Violet Fire (30 page)

“Remember,” Louisa said, her nostrils flared, her
jaw taut, “he only turned to
her
because I got tired of him!”

Ford released Grace. “Not the way I heard it, but I think I can skin this cat another way. The hell with it.” He turned his black eyes on her, fingering her amethyst choker. “This is yore lucky day, little lady.”

Grace shivered.

Then he tore the necklace from her throat.

He awoke with a smile on his face, sighed, and stretched leisurely, then reached for Grace. As he did so he was wondering if he had dreamed her declaration of love last night. He had been on the edge of sleep, but he could have sworn she'd said she loved him. Just recalling those words made his heart clench with joy and hope.

His hand moved over a cold, empty space.

Rathe turned his head and stared at the place next to him, where Grace should have been. He lifted his gaze to the room, but there was no sign of her. Bemusement was his first lazy reaction, but it was immediately followed by consternation. Her side of the bed was very cool, as if she'd been gone for hours…

Where in hell could she have gone in the middle of the night?

It occurred to him she had gotten sick, and he ran to the bathroom—but it was empty.

She must have gone for a very early morning walk. Either that, or—and he grew grim—she was off gallivanting about and getting into trouble.

He knew without a doubt it was the latter.

But at the crack of dawn? What could she be up to at the crack of dawn?

He had overslept. The sun was high; it had to be mid-morning. He glanced at his pocket watch and confirmed this. He quickly splashed his face with water, then soaped and rinsed under his arms. He would skip the shave. He
felt a tiny tug of panic. Soon he was hopping into his breeches.

At the knock on the door he barked out a brusque, “Come in,” expecting room service with their usual breakfast. He blinked once at Allen then he buttoned his shirt up too rapidly and mismatched holes and buttons. And he knew his worst fears were right—she was in trouble again. “What is it?”

“Rathe, I don't know how to tell you this,” Allen said, shifting uncomfortably. His glance darted around the room, his face turning pink as it settled on the bed.

“Damn—where's Grace?”

Allen was startled. “Isn't she here?”

“You didn't come because of her?”

“No. Rathe, the new school's been burned right to ashes.”

Rathe cursed. He slammed his fist onto the bureau, sending his wash water onto the floor. “Dammit all!”

“My sentiments exactly,” Allen said dryly. “The mayor's sent a wire for federal troops.”

“Do you think we can get them?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Allen said. “The North is sick of the South's problems. The sentiment now is to let the South be, let it rebuild alone, to hell with it. Let's face it, Rathe. Without local popular support, we can't stop this. There were federal troops down here a few years ago, but they didn't stop it, and even if we could get them, they can't stop it now, either. It's going to take years.”

Rathe looked at him. “You're not going to stay, are you?”

Allen met his gaze. “No, I'm not. I guess I'm a coward. That, and frustrated beyond endurance. I don't want my back broken next time. And—” He shrugged. He didn't have to say the next word. Rathe knew he had also decided to leave because of him and Grace.

Rathe was just about to depart to go find her when he saw the letter lying on the table. He froze. He reached for it, saw her name—and he knew. He knew she had left him.

He sank into a chair, reading, the hurt so awful tears shone in his eyes. She had told him he was wonderful, and last night, she had told him that she loved him. And now, in this letter, she was telling him again—yet it was goodbye.

But when he got to the end of the letter, he was no longer hurt, but angry. She had misjudged him again. He had already realized that she would never give up her career and her crusading—and he'd already accepted it! She was making another rash judgment about him, jumping to erroneous conclusions, without even bothering to ask him what he was thinking! If she had only asked! Yes, he didn't want her teaching here in Natchez, but there was a whole world out there, for God's sake. He understood, now, why she'd had to teach here, and if he had to do it all over again, he hoped that this time he would stand by her—as he expected her to believe enough in him to stand by him. But no, she had run away.

He was going to find her.

She loved him. He loved her. They were going to resolve this, once and for all. As he opened the door, about to rush through, he came face to face with Deputy Lloyd Baker. “Sheriff wants you to identify some remains,” he said.

 

He rode out to the school with Baker, feeling sick.

Grace was not dead!

But they said she was.

Grace was not dead!
It was a refrain, a prayer, he kept saying over and over as he galloped headlong to the cinders and ashes that had been the new church.

