Concealing Grace (The Grace Series Book 1) (8 page)

He’d asked the same of her several times, and she wanted to. Alone in her room she did. Repeatedly she practiced saying it in the mirror. She returned to looking at her hands—hands she’d stared at long enough! She took a deep breath, exhaled and murmured, “Yes.”

“Yes?” He sat up straighter on the bench. “Yes… what?”

“You make me nervous.”

Softly, he said, “I don’t mean to.”

She knew that, too. He was a nice man. He wasn’t what Trent said he was at all.

“I have an idea,” he said. “We’ll play a game. I’ll count to three and you must say the first word you think of. I will have to tell you what made you say that word. We’ll see how well I can read your mind.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready?”

When she nodded, he said, “One, two, three. What’s the word?”

“Cookie.”

He chuckled. “You’re thinking you would rather be making cookies than sitting here with me?”

Jessica shook her head.

“You’re wishing you had a cookie to eat right now?”

To that she nodded.

His eyes flashed. “See there, I can read your mind. Next word. One, two, three.”

“Chocolate.”

“You like cookies with chocolate shavings,” he guessed.

Jessica shook her head, but she couldn’t refrain from smiling. The expression on his face, with his brows drawn in concentration, was quite funny.

“You like bonbons?” he asked.

Jessica nodded. The next word she said was, “peaches.”

“There seems to be a pattern here,” he remarked. “Either you haven’t eaten for days or you have a sweet tooth.”

Jessica grinned bashfully, and he chuckled.

“I’m right, I know,” he said. “When your family came to my house for dinner, you really seemed to enjoy dessert.”

“I did.”

He smiled. “Next word?”

“Blue,” she said.

“The color or the emotion?” he asked.

“The color.”

“You would like a slice of blueberry pie?” he guessed.

Jessica shook her head.

“
Hmm
… I can’t think of any other desserts that are blue. Wait a minute. I’ve got it. You think the blue flowers over there are doing remarkably well for so late in the season?”

“No.”

“You wish the sky had less clouds in it?”

Jessica’s smile grew. “No.”

“Blue is your favorite color?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I said blue.”

“What shade?”

Jessica looked at him. “For the game?”

He shook his head. “What’s your favorite shade of blue?”

“Dark blue, navy blue,” she told him.

“I will remember that,” he said, and then he went on with his guesses, “You wish leaves were blue instead of green?”

“No.”

“How about grass?”

“No.”

“Am I even remotely close?” he asked. Jessica shook her head again and he looked at her pensively. “This is a hard one, but I’m not ready to give up yet.”

He started saying outlandish things, like she had a blue cat, wanted a blue horse, wanted her house to be painted blue, was thirsty for blue lemonade, wished her father would turn blue. The more he guessed, the more Jessica tried to cover her increasing mirth. When he said she wished a blue bird would land on his head, she couldn’t contain it any longer. Giggles burst out of her.

Laughing along with her, he said, “I think I will have to give up on this one. You’ll have to tell me what you were thinking about. I am stumped.”

“You have nice eyes, too,” Jessica blurted.

He chuckled and she blushed. Quickly she looked away, and then he did what he’d done before. He reached up to her chin with his fingertips. As their eyes met, he murmured, “You are so pretty, even more so when you smile.” And he asked, “Do I still make you nervous?”

“Yes,” she replied, then quickly added, “But maybe not quite as much.”

“Alright then,” he said. “Perhaps we should take a walk today?”

That suited Jessica very well. Rising from the bench, the captain held out his hand. She took it and stood up, too. He didn’t place her hand on his arm like she thought he would. Instead he entwined their fingers. As they strode through the garden, she could feel herself trembling, and she wondered if he would notice. Just as the thought came upon her, the pressure of his fingers around hers increased. She was sure he did it because he felt her tremors. Then and there, she was convinced Trent was wrong. Captain Jonathan Kinsley wasn’t just polite. He was perceptive and thoughtful. In short, he was wonderful.

At the edge of the garden he gestured to a narrow path and asked, “Where does that go?”

“The creek.”

“Will you show me?”

As they walked along the path, still holding hands, the captain began to ask her questions about herself. This time Jessica was able to give him more than short, yes or no answers. She told him she liked history and philosophy, and she liked to read novels. They discussed several authors and she discovered his taste in literature was similar to her own. Not just literature. They spoke of music and composers. The French composer, Chopin, was at the top of his list. Chopin was her favorite, too. Jessica didn’t quite know what came over her, but admitted she played the piano. She never told this to anyone. It had always been a deeply held secret. During the war her father had to sell their piano. Now the only chance she had to play was at the church after Sunday service, once everyone had gone home.

