A Reckless Love, page 14
Her eyes lit. “Oh, I don’t mind at all! Can we pop into the bookstore for a book for Joelle while we’re out?”
Zane felt bizarrely as if he were negotiating a courting ritual. How had he gone from sleeping in the woods with a murderer and a riot-inciter to escorting a pint-sized Southern belle about town? “I don’t see why not. Mrs. McGowan, I promise I’ll take good care of—” He stopped as a couple of mental rail lines came to a sudden and violent intersection in his brain. McGowan. From Memphis. Aurora had mentioned that her grandfather was a doctor, and she had grown up in his house. He stared at the old lady. No wonder she looked familiar. She had been one of the nurses at Adams Hospital, married to the surgeon.
But Aurora was a Daughtry, no? His gaze jerked back to her face. She was beginning to look alarmed.
He forced a smile for the dragon. “Don’t worry, Mrs. McGowan, we’ll be back before dark.”
Aurora could not forget Grandmama’s absurd admonition. Zane had escorted her about downtown Tupelo—not exactly the greatest of metropolises—for the last thirty minutes without once indicating more than polite interest in her conversation, let alone her person. Falling in love?
Hah. No danger of that.
Demonstrating the proper behavior of a gentleman, he had offered his arm for her to cup her hand around. But he seemed fearful that her skirts might brush against him and kept quite a distance. As she commented on the businesses they passed, he would either simply nod or produce a laconic response such as “Ah,” “Indeed,” or “I see.” Not exactly scintillating conversation.
As they approached Doc’s home and medical office, which stood opposite the Gum Pond Hotel, she abruptly stopped. “Zane, have I done something to offend you?”
He gave her a cautious look. “No.” When she didn’t respond or move, he added reluctantly, “Why?”
“I get the feeling you resent the intrusion of my company.”
He sighed. “Are my manners that bad? In fact, Miss Aurora, that’s just it. I find it hard to believe a beautiful young lady like you wants to spend your afternoon walking around with an ugly, taciturn cuss like me.”
Aurora’s mouth fell open. He’d called her beautiful. But he thought he was ugly? “There’s nothing wrong with being quiet and thinking your words through before spitting them out, as my family has made sure to remind me since I learned to talk. Which apparently was extraordinarily early.” She waved a hand. “That’s beside the point. It’s just that you look over your shoulder a lot, as if you want to escape. If you’d rather be alone, I promise it won’t hurt my feelings. I asked to come with you because Grandmama worries about me walking around by myself, but I’m perfectly capable of shopping without an escort. She’d never know, because she’ll be gone to Daughtry House before we get back.”
After one of those quick assessing looks around, he unexpectedly took her elbow and pushed her close to the nearest wall—which happened to be beside Doc’s front door. She looked up at his face just a couple of inches away, her breath gathering high in her chest at the sudden intimacy.
“Believe me,” he said, low and intense, “there’s no one I’d rather be with, and your jabbering is like drinking a cool glass of lemonade after walking around in the desert. I’m looking over my shoulder because we’re drawing attention, and it worries me. If something happened to you because some cur shot at me, I’d—” He clamped his white teeth together, the lean jaw working.
“What do you mean, we’re drawing attention? How do you know?”
“There’s a woman staring at us right now, out the window of the store across the street. Your grandmother is right to be concerned.”
“How do you know she’s—did she tell you to treat me this way?” Aurora stood on her toes to look over his shoulder at the Emporium. “That’s Mrs. Whitmore. She stares at everybody. She may be a busybody, but she’s not going to shoot you! And I don’t jabber! Well, maybe I do, but that’s not something you say out loud!” She pushed at his chest. “I’m having second thoughts about your manners.”
“I tried to warn you. I’m no good at anything remotely like courtship. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.” He glared at her.
It occurred to her that he packed more raw emotion into one eye than most people conveyed in two. She felt his perfect frustration and self-loathing radiating at her. Suddenly all her aggravation melted as she heard what he meant, not what he actually said. Although some of what he’d said indicated some pretty staggering ideas.
