Violet Fire (18 page)

But there was no fervor in her words.

 

The next day, Grace was gathering up her books in the empty church where classes were held, as the last of her students left. Geoffrey was hanging about shyly, having
appeared, to her delight, that afternoon. Apparently he had chores in the mornings that he couldn't escape. “Would you mind carrying these books for me?” Grace asked with a smile.

He was thrilled, taking the books with pride.

Suddenly, the door opened, letting in a stream of light, and Grace looked up, startled, thinking that one of her students had left something behind.

Rawlins smiled, sauntering down the aisle.

“Hello, Miss Teacher,” he drawled, sitting down in a pew. “Got some time to give me a few lessons?”

Grace struggled to remain composed. Fear and revulsion swept through her. She remembered him viciously hitting Allen while another man held him. She remembered the feel of his hands on her—of his mouth. “Good day, Mr. Rawlins,” she said, barely managing to contain a shudder. “I'm afraid classes are over.”

He stretched. “That's okay. I wouldn't ever sit in the same schoolroom with niggers.”

Grace had nothing to say to that hostile comment. “Let's go, Geoffrey,” she said quietly, urgently.

As they started up the aisle Rawlins rose to follow them out. Grace's heart was in her mouth. Perspiration trickled from her temple down her jaw. Outside, Grace bent down to take her books and whisper in Geoff's ear. “Go get Mr. Rathe,
now
.”

Geoff took off at a run.

Grace straightened, turning slightly. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Rawlins?”

He blocked her. “An' if I don't?”

She tried to look cool and poised. “It's getting late,” she said. She heard the quaver in her voice.

He grinned. “Mmm.” He was staring at her intently. He reached out to toy with a strand of hair that had escaped her tight bun. “You are pretty, Miss Grace O'Rourke, do you know that? Especially with your hair down.” His grin widened.

“Excuse me,” she said stiffly, repulsed by his touch. She started away.

He caught her arm easily, swinging her around and pulling her very close to him, gazing down into her face. “I'm surprised that boyfriend of yours let you take this job,” he said. “Real surprised.”

“Allen will not be coerced,” she exclaimed.

His brows raised in puzzlement. “Allen? Allen Kennedy?” He laughed. “I meant that no-good Texas sidewinder, Bragg.”

She blanched.

“Miss O'Rourke, I've got to warn you; this heah is no place for a nice schoolmarm like you. We don't want no public schools down heah. We don't want them darkies thinkin' they can do more then they even can. They're not equal to white men no matter what the damn Republicans are sayin'. People down heah aren't takin' kindly to you Yanks, no sir, not at all. An' we don't like being taxed to send no niggers to school, to pay your salary. You think on all that, Miss O'Rourke, you think on it good.”

She inhaled.

Before releasing her, he said, “'Cause I don't want to have to come down here and do some teachin' of my own.” With that he strode to his horse, mounted, gave her a perfect bow, and cantered off.

Grace sank down on the steps of the church, trembling. She rubbed her arms, hard. Then, breathing in deeply to regain some measure of calm, she stood, picked up her books, and started resolutely down the road to town.

A few minutes later she saw a horse galloping toward her and she froze up inside. Then she realized the horse was black, and that Rawlins rode a chestnut. As Rathe pulled up beside her, Grace gave a cry of relief. He slid down. “Grace? What is it? Geoff said you were in trouble. He was crying.”

Before he'd finished, Grace hurled herself into his arms, seeking sanctuary in his powerful embrace. She felt him tighten his hold, and she burrowed deeper. He rocked her.
She felt his mouth on her jaw, the firm, soothing caress of his lips. For a long moment she clung and he held her. Then he set her gently away, cupping her face. “What in hell happened?”

“Nothing,” she managed. “Thank heavens, nothing!” Tears glistened on her lashes.

He cursed audibly.

Feeling considerably braver now, Grace sniffed. “I don't think he would have done anything. I think it was just an empty threat.”

“Who?”

“Rawlins.”

This time she went scarlet as he paced around her furiously. “What exactly happened?”