“I like music very much,” the captain said. “I never learned to play an instrument, but I really enjoy listening. Perhaps someday you will play for me?”

Jessica agreed she would, but she was sure it would never happen. He was merely being gracious, and had no real interest.

Eventually they reached the creek and spent a few minutes there before turning around to head back. The captain said, “Now it’s your turn to ask me questions.”

“Okay,” Jessica said, but she didn’t ask him anything.

Feigning distress, he teased, “You don’t want to know anything about me?”

She liked his sense of humor and she liked how easy it was for him to make her smile. “You said you were from Virginia?”

“Yes, that’s right. My father had a tobacco plantation, just outside of a little town called Norfolk.”

Jessica took a breath. “When I first heard you speak, I thought from your accent you might be from Louisiana. It surprised me when you said you were from Virginia.”

“Hmm,” he mused, “my mother was French. Perhaps I have some of her accent. No one has ever told me that before.”

“Are your parents still in Virginia?” she asked.

“No. They have both passed on.”

“I am very sorry.”

With a dismissive shrug, he said, “Time heals.”

“Yes,” Jessica said, and then she asked, “When you retired from the army, why did you decide to come here instead of going back to your home?”

“My home was burned during the war. I had the land but the house was gone,” he said. “I heard of Bent Oak Manor from an acquaintance in the army, and since I needed to start fresh, I thought why not? I like it here in Tennessee. Especially now that I’ve met you.”

Jessica could feel heat creeping into her cheeks. She had to stay focused. “Do you… do you have any brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “I am an only child.”

“What about your friends and neighbors, and extended family?”

“I was stationed in Northern Virginia, quite a distance from my home. It’s been years since I’ve seen any of my old neighbors. To be honest I don’t miss them. I have an aunt and uncle and some cousins somewhere, but I haven’t spoken with them for years either. I’m not sure where they live anymore.”

How awful for him to be so alone, Jessica thought. He continued walking beside her as if what he just revealed about himself was nothing more than the time of day. She couldn’t imagine going through life with no close relative to depend upon. Without her father and Trent, she would be lost. “How long were you in the army?”

“Thirteen years. Long enough,” he said dryly.

“You joined before the war?”

“Yes. I guess you could say I was troublesome when I was young. My parents sent me to a military academy. They thought it would straighten me up.”

Lowering her eyes, Jessica dared to ask, “Did it straighten you up, Captain?”

He laughed and Jessica turned to look at him. “Maybe,” he said. “Please call me Jon.”

Jessica’s smile faded. “Yes. I keep forgetting.” Quickly, she added, “And please call me Jessica.”

“I am honored,” he said.

Eventually, as they meandered along, the barn behind the house came into view, and the captain asked, “Do you ride, Jessica?”

“Oh yes. I love to ride. Would you care to see my horse?”

“I would love to.”

While they made their way toward the stables, she commented, “I’m sure your horses are very grand compared to ours. We only have five.”

The barn door was open so Jessica led him through it. Trent was working the fields using their two draft horses. Jessica told the captain this, and then gestured to a small butterscotch mare chomping hay in her stall. “Her name is Jasmine.”

The captain reached over the gate, rubbed Jasmine’s nose and cooed to her, telling her what a fine girl she was. It was clear by the way Jasmine leaned into him, she enjoyed the attention. Tickled by his actions, Jessica remarked, “You really do love horses?”

His smile widened. “Oh yes, very much.”

Jessica introduced him to Trent’s horse, Bullet, her father’s horse, Molly, and then she asked, “What’s your horse’s name?” As always, he’d left his huge, black stallion tied under a tree in their front yard.

“That’s Webster,” he said.

They walked across the lawn to where the graceful animal stood casually munching grass. “He’s beautiful,” she said as she reached out to pet him.

“Would you care to ride with me sometime?” the captain asked.

“I would like that.”

He took her hand again. For what felt like a very long time he just stood there looking at her.

Just as Jessica began to grow uncomfortable, he said, “I know we haven’t known each other very long, and even though we’ve spent some time together, there is still much we have to learn about each other. I admire you a great deal. I would—” He stopped short.

Watching him, Jessica’s heartbeat quickened erratically. He appeared anxious, almost as if he wanted to flee. That was a feeling she could easily identify with. She started to pull her hand out of his grasp.