He leapt off his mount before the stallion had even stopped. There was a large crowd, solemn, uneasy—and everyone was staring at him. Ford came forward, looking smug. Harriet was there, shaking her head, standing side by side with Hannah and John, and a few other colored families. Everyone was stricken dumb, except for one of the women, who wept openly and shamelessly.

“Where?” he demanded. Baker had said they'd found a burned body. Then he saw what Ford was holding—one of Grace's carpetbags and one of her dainty shoes. His knees became very weak. He felt faint. Someone held him by the arm, supporting him. It was Farris.

“Harriet Gold says these are her things,” Ford said.

Rathe looked at him, eyes wide. Horrified. “They are.”

“Body's by the fireplace.”

Rathe turned to look, in a daze. No—it wasn't Grace-it wasn't! He started to move. Nothing felt real; it was like walking in a dream. From behind him, Ford's voice followed. “Can't tell much, 'cause of the fire and all.”

The body was all charred bones—no hair, no flesh, just bones. Rathe felt relief. It wasn't Grace. And then the sun caught on something, drawing his eyes, and he stared at the amethysts and diamonds glinting on the skeleton's neck.

“No.”

There was no gold, just the stones, in perfect, obscene order.

“No.”

“Let's get you home, Rathe,” Harriet said gently.

He didn't see her. He saw only Ford, gloating, hands in his pockets.

Ford lost his slouch. “I wasn't here,” he shouted, backing away. “I was with Louisa—ask her—all night!”

Rathe stalked him, slowly, deliberately. Ford moved back farther. “You think I'm crazy enough to murder someone? After what you did to me? I told you—I was with Louisa.”

Rathe was blinded with grief and anger, but he was still sane, and he could not kill Ford if there was any doubt. He fell to his knees. He raised his face to the heavens. The howl that sounded was blood-curdling, soul-shattering. It sounded again.

 

“Was he here, last night, all night?”

“Yes,” Louisa said, reaching out to touch his sleeve. “Rathe, I am sorry…

He stared at her. “All night, Louisa?”

“All night. Rathe—” She came close, put her hands on his shoulders. “Darling, why don't you come in and have a drink?”

He looked at her. “I'm going to find out who was there,” he said. “And I'm going to kill them all.”

“Rathe, wait,” Louisa called as he ran down the veranda stairs. “Rathe!”

His grief was such that it made him want to crawl into a dark corner and weep. Instead, he focused on revenge. He spent three days trying to find out who, specifically, had burned the school. Many of Natchez' young men were night riders, and while it was no secret who rode—for they all boasted about it—the night of Grace's murder no one was admitting to anything. Three days later, Rathe was in exactly the same place he had started.

“You're making yourself sick,” Harriet said. She had come to his hotel room, where he sat, surrounded by Grace's things, still smelling her scent, half a bottle of bourbon in front of him. In his hand was her nightgown. He clutched it to his abdomen.

“I love her,” he said hoarsely.

“You've got to start livin' again,” Harriet said. “She's gone, Rathe, but you're still here. Go on home to your mama and daddy. Go home to your loved ones.”

He looked at her, then drained his glass.

“Do you think I didn't want to hole up and die when my boys got killed? There isn't anything like losin' a child, honey. Nothin' is like that.”

He hung his head. “It hurts so much, Harriet…”

“She'd want you to go on!”

Rathe brusquely wiped a small trickle of moisture away from his eyes. He hadn't cried; he would not cry. “Yeah, she would, but, damn, it's so hard.”

For the first time, he looked at her. “First I've got some business to take care of.”

Rathe began by rebuilding the church—this time, with
a whole separate room attached for classes. Then he spent the next three weeks mounting a campaign to destroy the sheriff, the crux of which was the sailor Able Smith's death. He hired the Pinkerton Agency to investigate the suicide. Although the evidence against the sheriff was only circumstantial, Able Smith had been a white man, not a Negro, and many of the townspeople who supported the night riders were indignant and even outraged at his suspicious death.