Grace told him.

Rathe grabbed her shoulders, and his fingers dug in, hurting her. “This was your last day.”

“Rathe, I can't quit now!”

“Dammit!” he exploded, whirling away. He twisted back. “Damn you, Grace!”

She clutched her hands to her breast.

“You're not going to see the light of day here, are you?”

She shook her head no.

“Nothing I can do will change your mind, short of beating some sense into you?”

“Not even that.”

“All right,” he burst out. “I'm going to be here every day after school to pick you up. And don't even think of trying to talk me out of it!”

“I wouldn't dare,” she said meekly. Secretly she was relieved.

 

That night, the more Grace thought about it, the more certain she was that Rawlins would never actually hurt her. After all, she was a woman, and Southern men prided themselves on their respect for the fair sex. Allen, however, disagreed.

Rathe had, unfortunately, gone directly to him to inform
him of her unwelcome visitor. Needless to say, Grace was furious with him.

Allen half-sat, gasping from exertion. “Grace, you're getting on the next train back to New York.”

“I am not,” she responded with pursed lips. “Allen, Rathe was exaggerating; he wasn't even there!”

“Don't underestimate Rathe,” Allen warned. “He can be a dangerous man, Grace, and dangerous men recognize dangerous situations. You—”

“I'm a woman, Allen,” Grace interrupted. “Rawlins is too much a Southern boy to ever harm a woman.”

“Grace, I've never asked you for anything. But now I am. For me, please, go back to New York. I should never have arranged your employment down here in the first place, knowing you.”

“I'm not running away.”

Allen cursed, completely startling Grace, who had never heard him do so before. Instantly he apologized.

But Grace wasn't paying attention. “Besides, I have no money. None. I need to stay and get paid on the fifteenth of next month. As it is, I won't have enough for Mother's bills.” At that grim thought, her lips thinned. Time was running out. She had to do something about supplementing her income. Yet she knew there wasn't a single job to be had in Natchez—not a respectable one, anyway.

“I have twenty dollars, Grace. I want you to take it. It's all I have. Teaching doesn't pay well, you know that. Besides, I've spent some of my own money on extra books. But what I have is yours.”

“I'm not going to New York,” she said calmly, while inside she felt dread, wondering if maybe she should borrow the twenty dollars from Allen; at least then she could pay most of her mother's bills. But she knew she couldn't. “Allen, you need your savings to tide you over until you're working again, and that won't be for a few more weeks. And what about Dr. Lang?”

Allen flushed. “He told me not to worry, that I can take my time paying him.”

Grace managed a smile, though she felt sunk in the morass of her thoughts. So far, there had been no response to her seamstress's sign. And even if a position became available, she had already acquired a reputation in this town. Now, what with her teaching the Negro children, it had to be worse. The situation seemed out of control. It was like New York, where no one would hire her because of all the notoriety she had attained. And she promised herself that she would be discreet!

Maybe she could beg Louisa to let her tutor the girls part-time. She imagined herself groveling, and Louisa's spite at the power she would be wielding over her. Grace didn't care; if she thought she had a single chance of getting some extra income she would prostrate herself at that woman's feet. But she knew Louisa would never rehire her.

Just like she knew there wasn't a single respectable job in town.

As she closed her eyes, a horrifying thought occurred to her.
There's always work on Silver Street
.

It was this worry that kept Grace awake past her bedtime.

There was a simple solution…Rathe.

She was instantly appalled.

She knew she would die before accepting Rathe's indecent, arrogant proposition. Unbidden, warm recollections rose to her mind, memories of his hard body pressed intimately against hers, his lips soft and gentle and utterly seductive on hers. Grace buried her face in her hands. It wasn't fair! To have all of life conspiring against her, even her own traitorous body, pushing her into Rathe's arms. She felt trapped.

She was not going to become his mistress. She folded her arms across her breasts. Her mind conjured up Silver Street, with its row of saloons facing the broad, slowly moving Mississippi.