“No,” he said and his grip tightened just enough to hold her fast. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before and guess I’m nervous. I would like to ask your father for your hand. I would like to marry you.”

Jessica couldn’t find her voice at all. Wide-eyed she just stared at him.

“Please?” he murmured.

Still Jessica could not move.

“I’m sorry. It’s too soon. I shouldn’t be so forward. It’s just that this afternoon has been so nice and I thought—” Again he cut himself off. “I should go.”

“No!” It was Jessica’s turn to curl her fingers tightly around his and not let go. “I mean, yes. I mean, no, don’t go. And yes, if you want to speak with my father, please do.”

“Should I go speak with him now? Would you mind? Oh, Jessica, thank you. You have made me very happy.”

Overwhelmed, Jessica nodded, shook her head and nodded again.

Not more than a half hour later, Jon and her father emerged from the study. There was a huge grin on her father’s face and he threw her what was quickly becoming his customary wink. Jon took her hand and led her out onto the porch. He stood close and gazed into her eyes.

“Now that we’re engaged, I would like to see you as often as possible.” Gently, he reached up and brushed the back of his knuckles along her cheek. “I don’t want to, but I should be going. I have horses to tend.”

With the soft imprint of his lips on the back of her hand, Jessica watched him walk across the lawn to Webster. But there was a question she forgot to ask. “Jon!” she called out, “You know my favorite color, but I don’t know yours.”

He spun toward her, continued walking backwards, and said, “It’s green. Emerald green. The color of your eyes.”

Outfitted in their ridiculous sheets and pointed caps, the Klan was primed and ready to lash out their terror. The man in black estimated the raiding party was at least forty strong, the largest group of them he’d seen out at night yet. He’d been following at a distance long enough to narrow down their intended destination to one of two places. As soon as they turned off the main road onto an overgrown trail, he knew exactly where they were headed.

The two-story farmhouse was isolated. Its nearest neighbors were at least a mile away through heavy woodlands. The man in black had been there before, so he was fairly familiar with the terrain. Even so, while the Klansmen took their time raising their ritualistic cross, dousing it in kerosene and lighting it, he used the opportunity to circle around and study the house and surrounding grounds once more. The thick foliage and numerous trees were ideal for what he was going to do.

As the flames from the Klan’s cross rose, he settled into position behind a dilapidated outbuilding and waited. He’d done this enough to know the Klan’s routine. First they would start chanting and hollering for their intended victim to come out. If no one did, they would hurl rocks and break windows. More shouted threats would follow.

All of this occurred and still no one emerged from the house. When he first arrived the man in black had noticed flickering light coming from one of the windows. That light had since gone out, which meant people were still inside. Whether the Klan noticed as well, the man in black didn’t know, but he had to assume they did. Their accusation against the man who lived in the farmhouse, a man named Stuart, was that he was squatting on property that didn’t belong to him. The man in black didn’t care about the Klan’s allegations. What he cared about was that Stuart had a wife and children. Two Klansmen were stuffing kerosene saturated rags into bottles. They’d never set fire to a house before, at least not that he’d witnessed, but it was evident that was what they intended this time.

The man in black charged around the back of the house, firing his revolver at the same time those lit bottles were hurled. The shattering glass and the woman’s scream that followed were drowned out by the riotous shouts of the Klansmen. Several of them returned fire, but their efforts were futile. They couldn’t aim at a rapidly moving, invisible target.

By the time he fired the last shot from his fourth revolver, the clowns were racing away. This night, however, the man in black couldn’t follow them to ensure none would circle back. The fire was spreading quickly. Flames already licked the outside wall above a side window, and the front window of that same room was engulfed. As of yet, no one had come out of the house.

The man in black ran up onto the porch and kicked the front door open. Into the thick, smoke-filled interior, he yelled, “The Klan is gone. I am a friend. It’s okay to come out. You’re safe now.”

A sobbing woman came running toward him. The man in black quickly drew her outside and out to the front lawn. “Who else is in the house?” he asked.

Between her hysterical hiccoughs, she cried, “Ma chilren! Upstairs!”

“How many? What are their names?”

“Dere’s three of dem. Ma son, Jason, ma daughta, Lilly, an’ ma baby.”

“I will get them out. Where is your husband? Where’s Stuart?”

“I dunno. He’s not home!”

“Stay here. Don’t go back into the house,” he told her firmly.

