Chapter One

What self-respecting Black man would participate in this bridal lottery tomfoolery? Caesar King was nothing if not a self-respecting Black man, especially now he was free.

“You’re buying a bride,” the former slave shouted from the back of the Frederick Douglass meeting hall. “Call it what you want, it’s still a slave auction.”

The room, filled with a mix of freeborn men and former slaves, hummed with anxious murmurs.

“You ain’t buying no one,” the mayor of Douglass shot back. “Slavery’s been done and gone near five years. These women are coming West of their own free will, looking for a fresh start.” He glared at Caesar. “That’s what you’re buying if you’re buying anything.”

Caesar sucked his teeth. Truth be told the Purity Patrol—a band of married women led by the mayor’s wife—ran off all the whores and now demanded the single men get married or go with them.

The town council—all husbands of the Purity Patrol—laid down an ultimatum: every man not married by year’s end must pay a hefty residence fee or leave.

“Uplifting the race.” Caesar snorted. “That’s a pretty face to put on this foolishness.”

The mayor waved Caesar off. “Pretty or not, our people have to make their mark on this land. Raising families is the way—in fact, the only way—to do it.”

A dark-skinned man rarely given to emotion, the mayor’s face brightened with earnestness as he gripped the podium.

“Folks, just ‘cause slavery is gone don’t mean hard times is gone too. If anything, newer harder times is here. Without federal support, the promises made after the War done gone like smoke scattered by the wind.”

Grumbling affirmation filled the hall from all present.

“We all knows,” the mayor continued, “the laws is made so White folks gets what they want. We gots to get what we can while we can. Once Whites see what we got, they’ll find a way to take it away or keep us from getting more.”

Caesar couldn’t argue. All the gains wrought after the War dwindled to nothing thanks to the administration of Andrew Johnson. The violence wreaked throughout the South on people of color had now seeped into parts of Texas as well. Only God knew how long the respite gained from coming West would last.

“Now we’ve named our town after Frederick Douglass, a man who fought long and hard for our race. It’s our turn to do like he did.” The mayor pounded the podium with his fist. “We must fight long and hard for ourselves.”

Shouts of amen and preach it spurred the mayor on. “Family is the one sure defense against a world that don’t want us to succeed. We’ve got to outlast our enemies and we won’t ‘less there’s more of us than there is of them.” He pointed to every unmarried man in the room. “You single men need to look to the future and settle down so our town can grow.”

The mayor’s wife, every bit as broad and black as he, stepped to his side. She pinned Caesar with a wrath-of-God glare and pointed in his direction.

“Widowers are no exception, Mr. King,” she said.

Caesar sucked his teeth and crossed his arms. If white-sheeted Knights of the White Camellia hadn’t succeeded in running him off, neither would the Purity Patrol.

A tap on his left shoulder blade turned him around.

“You know what they’re saying is right, Caesar.”

He uncrossed his arms and took off his hat in deference to the tiny, wiry woman speaking to him.

“Not moving on is a betrayal of the past,” Mother Maybelle Jenkins said. “Ain’t you still a young man?”

A gentle chiding colored her tone. The compassion in her gaze slayed his resentment.

“Thirty, ma’am.”

“You was only twenty five when you and Emma arrived here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shook her head. “Well, the Bible tells us it’s not good for a man to be alone. Emma and your boys been gone five years now.”

Caesar patted her hand gently. Five years. Where had the time gone? Seemed like only yesterday he’d placed flowers on their graves for the first time.

“Don’t let heart-hurt rule you.” Mother Maybelle cupped his cheek. “A race without children is a race without a future.”

Now ninety and herself a former slave, Mother Maybelle had lost all her family, first to the auction block during slavery and then to the violence perpetrated upon freed Blacks daring to claim their due. But despite her losses, she burned with a fire that refused to be snuffed out. That fire made her a person he respected, made her a person whose respect he wanted. If she saw merit in this scheme, perhaps marriage could be a way to uplift the race, not just allay married women’s insecurity. Perhaps it was time to begin again.

Of the men attending the meeting, thirty plunked down ten dollars for a chance at a wife. Twelve signed “I’m leaving” pledges. Caesar would do neither. His new beginning couldn’t be left up to chance, not now that staying took on a grander meaning.

Forty women arrived in June. Young, old, ex-slave and freeborn. Some widowed. Some with children. Some mere children themselves. Once introduced, each woman shared her hopes and wants. The lottery gave them three months to be courted and become brides or accept a return ticket back home. Moving as their stories were, Caesar knew he’d done right to go his own way. He’d advertised back East for a new wife. His ad, short and to the point, stated his goal:

Freed man seeking woman to partner in marriage for at least two years in the black town of Douglass, Texas. Must be willing and able to help establish a legacy. Marital relations as necessary. Love neither required nor sought.

