twenty–six

GUN RELOADED AND READY TO DISCHARGE, Zane stood with his back against the wall between the front door and the shattered window beside it. His physical control over his own mental violence was in an equal hair-trigger state. He didn’t know why Wells and Pierce hadn’t come to investigate the source of gunfire just down the street from the hotel, but surely they would have arrived by now if they were coming at all.

He glanced over at the big oak table, which Riggins had flipped onto its side to protect the women. He hadn’t heard a peep out of them in quite some time. That seemed odd—he hoped no one had fainted—but he dared not leave his post. The seven men in the room—Riggins, Beaumont, young Wyatt, Spencer, the two physicians, and himself—should have been able to repel the attack. But they were already nearly out of ammunition.

Surely the enemy knew that.

A couple of quick attempts to discern the identity of the attackers revealed torch-lit figures in black robes and hoods spread across the lawn—evil costumes disguising evil intent. They had been shouting incoherent insults and threats since the first shots broke up the dinner party. Zane had hoped firing back at them would send them running.

It had not. Now his main fear was that one of them would decide to set the house on fire.

It was time to act.

He caught Riggins’s eye. “Cover me.”

“What are you going to do?” Riggins asked.

“Negotiate.” He slid to the other side of the door and stood behind it as he opened it an inch or two. “Whitmore!” he shouted, taking a stab at the identity of the ringleader. “I want to come out and talk.”

The response was a bullet whizzing into the opening.

Zane slammed the door. Shaking with rage, he moved to the window. “You realize there are seven women and a boy in here, don’t you?”

“A bunch of Negro-loving sluts,” Whitmore yelled. “We’ve put up with them long enough. Nobody wants to hurt them, we just want them gone—and you government flunkies with them.”

“Whitmore, there will be federal troops here next week. So far you haven’t hit anybody, which is miraculous. It’s almost Sunday. Give us a day of peace, then let’s gather on Monday at the courthouse to talk. None of us wants bloodshed, but it’s my job to apprehend the men who killed my fellow officers—and make sure they’re prosecuted according to the law.”

A shotgun fired, presumably into the air. “And I want the scum who murdered my sons in cold blood!” That rough, countrified voice was not Whitmore. In fact Zane was sure he’d never heard it before.

The crowd of cloaked men parted to reveal a solitary gray-bearded figure, dressed in an old-fashioned suit and string tie, advancing with a hunting rifle at his shoulder.

Zane opened the door and stepped onto the porch. “I’m Deputy Marshal Sager. Please identify yourself.”

The man aimed his gun at the center of Zane’s chest. “You’re the one I want. I hear it’s your fault they got to my boys.”

“You must be Mr. Jefcoat,” Zane said coolly. “If you shoot me, there are six guns aimed at you from inside, and one of them is bound to take you out for the murder of a federal officer.”

The rifle wavered. “Where’s my son’s body?”

Zane noted the reference to one body this time. Perhaps his half-black son didn’t rate a Christian burial. “At the morgue awaiting your arrival. Mr. Jefcoat, I did my best to protect them. I would have done so anyway, but you should know that Andrew and Harold had separately agreed to testify against terrorists like these men around you—men who dress up like children in costume and ride around at night, burning down the houses and churches of innocent people. Threatening and beating men doing nothing more than attempting to exercise their legal right to cast a vote. Destroying the property of the free press—which, if I’m not mistaken, is a right guaranteed by the Constitution to every American citizen.”

Rage suffused Jefcoat’s face. He seemed a broken man with very little left to lose. “It’s our votes that don’t count! We were the ones invaded by raiders stealing our property. Now my son is dead. I want justice.”

Voices in the hooded crowd shouted, “That’s right!” and “Tell him, Jefcoat!” and “Murdering Yankees!”

Zane madly picked through possible responses. Why had God put him here at this time? He was no orator. Riggins or Beaumont should come out here to address this rabble. Or even venerable Dr. McGowan. Maybe one of them could calm everybody down.

But he was the one with the badge. He’d sworn to protect the people in this house. Maybe he had failed in the past few days, but that didn’t mean he should give up now.

He lowered his gun, released the hammer, and put it in its holster. He would not raise his hands in surrender, but left them loose at his sides, where all could see. “Mr. Jefcoat”—he raised his voice to be heard above the growing clamor of the mob—“your son was killed at the behest of a man manipulating this bunch around you. They’re all scared the same thing will happen to them if they turn on him.”