She tried to imagine herself in one of those short skirts, like the blonde had been wearing at the Black Heel on Saturday, and failed. She blushed. Before she would sink so low and compromise the beliefs she held so dear, she would check the hotels on the cliff again for a waitressing position. Even waitressing, as disrespectable as it was, was better than working on Silver Street.

She shut off her thoughts, her heart tightening uncontrollably as she heard someone coming up the stairs. All the ladies who lived on this floor with her had retired, so who could it possibly be? She sat up, listening.

There was a soft rapping on her door. Immediately, Grace rose to answer it.

“Clarissa! she gasped.

Relief swept Geoffrey's sister's distraught features when she saw Grace. “Miz Grace, I don't know what to do!”

“What's wrong? Are you all right?”

“The night riders are riding tonight,” Clarissa cried frantically. “I don't know what to do, an' I thought of you, bein' the teacher an' all an' so smart! Last time they almost killed my brother Jim!”

“Oh my God,” Grace said, momentarily stunned. Then she snapped to. “Are you sure of this?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Do you know where they're riding?”

“On Shantytown. A Republican government man was down there today, spoutin' off, tryin' to make sure we all vote this fall, tellin' us not to be afraid—that there ain't no more Klan.” Clarissa was clinging to her sleeve. “What are we gonna do?”

“We have to find Rathe,” Grace said instantly. “He'll help.” She was already yanking a skirt up over her nightgown and flinging a shawl around her shoulders. “Come on, Clarissa,” she said grimly, running for the stairs. “His room is on the second floor.”

He wasn't there. “Damn! He's probably at one of those saloons or brothels,” Grace said. “Come on!”

Clarissa was on her heels, choking on a sob. “Now what are we gonna do?”

“Stop them,” Grace retorted briskly. “We are going to stop them!”

In Harriet's study she paused in front of the beautiful mahogany gun case. Grace hesitated, thinking about how she abhorred violence—but only for a second. Lives were at stake. She tried to pull open the door. Clarissa gasped. “You can't stop 'em, Miz Grace. Not you.”

“I sure as hell intend to try,” Grace said, rattling the lock. “Damn, it's locked.”

Clarissa grabbed her sleeve. “Miz—”

Grace picked up a paperweight and tapped the glass, shattering it. She grabbed the most modern-looking rifle she saw. “Let's go, Clarissa. Do you have a horse?”

“Jest Mary—a mule.”

Outside, Grace looked at the big, skinny mule and shuddered. Sternly, she reminded herself that now was not the time to let her fear of horses interfere. Clarissa gave her a boost, then jumped up behind her. Mary laid her ears back at the double load, but with two pairs of heels kicking at her, she finally broke into a recalcitrant trot. Grace bounced wildly, clutching both the reins and the rifle, desperately trying not to fall off.

“I think we should go into town an' find Mistah Rathe,” Clarissa said worriedly. “We's jest gonna get ourselves killed.” Then she added, “Relax yore spine, Miz Grace. It'll be a lot easier on your hinny.”

“I've always disliked horses,” Grace said through clenched teeth, “but I've just discovered that I
hate
mules!”

A few minutes later, she asked, “Clarissa, just how do you know the night riders are riding tonight?”

She felt the young girl stiffen. “I heard it,” Clarissa finally said.

“How?”

“When I was leavin' Treelawn.”

Grace had been in Natchez long enough to know Treelawn was all that was left of the old Rawlins plantation, a big white clapboard house not far from Melrose. Her guts shrank. “What were you doing at Treelawn?”

Clarissa hesitated. “We needs the money, Miz Grace.”

“Clarissa! You don't mean—you don't mean you gave yourself to that Rawlins boy?”

“I ain't got no choice.”

“You have a choice!”

“No ma'am,” she said stubbornly. “I don't. We's so in debt to the Barclays our children will never be able to leave this land, and God knows, my babies ain't gonna grow up heah, not if I can do somethin' about it.”

“Babies,” Grace said weakly. “You're pregnant?”