Even in the darkness and through the haze of smoke, the stairs were easy enough to find, just a few feet inside the front door. The man in black climbed them quickly, calling out, “Jason! Lilly! It’s okay. Come to me. Come to my voice. Jason! Lilly!”

He continued calling out as he made his way down a short hallway. On the upper floor the smoke wasn’t nearly as thick. There were three doors, all of them closed. Still calling for the children, he opened the first one. There didn’t appear to be anyone in the room, so he moved on to the next. There he found a crib, out of which he lifted a swaddled, sleeping infant. In the midst of the chaos he caught himself smiling. It was simply amazing that a baby could sleep so peacefully through all of this commotion. Holding the tiny human being close to his chest, he hollered for Lilly and Jason again.

He found them in the third bedroom, huddled together in a corner. Lilly was the smaller of the two, no more than four years old. Jason looked to be about Willy Jefferson’s age, seven or eight. The man in black took Lilly’s hand and said to the boy, “Jason, take your sister’s other hand and you follow me. Do not let go.”

In the hallway, which was rapidly filling with smoke, he told them, “Try to hold your breath. We’re going down the stairs now. Jason, cover your nose and your mouth with your free hand.”

It became obvious they needed to hurry. While the flames were still contained in the sitting room, the smoke had grown so thick it caused his eyes to burn. He could see almost nothing, and Lilly struggled against his grip. She was too small to take the stairs any faster than one at a time. Shifting the baby, he picked Lilly up, too. To Jason he said, “Grab the back of my belt and hold on tight. Don’t let go.”

The boy obeyed, but it didn’t last. They were halfway down the staircase when Jason let go. The man in black turned back, but the smoke was too blinding. Lilly was coughing. With his arms full, he couldn’t grab the boy, too. Whispering a curse, he continued on.

In seconds he barreled through the door and gulped in fresh night air. Stuart’s wife, thankfully, hadn’t moved from where he left her. Quickly, still breathing heavily, he handed her the baby and set Lilly down at her feet.

“Where’s Jason? Where’s ma boy?” the woman cried.

“I will get him.”

In the little bit of time he was outside, the fire had swelled into the foyer. To avoid the blazing front doorframe, the man in black had to dash through it sideways. In the blinding smoke, he crawled his way up the stairs, feeling more than seeing, until he bumped into the prone form of the young boy. Without preamble he grabbed the child and slid his way down the banister. At the last step he stumbled. Up until then the kerchief covering the lower half of his face had done a decent job of protecting him from inhaling too much smoke. In trying to regain his footing, he took in a lungful. Coughing and staggering, he hurled himself through door and down the porch steps. Still holding onto the child, but overcome, he fell to his knees in the dirt.

Stuart’s wife pried her boy out of his arms. The next thing he heard, above his own hacking, were her wails, “Oh ma boy! He’s dead! He’s dead! Oh, Jason, Jason!” She cradled the child’s upper body and rocked back in forth.

“No!” The man in black moved fast, ignoring Jason’s mother’s scream as he wrenched the child from her. The woman was right. Her son wasn’t breathing.

There was only one thing the man in black knew to do. Offering a silent prayer that all the coughing he’d done had expelled enough smoke from his own lungs, he yanked the kerchief off the bottom half of his face, tilted the boy’s head back and opened his little mouth. Then he covered it with his own and blew.

His concentration didn’t waver, but the man in black was aware of the resounding pops of the flames, not just those coming from the house, but from the Klan’s cross, too. Stuart’s wife still sobbed. Through the noise, he heard pounding footsteps approach from behind. A man yelled, “Git yer hands off ma boy!”

A hasty glance told him two men were coming at him, both brandishing rusty boot knives.

Stuart’s wife yelled, “Stuart! Oh, Stuart! Jason’s dead. Our boy be dead!”

Taking a deep breath, the man in black had just enough time to breathe once more into the child’s mouth before a boot slammed into his shoulder and toppled him. The second man grabbed Jason by the arm and dragged him away.

The man in black lay prone, holding his hands up to show he was unarmed. Between the engulfed house and the burning cross, he could see both men clearly. The bigger of the two—Stuart—was standing over him, waving his knife.

Stuart’s wife was gathering Jason in her arms. “Breathe into his mouth!” the man in black hollered to her. Whether she did or not, he didn’t know.

The other man shouted, “He’s Klan!”

“I am
not
Klan.” the man in black said firmly. “I came to stop the Klan.”

“He were tryin’ ta kill de boy!”

