one of Tulip’s four husbands, but didn’t know which number he’d been.
“I met him in Mexico City. We danced, we dined,
we—well, never mind. Suffice it to say, we all need a Luis in our lives, Grace dear, even if it’s only for one week.”
Still a bit stunned by her aunt’s revelation, Grace asked, “What happened to him?”
“After he finished his business in Mexico City, he sailed home to Spain and I never saw him again. I can’t believe that was almost forty years ago. I wonder what ever became of him and if he remembers me as fondly?” She smiled briefly. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter, not really. I’ll always have the memories.”
Grace had always known about the unconventional lives led by her aunts. Tulip, a true Prescott female, had sailed all over the world and done everything from running the aforementioned ferry service during the gold rush to rafting cotton to market through the estuaries of the Carolina Sea Islands after the war. Dahlia, a highly successful mortician before and after the war, had traveled with a band of actors at one point in her life, and according to Grace’s mother, had been dueled over by two besotted Haitian counts during a visit to Paris back in the ’fifties. Grace liked to think that same free-spirited Prescott blood flowed in her veins, too, but to hear Tulip acknowledge having taken a lover was truly startling.
Tulip seemed to have read Grace’s mind. “Have I shocked you, Grace dear?”
Grace had to confess, “A bit, Aunt Tulip.”
“Well, I haven’t been old all my life. I was young once, too, and when you’re young, your whole life is before you. When you’re old, you want to look back upon your youth and smile—not wonder ‘what if.’ Do you understand?”
Grace did, or at least she thought so.
G
race spent the rest of the week turning over the reins of the bank to Lionel and the other clerks, packing for her trip, and trying to keep her mind off Jackson Blake. She hadn’t seen him since the night on the porch and she’d decided to take her own advice and distance herself from the Texan and his fiery kisses.
Although Tulip and Dahlia supported the idea of the wagon train, it didn’t stop them from being sad about losing their niece’s company, if only for a few months. Monday morning was more than forty-eight hours away, but Tulip was already in tears.
By Saturday night, Grace had most of her belongings secured. Unlike the brides, she would be traveling light. Since she planned on returning to Chicago once the adventure ended, she had no need to include household goods or furniture. Her godfather, Martin Abbott, had
agreed to give her a ride to the site where camp would be set up. Because he and his fleet of his wagons would be delivering all the supplies she’d ordered to the camp late Monday, he thought it made sense for her to make the journey with him and his men.
By now, most of her customers were aware that she’d be leaving town with the wagon train and many of them stopped by her office to wish her luck and Godspeed. Grace admitted to being a bit nervous about the undertaking, but she wouldn’t trade the upcoming adventure for all the gold in the world. She had no idea what the next two months had in store, but she was willing to meet the challenge head on.
On Sunday morning, Grace and the aunts walked to church. Grace and her family were members of the local Episcopal church and had been all of Grace’s life. Black Episcopalians had their roots in the first Black Episcopalian church founded in Philadelphia by Absalom Jones. Jones and his followers named that first church the African Church of St. Thomas, and it was dedicated, August 12, 1794. Grace knew the date because it was one of the many facts she learned in Sunday school while growing up. Her own small parish, St. Mary’s, was not so historic, but it catered to a mostly Black representative congregation and had a strong commitment to the needy throughout the community.
Before the morning service started, Grace and the aunts took their regular seats in a pew in the middle of the sanctuary, then knelt a moment to say the traditional silent prayer. Grace gave thanks for the blessings she’d received for the week past, and asked blessings for the journey ahead. She spent a few more minutes in quiet reflection before rising from her knees and retaking her seat.
As the church began to fill with worshippers, Dahlia
poked a gentle elbow into Grace’s rib to alert her to the arrival of Beatrice Young. Beatrice Young, a loud, over-bearing widow who seemed to believe her late husband’s fortune entitled her to be that way, was, as always, attired in a costly dress that may have fit her short wide frame a few seasons ago, but didn’t anymore. Add to that the ill-fitting auburn wig and she reminded Grace a lot of Sarah Mitchell.