He had thought about courtship, even if he’d verbally rejected it. He worried about her safety. His instinct was to stand between her and danger. He found her excessive amount of talking refreshing.
Looking up at him, she said softly, “Zane Sager, just remember that what you want and what you deserve are not always the same thing. And what God has planned for those who love him is on another level entirely.”
fourteen
AFTER QUICKLY SETTLING with Dr. Kidd the matter of driving Mrs. McGowan and her niece out to Daughtry House, Zane followed Aurora into the newspaper office, still reeling from the rush of . . . something, he would not call it fear, and it wasn’t anger, nor exactly excitement, but some mix of the three—the thing that still zinged through his body. It had built from the realization, as he spotted that woman’s heavy, disapproving face in the window, that Aurora Daughtry’s well-being and state of mind meant as much to him as the exterior difficulties in which he found himself.
Despite what he’d said, he would like to court her. He’d like to dress up in a good suit, find some flowers somewhere, approach her grandmother, and ask to take Aurora to a dance.
But first he’d have to learn to dance.
Never mind, it didn’t matter, because the whole idea was ludicrous.
And what did she mean by what you want and what you deserve are not always the same thing? Was that a threat or a promise?
Deliberately setting the whole matter aside for one of those times when he lay awake in the middle of the night with nothing better to do than relive old nightmares and plot strategies to keep himself alive, he looked around the cluttered office. The damage perpetrated by the Klan—nearly three weeks ago, by his reckoning—had been somewhat restored to order. You could tell by looking at the two heavy desks that they had been put back together with some new pieces, that carvings had been sanded off. And the walls had been freshly repainted. He didn’t see a printing press, but there was a door that presumably led to a production room.
Meanwhile, Aurora had been in animated conversation with the newspaper editor—one of the men Beaumont had brought to help disperse the mob that had threatened Zane at the jail. He was also the one who had reported the murder of Theo Redding. A small-statured man with a wisp of hair and a pair of rimless spectacles covering an otherwise bald head, purple ink stains on hands and chin, he was about as nonthreatening a deputy as Zane could imagine.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
As Zane approached the editor’s messy, paper-strewn desk, Aurora turned to smile at him. “Zane, you remember Mr. McCanless, don’t you? He’s been encouraging Joelle’s writing for some time now.”
Zane shook hands with the editor. “Yes. We’ve met twice now.”
“And neither were particularly auspicious occasions,” McCanless said with a shake of his head. Anger in his eyes, he looked around at the bare walls and empty bookshelves. “Same bunch of riffraff who tore up all my books, broke the desks, smashed windows . . . If the press hadn’t been solid iron, they’d’ve wrecked it too. Took me a week to get all the type sorted back into its drawers—” Truncating his rant, he folded his arms. “But if they think they’ve scared me out of printing the truth, they’ve got the wrong man.”
Zane met Aurora’s big eyes. She wasn’t a child, and she had experienced the ugliness of political and racial division firsthand. “I admire your courage, McCanless,” he said. “The Justice Department is working to stop that sort of violence. I know you’re busy, but if you can spare a few hours here and there, I could use some help getting ready for the trial.”
“Me?” The newsman grinned a little. “What can I do?”
“I understand you’re to be trusted with confidential information. Are you willing to keep your mouth shut about what I’m about to say?”
“He kept Joelle’s identity secret for over a year,” Aurora put in.
Zane glanced at her. “That’s a solid recommendation. But in this case, people’s lives are at stake.”
“I’m not afraid,” McCanless declared. “And protecting sources is essential to journalism. Believe me, I’m determined to get to the root of this conspiracy.”
“Then I’ll be glad of your cooperation. What do you know about those two men that I had in the jail?”
McCanless scratched his head, knocking the spectacles sideways. “One of them was running around here with young Beaumont—Jefcoat, I believe is his name. The two of them made no secret of collusion with Whitmore, Perkins, and that bunch. T’other—all I know is his name is Moore. Don’t know anything else about him. But Beaumont says he was collecting information for the law and has detached himself from the Klan. That right?”