“I was trying to help him. He was in the house. In the fire. He’s not breathing,” the man in black said.

“You’s white!” the other man yelled. “We don’t trust no white man!”

“Ya set ma house on fire!” Stuart railed, and his booted foot swung.

In one swift move, the man in black rolled. Stuart’s kick missed him. Twisting, he swung his own legs around and caught Stuart at the ankles. In the next second, they were both on the ground. Stuart, however, was stronger than he looked. In the grappling, the man in black took a heavy hit to the side of his head, and another painful blow to his ribs. His only goal was preventing Stuart from using that knife. He grabbed Stuart’s wrist and squeezed until the knife fell. Tactically he rolled again until he had the upper hand. With his knee planted firmly against Stuart’s chest, and his hand raised to ward off Stuart’s friend, who was ready to jump him, too, he said, “Listen to me. I am not Klan. I didn’t set fire to your house. Right now, I am going to let you go so I can help your boy. If you don’t let me, he will die.”

The man in black stared them down for one more second before letting Stuart up and moving to where Stuart’s wife clung to her son. But he was too late. In the firelight, the boy’s dark skin looked sickly grey. His eyes were open. The man in black dropped to his knees beside them.

“He be okay,” Stuart’s wife said. “He be breathin’ now.”

The child was indeed breathing. The man in black could hear his faint wheezing. “Thank you, God,” he murmured under his breath. For a long moment he closed his eyes. He didn’t open them until he felt the blade of a knife pressed to the side of his neck.

Slowly he raised his hands in surrender.

* * *

“Is he coming yet?”

Herlin Jefferson glanced back into the darkness to see Martha stealthily make her way along the path through the woods toward him. He hadn’t heard her coming. His focus, as it had been for quite some time, was on the barely visible narrow trail beside the creek. “It’s taking too long,” he said to his wife. “Something’s wrong.”

“What should we do?” Martha asked. She was beside him now.

Herlin shook his head. Ten more minutes was all the more he would wait, and then he was going after the major. God only knew what was happening out there. But he couldn’t tell Martha what he planned. Not yet, anyway.

“I hear something,” Martha said a moment later.

Martha’s hearing was apparently better than his, and she was right. In the next instant Herlin made out a horse-drawn wagon lumbering slowly toward them. By the rounded orb-like things bobbing around above the wagon bed, he could tell there were people in it, although he couldn’t make out exactly how many. Seated on the driver’s bench were the shapes of two men. It was the horse he recognized first. Hitched to and pulling the wagon was none other than the major’s stallion, Midnight.

By the time Stuart’s family was settled into the cabin next to Herlin’s it was well past midnight. Thanks to Martha’s preparatory efforts, there was a pot of stew simmering on the stove and the beds were made. While doling out bowls and spoons, in a hushed voice Martha prompted Stuart’s wife to share what had happened to them. But Stuart’s wife didn’t get far in the telling. The major interrupted. He needed to get going and wanted to say good night.

First he went to the two young children and spoke with each of them. Next he went to Stuart’s wife, telling her not to lose faith, she and her family would be okay. Last of all he went to Stuart and held out his hand. Rather than shaking it, Stuart stared at him, and he said, “I’m sorry.”

The major smiled. “It’s okay, Stuart. I will keep you and your family in my prayers. Remember, God is with you.”

Grabbing up the spare lantern hanging by the door, Herlin followed the major out into the night. As soon as he was sure he was out of earshot of the cabin’s inhabitants, he said, “What happened? Why did it take so long to get back here? And what is Stuart sorry about?”

“Stuart thought I was with the Klan. It took a while to convince him otherwise.” The major went on to inform him of the other man, Stuart’s friend, who he said, refused to come with them. The major said this other man apparently lived in Shanty Town, and he ran off while the major was helping the children into the wagon. It was obvious to Herlin the major wasn’t going to provide further details. If he wanted to know everything, Martha would have to be his source. She would get the full story from Stuart’s wife.

“Good thing Stuart had that wagon,” the major said blandly. “I don’t know how I would have transported the children without it. I’d better go see to Midnight. I’m sure he’s upset with me. He hates being hitched.”

“You took your kerchief off,” Herlin said. “Did they all see your face? Did Stuart’s friend see you, too?”

The major’s only response was a careless shrug.

Herlin shook his head, then gesturing to his own triceps, said, “Do you know you’re bleeding?”

“I am?” The man in black twisted his arm to get a better look at the tear in the upper part of his sleeve. “I guess I am.”