“No, I'm not. But one day I'll marry and I will be. When that day comes I'll have the money I need to get outta heah. Besides,” she said defiantly, “I listen to Rawlins. Sometimes after a few whiskeys he talks open even to me. Tonight he had some friends stoppin' ovah. I heard them talkin' about what they plan to do. They's gonna make another lesson outta one of us, Miz Grace. They wanna win the fall elections and end Republican rule forever. They's real tired of the Yanks tellin' 'em what to do. Ain't nothin' gonna stop 'em this year, they said, not even if they have to kill half us coloreds and half the carpetbaggers to do it.”

“Oh God,” Grace said, “we'll have to get federal troops.”

Clarissa didn't respond.

 

The back parlor of the Black Heel Saloon was completely private. Once the gentlemen who had booked the room were all comfortably settled, absolutely no one else was allowed in, except for the one waiter who freshened drinks and cleaned out ashtrays. By midnight smoke usually hung thick and heavy, despite the massive overhead fan. Unlike the front room of the saloon, where the hum of conversation and laughter, the whirring of the roulette wheels, and the melody of the piano made a constant cacophony, the back room was invariably soundless. And unlike the front room, where the beautiful hostesses charmed potential customers, absolutely no women were allowed in the back.

Rathe was losing consistently. He couldn't concentrate on his cards. An image of Grace grabbing her skirts in one hand, lifting them to bare her slender ankles, and jumping off the raft to wade to the riverbank, assailed him. And he smiled.

His smile faded as the memory continued. Her skirts had clung to her long, beautifully curved legs. For probably the thousandth time, he thought of Grace's sensual body, tall and slim with her voluptuous breasts, and felt
an instant stirring in his groin. He thought of her lying beneath him, spread-legged, warm and wet, and an untimely erection was his reward. Then he recalled the latest development in the saga of never-ending crises Grace seemed to thrive on, her having substituted for Allen at the public school. His gut tightened. She was a fool. She was going to get herself killed if she kept on like that.

“Rathe, where the hell are you?” Tilden Fairbanks asked.

Rathe threw his cards on the table. “I'm out.”

George Farris grinned. “You having a few problems tonight?”

Rathe's gaze was calm. “A few.”

The door opened, but no one paid attention as the waiter came in with a trolley of drinks and clean ashtrays. Then, from behind him, a small dark body catapulted into the room, past the waiter. The bouncer, McMurty, appeared, panting. “Stop that kid! You, kid, you can't go in there!” He began cursing eloquently, red-faced.

Startled, the card play ceased as Geoffrey ran right into Rathe's arms. Rathe held him for a moment, then squatted, holding him by his shoulders, seeing that the boy was crying. “What now, Geoff? Is it Grace?”

“Yassir,” he choked. “I followed my sister to Missus Harriet's. She was lookin' for Miz Grace. But then they left, and they had a gun. They's gonna get whupped!” He started crying helplessly.

“Where are they heading?” Rathe asked grimly.

‘Shantytown.”

Tilden Fairbanks spoke. “Hey Rathe, are you the only white man in this heah town who doesn't know what's happening tonight?”

He turned on his friend. “Spit it out, Fairbanks,
now
.”

“They're just gonna teach a few niggers a lesson, just in case anyone decided to listen to the Republican voter-man who's been in town all day.”

Rathe cursed and was gone before anyone could blink.

 

“Shall we make an example of him?” Rawlins cried, sitting astride his horse.

There were seven night riders, four mounted and flanking Rawlins, and two on foot holding a terrified Negro named Henry. “Yeah,” came their roar of agreement.

They had rounded up a dozen frightened Negroes, forcing them to watch. “This is a lesson. You don't listen to your Yankee friends, 'cause if you do, you won't have any hide left at all,” Rawlins stated. “Start whipping, Frank.”

It was too much for Grace to bear, even though she was shaking from head to foot with fear. She sat atop Mary in the woods fringing the clearing where the flogging was about to occur. “How do I get this jackass to move?” she whispered to Clarissa, who was on the ground, trembling and crying soundlessly.