Zane nodded. “Jefcoat and Moore were caught in the act of kidnapping Beaumont, at the behest of someone they called ‘the general.’ We suspect that could be either Alonzo Maney or Bedford Forrest.”
“General Forrest was having dinner with us the evening of the fire,” Aurora said. “In fact he spent the night with us. Do you think he set the fire?”
“That’s possible,” Zane said. “But I’m interested in this Maney character. Mr. McCanless, what do you know about him?”
“I’ve heard the name. He’s a respected lawyer from Tennessee, involves himself in defending Klan cases all over the South. We ran an article once about military high-ups who fled to Mexico after the war and came back when Johnson issued amnesty. Maney’s name was mentioned. Didn’t seem to lead to anything unusual, so we never followed up.”
“Reporter’s name?”
McCanless smirked. “T. M. Hanson.”
When Aurora choked on a laugh, Zane looked at her. “What?”
“That’s my sister,” she said.
These Daughtry sisters were something else. “All right, I’ll talk to her.” When McCanless seemed to have nothing further to add, Zane shrugged. “Well, if you hear anything else, interesting or not, let me or Riggins know. All I need from you now is a little of your time. I’ve got Jefcoat and Moore stowed in Miss Daughtry’s new boardinghouse for safety, on the quiet. Beaumont has been with them most of the day, and I hoped you’d be willing to be deputized to relieve him for a few hours.” He looked away, forcing out words. “With Redding gone, the Marshals Service is sending another deputy, but he won’t be here until tomorrow. The federal prosecutor and judge are coming in this afternoon, and it will help if I’m free to assist them.” He met the editor’s gaze frankly. “There aren’t many men in this town I trust.”
McCanless’s chest visibly puffed. “I’m honored you’d think of me. I’ve never been a radically political man, but when my business and family are threatened . . . Well, right is right, and wrong is wrong.”
“Yes, sir,” Zane said. “It is, and I appreciate your service. It might be that I can pay you—”
“Absolutely not! A man needn’t be paid for doing his duty.” McCanless stuck his glasses on his nose with indignant force.
“Thank you,” Zane said, relieved. “Then would you please raise your right hand and repeat after me?” With the editor duly deputized, Zane pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. “Mr. Wells’s train should be here in a half hour or so. If I could get you to slip in the back door of the Dogwood, the prisoners are being held in the attic. Beaumont is expecting you, but it would be a good idea to call up the stairs before you knock on the door.”
“Certainly.” McCanless bent to fish around on his desk for a piece of paper. “Better send a runner to tell Mrs. Mac I’ll be working late . . .” He glanced up. “Miss Daughtry, please tell your sister that we should be up and running again by next week. I’ll want her contributions regarding the trial and anything else she has ready to submit.”
Aurora nodded. “Of course.”
Zane cleared his throat. “Thank you, McCanless. We’re doing our best to put an end to the violence that put you out of business.”
“Oh, I’m very far from out of business,” McCanless said grimly. “If anything, I’m more determined that truth reaches the public—however much they dislike it.”
“Glad to hear that.” Zane tipped his head toward the door. “Miss Daughtry, how about if I escort you to the bookstore, so you can make your purchase? Then we can walk over to the station to meet the train.”
“Of course.” She took the elbow he offered. “Mr. McCanless, thank you for standing watch at the Dogwood. We’ll meet you there later.” As he held the door for her, she looked up at him with a smile. “The bookstore is right next door, and I’ll be quick. Joelle wants—”
He never heard what Joelle wanted, for he and Aurora both froze in the doorway.
For the last ten minutes or so, Zane’s hackles had been raised by a muffled commotion outside the brick walls of the office. Now he saw why the noise had sounded so familiar. Across the street, where a broad swath of green lawn stretched in front of the courthouse, a uniformed and armed Negro militia had mustered. Rifles shouldered, faces intent, they were drilling and marching on the grass, steadfastly ignoring the hoots and catcalls of white citizens who had gathered along the street to watch.