Rathe wrote letters to the local papers and the
Jackson Clarion
and
Aberdeen Examiner
. It didn't matter that the press supported the night riders and their methods. Soon the sailor's questionable suicide became a public scandal. A small group of local citizenry organized themselves to campaign for law, order, and justice—and against Ford. Sarah Bellsley's Temperance Union took part. Public indignation mounted, and Rathe fanned the fire through the press. It was only a matter of weeks before Ford came to him, furious.

“You're behind this,” Ford snarled. “Do you think I don't know it? Do you think I'm gonna take this lyin' down?”

Rathe laughed. “I want you to know it, you sonuvabitch. I want you to know that I'm the agent of your destruction. You're finished in Natchez.”

Ford was wavering, and Rathe knew he was afraid.

“You can't destroy me, boy,” Ford said.

“No?” Rathe grinned.

“I still got most of this town behind me,” Ford spat. “An' you have any doubts, why, you come to Cross Creek tomorrow night and see.”

Cross Creek. It didn't take much for Rathe to learn that the night riders were planning another episode of intimidation; they intended to whip a sharecropper who was behind in his payment of goods to his landlord. And Rathe understood that this time it was very important for Ford to make a show of power and strength.

Concurrently, it was crucial for Rathe to stop him. And although much of the town was disturbed at Smith's death, Rathe knew he could not count on them to stop Ford in his nocturnal terrorist activities against the coloreds. This was the showdown. Rathe could count on a few men like Farris. More importantly, he hired his own men, all Pinkerton's. It was a small cavalry that rode out to stop the night riders that sweltering, moonless eve.

But there was no whipping. Ford and his men were not expecting an armed encounter with numbers superior to their own, and like the bullies they were, they turned tail and fled. Rathe rode after Ford. He chased him halfway to Natchez. Nothing and no one could stop him now, not when he was so close to destroying the man who had become his blood enemy. “Stop and fight, Ford,” he shouted into the night.

Ford kept running.

Rathe caught up to him, their horses galloping neck and neck blindly in the darkness. He leapt at Ford. The two men went crashing onto the ground, rolling, struggling. It was Rathe who wound up on top, and it was Rathe who pummeled Ford to within an inch of his life.

That was the last time Ford was ever seen in Natchez.

Yet for Rathe there was no satisfaction, no victory, only the hollow emptiness of his heart and his soul.

 

“Hello, Pa.”

“Rathe!” Derek Bragg's amber eyes went wide, and an instant later a smile of delight swept across his features. The next second Rathe found himself enveloped in a hard, fierce hug. The two men were nearly identical except for the difference of thirty years. They were the same height, the same powerful build, their faces mirror replicas of each other, one young and unlined, the other weathered but still unquestionably handsome. Derek released him and grinned.

Rathe smiled back. He watched his father's smile slowly
fade, saw the quizzical look in his eyes, and knew Derek had already picked up on the sadness that wouldn't leave him.
Don't ask
, Rathe silently begged, averting his gaze. He missed the look of concern that swept Derek's face, and it was gone by the time he raised his eyes. “Where's Mother?” With much effort, he managed to make his tone light. “And my big sister? And that no-good gambler she married?”

Derek threw his arm around his shoulder, leading him into the oak-floored foyer of the ranch house. “Miranda!” he shouted. “Storm! Brett!” He gave his son a grin. “Your mother's going to box your ears, son.”

Rathe had to smile at that. “She's peeved, huh?”

Derek looked at him. “Peeved?” He threw back his head and laughed.

His sister, magnificently beautiful in the full flush of womanhood, five years Rathe's senior, came running down the stairs, her elegant silk gown, bustle, hoops and all, hiked to her knees, showing long, exquisite, silk-stockinged legs. This was the Storm Rathe knew far better than the one who had married and now lived on Nob Hill in San Francisco. She shrieked, a cry completely reminiscent of their childhood, and Rathe caught her as she catapulted into his embrace.

“I would have killed you if you hadn't come,” she told him breathlessly. “All those telegrams! First one arrival date, then a new one! Mother kept preparing surprises for you! She's furious!”

Rathe smiled sheepishly and met Brett's gaze over Storm's shoulder. Keeping one arm around his sister, he reached out to shake his brother-in-law's hand. They exchanged genuinely warm hellos. They had come a long way from the day fifteen years ago when Rathe had refused to let Brett enter the house and had wanted to carve him to pieces—when Brett was hunting down his runaway wife.