The noise of the crowd turned off like a spigot.

“What are you talking about?” Whitmore roared. “Nobody’s scared of nobody.”

“Take off your mask, Whitmore,” Zane said wearily. “Everybody knows who you are. You say you’re not afraid, but disguise is a mark of fear.”

The storekeeper reached up and whipped off his hood. The torchlight revealed his bald head and sweaty, scowling face. “I told you—”

“I’m not done,” Zane said. “Think about what you folks are protesting here. You know who’s in this room? Your neighbors. Your doctor—the man who delivers your babies and sets broken legs and sews you up when you open your hand on a plow blade. A justice of the peace, who settles disputes and marries young couples. A young inventor who might discover a way to get you on the other side of the country in less than a day or figure out how to cure smallpox. And that’s not to mention the women who turned a rundown plantation and a seedy saloon into thriving businesses. You run them out of town, and you’ll be the poorer for it.” Zane took a breath and kept going. “Put that aside for a minute, and let’s go back to Mr. Jefcoat. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I’d bring those two men back if I could. I’d bring back Judge Teague, Ezekiel Beaumont, Deputy Redding, and Deputy Mosley. But I’m not God, so I can’t. Best I can do is stop the violence right here and now.

“I say that, not as a Southerner or a Northerner or even a federal officer. I say it as a man who wants to marry one of those ladies in there and live here among you. I want to be your neighbor. I want to go to church with you and eat in your hotel restaurant and walk down the street without being afraid somebody’s going to knife me in the back. But that can’t happen if we can’t settle our disagreements in the open, in daylight—and, if necessary, in a court of law.”

“The law’s not on our side!” someone shouted.

A roar of agreement went up.

Zane waited until it abated, then took a step forward. “Think about what you just said! If the law’s not on your side, then whose side are you on? Anarchy? Violence? Screaming and mobbing and tearing each other apart make you less than human. If you don’t like the laws, vote to change them! That’s what Americans just fought a war over—the right for every man to have an equal say in his destiny. In the meantime, give one another room to disagree. Keep arguing—verbally or in print—but keep it civil. Come to the trials, if you wish, listen to the testimonies and decide for yourselves. Don’t let a handful of men with personal agendas, like greed or revenge or hunger for power, twist us against one another. Don’t let them destroy our humanity.”

Had he said enough? Too much? Zane felt as if some powerful current had taken over his body and mind, turning him into a new version of himself. Even with one eye, his vision clarified.

As he looked at Jefcoat, pity filled him. “Mr. Jefcoat, somebody here knows who ordered your sons’ murders. Maybe your political views differ from mine, but we both want that monster brought out into the open and prosecuted.”

Jefcoat wheeled toward the crowd. “Is that true?” he cried, faced twisted in grief. “One of y’all know? Take off those hoods, you cowards, and let me see your faces! I joined the Klan myself this spring, out of fear. I sent both my boys to fight against what I thought of as tyranny—but if I’d known they’d turn on Andrew and Harold—if this is what they do, how can I—how can we bear it?” He sank to his knees, keening, cradling the rifle.

Zane bent to put a hand on the man’s shoulder and, as he did, looked over the robed mob. Behind them had gathered a darker group, dressed in plain homespun and denim, ragged and quiet—but also armed.

The Negro militia had arrived.

Aurora looked down and realized she still carried a full bottle of whiskey. She wondered if she might have to use it after all.

Surrounded by Negro militia, she had stood beside Joelle, bursting with pride and love as Zane finished as eloquent and courageous a speech about constitutional liberty as she’d ever heard.

After escaping from the besieged house, the two of them had hurried down the street to the north end of town, then across the railroad tracks to the gum swamps of Shake Rag. Aurora and Joelle had helped their families rebuild the Negro church there after it burned, had eaten with and worshiped alongside its members—and thus had begun to establish a new and better relationship after the ravages of slavery and war. Perhaps miles remained to go. But steps had been taken in both directions.

Now. Now, it turned out, her family needed them. She and Joelle went first to the pastor, Reverend Boykin, and he called in other men to meet at the church. They listened to her hurried description of the events of the day. And they responded. They went for their hunting rifles and accompanied her and Joelle back to town.