Zane pushed Aurora behind him. He could think of no possible way this scenario could end peacefully.
Aurora stood on tiptoe to peer over Zane’s shoulder. She knew many of the men marching on the courthouse lawn. Levi had hired them to repair the Daughtry House roof and outbuildings during renovations in March and April. Some had stayed to work at the hotel when it opened for business in May, with the arrival of the opera star Delfina Fabio, the famous General Nathan Bedford Forrest, and of course his wife. All of the militia were residents of Shake Rag—a Negro community on the outskirts of Tupelo, where former slaves had drifted after the war—and belonged to the church that white supremacists had burned down when their pastor announced his candidacy for state congress.
Aurora and her family had assisted in rebuilding the church within a week of its destruction, donating lumber and other materials from the hotel sawmill and blacksmith. She had shared meals in the homes of the Lawrences and Vincents, and had participated in a quilting bee with the Shake Rag women at the Pogues’ house.
Now a frisson of fear climbed her back as she realized where the tensions of the last month had taken them all. Not quite back to civil war, but certainly into racial animosity. Because she knew these men, she wasn’t afraid of them. They were free, but their liberators—the Union army—had not been able to coerce goodwill in the hearts of the former masters. Rather, shame and resentment remained behind, taking root to grow up as bitter fruit.
It was the hatred of her own people she feared. Her people? Dear heaven, let it not be so. Her skin was white, but she could never align herself against these her friends.
She pushed against Zane’s back. “Let me pass.”
“No. Stay here.” He looked over his shoulder. “Aurora, I mean it. Don’t cross me this time. I’ve seen this kind of situation turn into riots. It happened in Memphis—”
“I know. I was there. But this time I can do something to stop it.”
“No.” He turned, and she saw that his right hand had moved to the grip of his gun. “Those men have a right to be there. The governor has given the militia orders to muster and drill, to keep order during the trial. Of course the white citizens have the right to congregate too, and the whole thing is a recipe for disaster.”
“I know.” Acknowledging his fear seemed to take some of the wind out of his sails. She put a hand on his forearm. “Listen. I live here, and I know these people. You saw what happened when the men at the jail saw there was a woman there. Their instinct, half the reason these men act so crazy, is this notion of chivalry—the protection of white women. If you and I handle this together—you as the badge of the law, me as the protected species of female—I think we can keep it under control.”
As he studied her, clearly ready to shove her back into the office and shut the door in her face, something entered his expression. She thought it might be admiration, but he quickly hid it behind his more characteristic stoicism.
“Come on, then,” he said, “but if I push you to the ground, cover your head.”
She nodded and took his arm again—the left one, leaving his right hand free to pull his gun if needed. She could feel the taut muscle under her hand, the tension in his whole body as they crossed the street and entered the cluster of men at the edge of the courthouse lawn. People turned to look at them, frowns shifting to surprise at the appearance of one of the crazy Daughtry sisters. The three of them had developed a reputation for unorthodox behavior, and this wasn’t going to help.
But she was tired of caring what hateful people thought. Right now she was praying that every one of those motley-uniformed black men on the lawn would go home safely today. And she was praying for Zane and herself to possess the wisdom and grace necessary for whatever happened.
She smiled at Mr. Fisher, who had apparently abandoned the barber shop in favor of gawking at the militia. She didn’t think he’d been part of the mob that came to the jail. “Mr. JJ, have you met Deputy Marshal Sager? I told him just this morning what a wonderful fresh shave he could get in your shop.”
The barber glanced at Zane, gaze zeroing in with professional interest on the scab forming on Zane’s chin. “I’m sure I could do a better job than that.”
Zane self-consciously rubbed his chin. “I imagine so. I could use a haircut too. I’ll stop in soon.”
Fisher scowled. “I’d heard you were here about the trial.”
