He was tired of running, though.
So what are you saying
? he asked himself. He didn’t really know, but it seemed to begin with a bossy redheaded beauty named Grace Atwood and her wagon train of women.
Grace’s cabbie had indeed waited, and she fumed all the way home.
The audacity of that man
, she stormed to herself for the fiftieth time during the silent ride through the snowy streets. By the time she got home, her temper rivaled Vesuvius.
When she entered the foyer, the aunts were dressed in their night clothes and their faces were anxious and filled with worry.
“Where on earth have you been?” Tulip asked breathlessly.
A smoldering Grace pulled off her gloves and hung her cloak on the peg by the door. “I’m sorry if I worried you, but I was being assaulted by a man in a whorehouse.”
“What?” they screamed.
“Are you all right?” Dahlia asked.
“Did you notify the authorities?” her sister demanded, as they led her to the settee in the parlor.
Dahlia quickly poured a small glass of brandy and handed it to Grace, saying, “Drink this and then start from the beginning.”
Grace took a small sip, then began the telling with the circumstances surrounding her arrival at Sunshine’s place. She got as far as her entrance into Blake’s room before being interrupted.
“So he was asleep?” Dahlia asked.
Grace shook her head. “Yes, so I thought I’d leave him a note, but—”
Grace’s mind replayed what happened next: the softness of his mouth, the hot hard feel of his body atop hers…
Tulip bent over to look in her face. “Grace?”
Tulip’s voice brought Grace back to the present. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where was I?”
“In his bed,” Dahlia prompted pointedly.
A chagrined Grace continued, “Well, as I said, I, um, wound up in his bed. He obviously mistook me for one of the girls in the place.”
“Obviously.” Dahlia again.
“Anyway, I opened my mouth to let him know his mistake, but—” Grace paused again, wondering what her aunts would think.
“But what, dear?”
“He began kissing me.”
Both aunts stared. “That must’ve been awful.”
“Well, it wasn’t really. I mean, I’ve never had a man kiss me so—so—”
She stopped and looked to her aunts, as if maybe they could explain the encounter to her.
Dahlia had a mysterious smile on her face. “So after the kissing did you get a chance to ask him about guiding the train?”
“Yes, and the cad laughed.”
“Cad?” Tulip echoed. “Did he take any liberties while you were in his bed?”
“No, we ended up arguing and I left.”
The aunts shared another look.
Grace knew by the palpable silence in the room that she was in for one whale of a lecture. Admittedly, she deserved it. Decent women did not venture into houses of ill-repute. It simply wasn’t done.
Dahlia went first. “Grace Atwood, the next time you think about going into a whorehouse, think about something else.”
“You could’ve been hurt,” Tulip pointed out seriously.
Grace knew they were right, she didn’t dispute that. “But he may be the last choice. I had to see him.”
“It could’ve waited until morning,” Dahlia told her. “When Elliot died, Tulip and I promised him we’d take
care of you. We can hardly do that if you’re sneaking into men’s rooms in the middle of the night.”
Tulip added, “The fact that he didn’t do anything but kiss you says he knows a little bit about honor.”
“He knows nothing of the sort. That fool man mistook me for one of the girls, remember?”
“And whose fault might that be?” Dahlia asked.
Grace chose to ignore that. “He also called me bossy and lippy.”
As if she hadn’t heard one word of her niece’s last response, Tulip waxed wistfully, “My Parker was a good kisser, too, God rest his soul. Made me feel like a church bell ringing.”
A smiling Grace shook her head and stood. “I’m going to bed.”
She headed toward the stairs.
Dahlia called after her, “Are you going back to see Blake again?”
Grace started up the steps and called back, “Not unless hell freezes over.”
G
race looked out over the sea of women who’d come to the church in response to the flyers she’d posted for bride candidates and was amazed. She’d never expected so many. Women of all shapes, ages, and sizes were squeezed into the pews. Most had come dressed in their Sunday best and the sight of such a colorful display of hats, gloves, and dresses on such a dreary rainy evening filled her with joy. A buzz of voices also filled the church as some of the women greeted old friends and speculated on the meeting to come. A few were seated quietly, hands in laps, while others were gazing around speculatively as if gauging the competition and their chances of being among the chosen brides
Grace was standing at the back of the church, greeting women as they arrived. She smiled as Tulip and Dahlia
entered, shaking the rain from their parasols. They’d kept their promise to come to lend her moral support.