Only desperate females who couldn’t string two words together had answered. Not that he was looking for conversation, but he’d had a prize in his Emma and nothing less than another prize would do. Finally, he received a missive that gave him hope he’d found his match.

He’d held her envelope beside the flickering glow of a kerosene lamp and studied the handwriting. The elegant strokes bespoke education. The grade of paper used signaled either someone of means or at least someone intent on making a good impression. Two marks in her favor.

His eyebrows raised, however, as his gaze lingered over the Q imprinted in the wax seal holding the envelope shut. Another sign of quality…maybe too much quality. Why would a woman of obvious education and means be willing to brave the hardships of life out West as an ex-slave’s mail order bride?

With grave ceremony, he withdrew, unfolded, and then read the letter.

Dear Mr. King,

My name is Queen Esther Payne. I read your ad and found your inquiry both refreshing and intriguing. I stand five feet six and weigh one hundred forty pounds. All of my six brothers will attest that I am no wallflower and do not fear hard work. Also as I come from one of the most respectable families on Lombard Street, my Philadelphian stock guarantees I have the ability and the requisite knowledge to help you establish a legacy in Douglass. I can commit to the two years you require, provided the marital relations are limited to the “as necessary” stated in your ad. I am willing to negotiate if more than two years are required.

I have only had relations with women, so you need not fear I will fall in love with you. Thus your “love neither required nor sought” dictum proves no obstacle. However, my woman-loving-woman proclivities may disqualify me in your eyes. If so, I await your refusal. If not, I anticipate your proposal.

Sincerely,

Queen Esther Payne.

Caesar read and reread the line again.

I have only had relations with women, so you need not fear I will fall in love with you.

His Emma had only known women too until she united with him. Could fate be so kind as to smile upon him twice? If so, Queen Esther Payne would fill the bill. He pulled a sheaf of foolscap from the desk drawer and penned his answer.

Dear Miss Payne,

Your relations with women make you my ideal partner. I am not interested in love, just legacy. Anything else can be negotiated. As long as your physicality truly allows you to work my spread as hard as I, you will be compensated generously for your time. Telegraph your arrival date, and I will have a reverend to marry us that very day. I look forward to two productive years for us both.

Sincerely,

Caesar King

The first week in September, Caesar encountered Mrs. Mayor and Mother Maybelle as he entered the local mercantile. Mrs. Mayor wagged a finger in his face and scowled. “Time is passing, Mr. King, and you’re still single.”

“Not for much longer.” He pulled a telegram from his pocket and handed it to her.

Will arrive around midday September 14th.—Queen

Caesar grinned as he took the paper back from the astonished woman, silently thanking God for the chance to slap her off her high horse.

“Queen?” Mrs. Mayor sniffed. “I hope she’s the paragon her name proclaims.”

She stalked off, nose in the air, but not as high as usual Caesar noted with no little amount of satisfaction. He savored the moment and pondered—not for the first time—what the attraction between her and her husband was.

He read the telegram for Mother Maybelle. Her weathered face smoothed around a grin. She clapped her hands.

“Thanks be to God. I’m proud of you, Caesar.”

He inhaled her praise and smiled. “I’ve arranged for Reverend Warren to marry us the day she arrives.”

Mother Maybelle gave him a kiss that further warmed his heart and his spirit.

“Send word, and I’ll be a witness for you.” She squeezed his forearm. “May your new beginning be fruitful and full of love.”

He grimaced, her words more a wounding than a blessing. He wanted the beginning to be fruitful, but not full of love. He gazed upon the telegram in his hands. Would attraction develop between him and Queen despite their “love neither required nor sought” agreement? And if it did—despite their best intentions—then what?

****

Queen Esther Payne arrived at noon on September fourteenth and proved to be a paragon indeed.

Caesar gawked at the copper-toned Amazon who emerged from the stagecoach like royalty descending from a throne.

Queen. Her name definitely suited. Only Cleopatra could have fit better. Maybe Sheba.

The afternoon sunlight crowned her with rays of gold. Kinky black ringlets covered her head, declaring she had a Nubian pride befitting the woman he’d want to wed. She used her bonnet to fan away dirt dusted up by the stagecoach’s departure. Her twisting and turning revealed an hourglass waist above curvaceous hips.

At his approach, her eyebrow curved over a gaze brimming with criticism. “Caesar King?”

He removed his hat and extended his hand in greeting. “At your service, Queen.”

She donned her hat and examined him with that regal air. “Miss Payne, if you please. You may call me Queen after the nuptials.” She finished tying her hat’s long ribbons beneath her chin. “Although, even then, I’d prefer Mrs. King.”