In their company, at this moment, she felt secure, though she couldn’t guess how the crowd would respond to Zane’s plea or Jefcoat’s agonized challenge. She thought the white mob still hadn’t realized they were surrounded. At any moment they could turn, unleashing violence.

She looked for her sister. “Joelle, I think we should slip around to the—”

A rough hand went over her mouth. “Oh, no, missy, I think you’ll stay right here.” She felt something sharp dig into her throat. “Move and I’ll slice you in two where you stand.”

Her blood went to ice. Rolling her eyes to get a glimpse of her captor, she saw nothing but the edge of the beard and long, unkempt hair pressed against her cheek. But the hoarse, high-pitched voice in her ear had given away her captor’s identity. Her arms were fastened to her sides by Jones’s sinewy ones, and she knew if she wiggled, he’d do what he said.

He raised his voice to a harsh rasp. “Everybody shut up and give me room, or I’ll kill her!”

Where was Joelle? Had someone else grabbed her? Was Jones going to kill her in the middle of a hundred people, right there in front of Zane and her family? What did he want? She couldn’t give him the safe code, since she didn’t have it anymore.

She still held the bottle, but it dangled from her numbed hand, useless beneath the powerful arms holding her motionless.

The Negroes around her didn’t seem to know what to do. They moved back, muttering.

“Maney!” Jones shouted. “Where are you? I have her.”

The robes in front of Aurora parted, shuffled, a bizarre dance she would have found amusing if she hadn’t been scared spitless. She found herself held prisoner in the center of a macabre ballroom of hatred, confusion, violence. Torchlight flickered above and all around, with the lamps blazing through the open door and broken windows of the boardinghouse in front of her.

Zane stood on the porch, horror in every line of his face and body.

“Maney!” Jones roared again. “Get whatever you want out of him. He won’t touch you now.”

Nobody else moved.

Then an elderly female voice said quietly, “But I will. With your own gun.”

A gun went off over Aurora’s head, crashing into her eardrums. She fainted.

It took him less than ten seconds to reach her. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the mess that had been Sam Jones’s head and the robed miscreant who had shot him. There was blood dripping down the side of Aurora’s neck, remnants of gore sprinkled on the top of her head.

Oh, God, let her be alive.

He lifted her, held her limp body against his own crashing heart. Putting his mouth on the pulse point under her chin, he felt the steady throb. Relief flooded him.

Standing with Aurora in his arms, he turned and headed for the porch at a run. “Doc!” he shouted. “I need you!”

The noise of the crowd on the lawn—black, white, robed, armed or not—now signified less than nothing. Taking the porch steps two at a time, he stumbled past Riggins and Beaumont into the sitting room. He laid Aurora on the sofa and knelt there looking frantically at her grandfather, who had dropped his gun and rushed to meet him.

Pushing Zane aside to crouch beside the sofa, Dr. McGowan looked up at Doc Kidd, who had grabbed his medical bag from a corner. “Stethoscope?” Kidd produced the required instruments as McGowan asked for them and examined Aurora.

Praying, Zane watched, staying as close as they would allow him. Dr. McGowan gently cleaned her face, taking particular care as he examined her ears. Blood streaked her hair and spotted her dress, but Zane couldn’t see obvious wounds, except for a red welt across her milky throat, left by Jones’s knife.

At last McGowan sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a clean cloth ThomasAnne had handed him.

Zane suddenly realized the women had come out from under the table to offer aid and whisper prayer. Selah now stood behind the sofa, held in her husband’s arms, with Rosie and Bedelia hovering in the dining room doorway. Joelle and Mrs. McGowan were nowhere in sight. Questions clamored for answers, but Aurora came first.

He looked at her grandfather. “Why isn’t she waking up?”

“Trauma.” The old man looked worried. “Her eardrum burst, so there’ll be some hearing loss. Other than that—she seems to be fine.” He looked around. “Does anyone know what happened? Where’s my wife?”

“Right behind you.”

Zane kept his place beside Aurora but turned in time to see Winnie McGowan enter the room. She cast off a dark hooded cloak and tossed it across the back of a chair.

“Grandmama!” Selah eyed her grandmother in suspicious astonishment. “What have you been up to?”

“Shooting villains.” The old lady stalked over to lower herself creakily to her knees and lean over Aurora. “Is she all right?”