“Kick it,” Clarissa said.

Grace kicked furiously. Mary craned her head around and gave her a look. Clarissa hit her in the flank. Mary bolted from the woods right toward the group of men as the hapless Negro was being tied to a stake.

Grace bounced wildly, trying to hold the reins, guide the mule, and point the gun threateningly at the same time. For the first time in her life she wished she knew how to ride. But maybe it was better that she didn't. At the sound of the charging, braying animal, heads swiveled toward her. Their horses shifted uneasily. Mary had the bit between her teeth and was in a mad gallop. Grace clung with her legs and one hand, maintaining her seat out of sheer terror, the reins trailing like streamers behind her. She found herself riding straight for Rawlins, and managed to keep the rifle pointed directly ahead.

“What the hell,” Rawlins shouted, reining back to get out of her way.

Mary swerved, almost clipping Rawlins' chestnut. Rawlins fought to keep his frightened mount still. Grace started to slip sideways. To better right herself, she shifted her upper body. At that moment Mary stumbled. The gun exploded.

The shot came perilously close to Rawlins' chestnut, which screamed and bolted, running through the line of four riders, causing utter chaos.

The dozen Negroes forced to watch scattered and fled.

Grace landed on the ground in an ignominious heap.

Mary stopped abruptly and began munching weeds.

Rawlins regained control of his chestnut, whipping it around. “Get those niggers back here,” he shouted furiously.

Grace was on her feet, leveling the rifle at him. She was shaking. “No!” she shouted back. “Anyone makes a move and he's dead!” The line, right out of a penny dreadful, sounded foolish even to her own ears.

But it worked. The night riders froze, waiting for orders from their leader.

He was incredulous. “You're not going to shoot me, girl,” he leered.

“I almost got you the first time,” Grace panted. “The mule made me miss. This time I'm not on some mule.”

Rawlins hesitated.

“What should we do?” Frank asked, still standing by the tied man.

Anger flooded Rawlins' face. “No piece of nigger-lovin' Yankee trash is going to dictate to me,” he said, spurring the chestnut into a trot—right toward her.

Grace prayed the gun had more bullets in it, and raised it higher. “Stop right there, Rawlins,” she cried. “I mean it!”

He grinned and the chestnut picked up speed.

Grace swallowed. He'd been thirty yards away. Now he was half the distance and closing. He laughed. Grace summoned up all her resolve and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Rawlins whooped and reached for her. His arms went around her just as a shot sounded. For one instant, Grace was trapped by the man against the chestnut's sweaty side. Then she felt him tense, heard his cry of pain, and he released her. She fell onto her knees.

“Try it, Rawlins,” Rathe drawled from the shadows. “Pull that gun.”

Rawlins froze. His shoulder was bleeding profusely, turning his sleeve red. For an instant everyone held their breath waiting for Rawlins to draw. But he must have realized the utter insanity of it, for Rathe had his gun leveled as cool as you please and couldn't possibly miss.

Contempt in his voice, Rathe said, “Get the hell outta here—now!”

The four riders broke first.

Rawlins held his ground, eyeballing Rathe furiously. “You're gonna be sorry, Texas boy. I'm gonna see to it.”

“I'll be waiting with anticipation.”

As Frank and the third man mounted, Rawlins leered pointedly at Grace, now standing and cradling the empty rifle. Rathe followed his glance with its implied threat and went rigid. Rawlins saw and his grin widened. Then he yanked his chestnut around and the three went galloping off.

Grace started for the tied man. One curt phrase from Rathe stopped her in her tracks. “Halt right there.”

She froze.

Negroes materialized as if by magic out of the trees and two men began cutting their friend down. Clarissa came running. “You all right, Miz Grace?”

Grace squared her shoulders. It wasn't easy, due to the violent trembling assailing her body. She managed to nod to Clarissa, all the while listening to Rathe's horse approach, until she felt the heat of the lathered animal at her back. “Good question,” Rathe said in that same icy tone. “Why don't you answer it, Grace?”