After greeting Grace, Tulip looked over the crowd and said in an amazed voice, “My goodness, look at all these women. Surely you didn’t expect this many.”
“No, I didn’t. There’s enough women here for three trains.”
As Dahlia removed her cape, she asked, “Have you found a guide yet?”
Grace hadn’t, but she was determined to remain optimistic. “Mitchell Jones, the banks’s constable, has promised to ask his friends from the Ninth Cavalry if they know of anyone. If that doesn’t pan out, I’ve no idea what I’ll do, but I’m determined to get these women to Kansas City if I have to lead them myself.”
Tulip gave her an encouraging pat on the back. “That’s the spirit. Prescott women never give up.”
While the aunts moved off to find seats, Grace mused on Tulip’s parting words. Prescott was her mother’s family name. The Prescotts were direct descendants of a seventeenth-century Black privateer the family called the Buccaneer. The women of the line credited his raucous blood for their unconventional attitudes, occupations, and behavior. Grace had proven to be just as unconventional by choosing to be a banker like her father, and as she started up the aisle to the front of the church to begin the meeting, she knew she’d need a pirate’s strength, guile, and perseverance if this journey were to be a success.
Grace stopped beside the front pew and looked out over the crowd. As she stood there dressed in her best black business suit, the hubbub quieted and she became the center of attention. “Good evening, ladies. My name is Grace Atwood. Welcome.”
She spent the next few minutes telling the women
about the mission she’d undertaken on her cousin Price’s behalf and the kinds of mates the men were seeking. “In order to make this selection process as fair to everyone as possible, we’ll be using a point system,” she told the attentive women.
“There’ll be points for being literate, some for being church going, and extra points if you grew up on a farm or already know how to drive a wagon and team. The men in Kansas are looking for stalwart, god-fearing ladies who aren’t afraid to put in a full day’s work behind a plow, if need be.”
“A plow
?” a woman seated up front exclaimed indignantly. “I’m not traveling all that way to be used like a hired hand!” That said, she stood, snatched up her handbag and cape, and stormed out. Evidently a few other women didn’t like the word “plow” either, because they too exited.
A few giggles were heard on the heels of their departure, then someone in the back shouted out humorously, “Scare off a few more, Grace. It’ll make it easier for the rest of us to compete.”
A chorus of “Amens” followed that remark and the church filled with laughter. Grace grinned, glad that the ice had been broken. They then got down to the business of filling out the applications Grace had drawn up. The ladies were instructed to fill in their names and to answer the many questions that followed concerning their background, age, next of kin, and why they wished to be selected as one of the brides. Grace was just about to say something else when the sight of a man at the back of the church froze her in mid-speech. Her eyes widened. Jackson Blake!
What in the name of Poseidon was he doing here?
Every woman in the church turned to see who or what had grabbed Grace’s attention, and as he walked up the
aisle into full view, their eyes widened, too. If his dark handsomeness didn’t grab your attention, his height and well built frame did. With his hat in his hand and wearing a black shirt and trousers beneath the rain-dappled long black duster, he looked like a man straight out of a dime store western. Exotic. Handsome. Dangerous. The absolute silence that surrounded his approach was thick enough to cut and serve on a plate, and as a result, the sounds of his booted footsteps echoed loud against the wooden floor.
He walked up to Grace and stopped. When their eyes met, her heart began to tumble. It distressed her to find him even more darkly handsome than she remembered.
“Evening, Miss Atwood. Sorry I’m late.”
What in the world are you doing here?
she wanted to shout. His arrival had her hovering somewhere between anger and a strange sort of elation.
However, before she could speak, he turned to the assembly and announced, “Ladies, I’m Jackson Blake, your wagon master.”