Aurora’s lashes fluttered, then her eyes opened wide. She looked around wildly until she found Zane. Reaching past her grandmother, she flung her arms around his neck.

And nearly strangled him. He didn’t care. He pulled her close, cupping the back of her head, pressing his cheek to hers. “I love you,” he muttered in front of everyone. Another thing he didn’t care about. “I love you, I love you.”

She pulled back. “What?”

He looked at her blankly. She hadn’t heard a thing he said. So he repeated it, mouthing the words slowly. “I. Love. You.”

She gave him her Aurora-grin. “I thought so. I just wanted you to say it again. Second wish just came true.”

“You’re yelling.”

“What?”

He laughed and climbed onto the sofa, where he drew Aurora into his lap. He was so giddy with relief, he had trouble focusing on the dwindling violence on the lawn. Bemused, he stared at Winnie McGowan. “How did you do that? Please explain to me what just happened.”

The old lady gave her hand to her husband, who helped her to her feet and shepherded her into the nearest chair. Maintaining her usual disciplined posture, she regarded Zane with eagle-eyed approval. “While you cowboys were shooting things out, I went upstairs for a cloak and Aurora’s pistol.” She frowned at Aurora. “I’m surprised at you, young lady. One never knows when a gun might be required at a dinner party.”

Aurora looked confused. “What?”

Mrs. Winnie shook her head. “Never mind. Then I went out through the cellar and slipped around the house and into the crowd. I knew Jones wouldn’t be able to resist insinuating himself into that mob. Nor would Alonzo Maney. So I simply watched for one or the other to make his appearance.” Her glance fell on Zane’s knuckles gently stroking Aurora’s cheek. “Didn’t count on Miss Sunshine here taking matters into her own hands.” The old woman shuddered. “We almost lost her.”

Zane tucked Aurora closer, wordless at the very thought.

“Where’s Joelle?” Aurora said loudly. “She was right behind me.”

“On the porch with Schuyler,” reported Kidd from the dining room, “dealing with Mr. Jefcoat and the marshal. They managed to get the crowd to disperse and go home.”

“The marshal? When did Pierce get here?” Recalled to his duty, Zane beckoned Bedelia. “Please, Deedee, take Pete upstairs and help her get bathed and put her to bed.” He looked at Aurora, letting her see his affection. “I don’t want to see you again until morning.”

She cupped a hand behind her ear. “I’m sorry I can’t—”

He kissed her, cutting off the apology, then said slowly, so that she could read his lips, “I love you. See you in the morning.”

She smiled and let him go.

Zane rose and followed the sound of voices to the front entryway. Shattered glass and splintered wood lay everywhere, and bullets had pierced the walls in several places. A massive clean-up operation would be necessary to get the place back in condition again, but he had no doubt his Aurora would be up to the task before long.

Only a small group remained in conversation on the porch—Pierce, Schuyler and Joelle, plus Spencer and a glassy-eyed Jefcoat. Zane noted the conspicuous absence of local law enforcement. No doubt they had been among the robed trespassers.

As Zane stepped outside, Schuyler saw him first. “How is Pete?”

“Deaf as a post, but otherwise as feisty as ever.” Zane addressed his boss. “Marshal, I did my best to control the violence. Do you think that crowd will stay gone for the night?”

Pierce eyed him with approval. “I’d say you did a good job of impressing them with what would be for their own good. By the time I got here, Beaumont had wrapped up the matter and sent them on their way.” He shook his head. “Mrs. McGowan is quite the virago. I think this bunch of cowards were afraid to cross her further after what she did to Jones. The militiamen have agreed to take shifts guarding the property for the rest of the night.”

Zane looked around and realized that what he’d thought were shadows of trees in the dark were armed sentries stationed at intervals around the house. “Huh. Then it’s over. Jones is dead.” Hardly able to make it seem real in his own head, he looked at Jefcoat. “I know you wanted him to come to trial, but—”

“I wanted him dead,” Jefcoat said flatly. “I would prefer to have killed him myself, but . . .” He hunched his shoulders, looking away. “I suppose you understand how I feel, Sager. Beaumont says you do.”

Zane didn’t answer. There had been a time when he certainly did understand the thirst for revenge. But now that Aurora had come into his life, everything was different.

He was different. Now he just had to convince her that was so.