Grace’s eyes grew even larger. Without giving a thought to the women looking on, she clamped her hand onto his arm and said with a false smile, “Ladies, will you excuse us for a moment? Go ahead and finish your questionnaires. Mr. Blake and I will be back directly.”
Ignoring the speculation on everyone’s faces, including her aunts’, Grace led him back down the aisle and downstairs to the church basement. As soon as she was sure they were out of earshot, she lit into him.
“What are you doing here?
”
“Taking you up on that job offer.”
“You didn’t want it, as I remember.”
He shrugged. “Changed my mind.”
“Why?”
He held her eyes captive just long enough for her to
remember the softness of his lips, then replied quietly, “A number of things, but mainly because the money will help me get back home to Texas. I hate Chicago.”
Grace swore the room was getting warmer. “How did you find me?”
“I took the chance that you were telling the truth about working at a bank and asked around. Your red hair’s pretty memorable.”
The way he said it and the look in his eyes made Grace wonder if he affected all women this way.
His voice brought her back. “When I got to the bank this evening, your cleaning lady, Mrs. Ricks, told me I could find you here.”
Grace thought Lionel Rowe had been correct. Mrs. Ricks should stick to her mops. “Surely you don’t believe I’d still hire you?”
He answered bluntly. “Have you found anyone else?”
Grace paused before confessing truthfully, “No.”
“Then I’m your man. Nobody else is going to be fool enough to do it.”
Grace didn’t particularly care for his assessment. “You believe this is a fool’s mission?”
“Yep, but if the pay is as generous as you claim, I’d be a fool
not
to sign on.”
Logically, Grace knew she had few options. If she didn’t hire Blake, there’d be no telling when or if she’d get the wagons under way. Had she met him under more conventional circumstances, she’d’ve considered him a godsend, but now, now all she kept thinking about were his irritating ways and his kisses. “Mr. Blake, are you certain you’re qualified to do this? I’ve had many men apply who were only after the gold.”
“I’m after the gold too, but I’m pretty sure I can get a bunch of women from here to Kansas in one piece.”
“But have you ever led a train before?”
“Yes. Led a group of families from Louisiana to Texas after the war. It took a while, but we got there.”
“Do you have any other qualifications?”
The potent smile he ensnared her with made her remember last night, and she raised her chin defensively. “Your kisses have no bearing on this interview.”
“No?” he asked, seeming to enjoy the sight of her being flustered.
“No. Stick to the matter at hand, please.”
He nodded. “I was a sheriff in Texas at one time. Does that help?”
Grace found that information surprising. “Are you still a lawman?”
“No,” he replied distantly.
The tone of his answer gave her the impression that there was more to the story, but she didn’t have time to press him for additional details now. “Are you a patient man, Mr. Blake?”
“I can be. Why do you ask?”
“Because you’ll probably need a saint’s share of it to teach the women all they’ll need to know.”
“I don’t believe that’ll be a problem.”
They eyed one another silently.
Grace broke off the contact first, saying, “Good, then.”
“Can I ask a question?”
She nodded.
“Who’s helping you plan this?”
“No one.”
He looked impressed. “Ever done anything like this before?”
“No,” she answered truthfully, “which is why I need someone experienced to lead us.”
“Us? You’re going, too?”
“Yes, I’m going, too. Is that a problem?”
“Nope.”
Because of his striking good looks, Grace felt safe in assuming he had no problem when it came to attracting women, so she thought it best to address one issue in particular so as to get it out of the way. “May I speak frankly?”
Arms crossed, he nodded. “Feel free.”
“The women are not to be preyed upon during the trip. They will be promised to the men in Kansas. Do you think you can conduct yourself accordingly?”
“Promised how?”
“They’re going to be mail-order brides.”
“Are you promised, too?” he asked, looking directly at her now.
Grace swallowed in a suddenly thick throat. “No.”
“Then I can keep my hands to myself.”
Grace had her doubts. Even though the kiss in his bed had lasted no more than five or six seconds, the dizzying potency lingered. “Mr. Blake, I’m serious about this.”