“You don’t say?” He chuckled, taking her measure from head to foot. “Well, Miss Payne it is…for now.”

She filled her face with a frown. “I don’t appreciate being examined like some newly purchased cow, Mr. King.”

He pulled back. Amusement wrestled with annoyance. “I’m making sure you measure up, Miss Payne.”

“Pray, to what criteria?” She shoved her valise against his chest. Caesar grunted, surprised but pleased by her strength.

She crossed her arms, causing her lovely bosom to swell. “I doubt there’s a standard for marriages of convenience.”

He inhaled against the pull of desire throbbing in his privates. “The same criteria as you, I suspect—my own self-worth and what I deserve.” He dropped the bag at her feet. “So, by that token, I don’t appreciate being treated like some fetch-and-carry boy.”

She lowered her gaze. But for the set of her jaw, he’d have taken the gesture for an apology.

He leaned forward and whispered, “If you ask me nicely, I’d gladly carry your bag.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t need to be asked.” Her tone dripped with disdain. “A gentleman would simply take it.”

“I do many things, Miss Payne.” He pushed up the brim of his hat and grinned, fired up by the hazel flame sparking in her eyes. “Pretending to be a gentleman doesn’t number among them.”

She firmed her full lips into a thin, angry line. “But you do aspire to establish a legacy—like a gentleman would.”

“If marrying you to leave a legacy makes me a gentleman, then I must agree. Although, your letter made it clear you weren’t looking for a gentleman. In fact, if you had your way, you wouldn’t be looking for a man at all…gentlemanly or otherwise.”

She responded with a slight rise in her eyebrows.

He thumbed over his shoulder. “Our marriage carriage awaits.”

He sauntered toward his wagon, not surprised to find when he looked back, her highness hadn’t moved. But uncertainty colored her imperiousness and rippled in her frown.

“The stagecoach back East isn’t due until midday tomorrow,” he shouted.

“Hmmpf.” She turned her back on him, presenting a bustle-less skirt that outlined a behind, round and ripe for his inspection.

He huffed out a breath, cupped his hands and shouted again.

“We’ve a minister waiting…if you’re staying.”

Of course, she was staying. She’d never have agreed to marry him if she’d had another choice. Philadelphia’s Lombard Street, a bastion of black privilege it may be, had only one place for a daughter of Lesbos who wouldn’t marry: the insane asylum. Marriage to him here in the West was her last—and probably only—refuge.

She stalked toward him. Her bag made her lean to the side, forcing her hips to rock in a salacious sway. He enjoyed the sight too much to repeat his offer to carry the satchel for her.

As she neared him, the words of the apostle Paul rang in Caesar’s ears.

I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I. But if they cannot contain, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn.

Burn? Try blaze. Their couplings would be for sexual release or procreation, not emotional satisfaction. He closed his eyes and reminded himself of the terms he’d set for their arrangement.

Marital relations as necessary. Love neither required nor sought.

Images of Queen in his bed, naked, moaning and receptive, set his pulse galloping. “As necessary” suddenly took on a limiting quality he now dreaded. And to his surprise, his heartstrings stirred. While neither required nor sought, love had raised its ugly head.

Queen thumped the bag into the wagon bed. She smoothed her jacket and came round to the front of the wagon. He moved to help her up, but she pulled back as if he’d offered her a rattlesnake.

“You said you were no gentleman.”

He bowed. “Beg pardon, Miss Payne. I plum forgot.”

After a few tries, she finally heaved herself onto the wagon bench. Caesar chuckled as he watched, not the least bit tempted to offer assistance. Once settled, she scowled down at him from her perch.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mock me.”

“I thought only the devil had the kind of pride that couldn’t bear mocking?”

She gaped wide-eyed at him. “How does an ex-slave know to quote Sir Thomas More?”

“Same as a freeborn person. I was willing to learn, and someone taught me.”

“Touché.” She pressed her lips together and stared before her.

“Yes. Touché or, as the bard wrote, ‘A palpable hit.’”

He laughed when her jaw dropped. “Yes, Miss Payne. I’m familiar with Shakespeare too. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable, but pleasantly intrigued, Mr. King,” she answered, her gaze still on the horizon.

Damn the woman. This sparring excited him as much as her body aroused him. He shook his head and ambled over to the other side of the wagon. If she proved as thrilling when his cock lay imbedded inside her, things did not bode well for theirs remaining a simple quid-pro-quo arrangement.

“Hold tight, Miss Payne.” He climbed aboard and took the reins. “The road ahead is uneven and might toss you out of your seat.”

“Thank you for the warning, Mr. King, but I’ll be fine.” That angry eyebrow curved again. “Shall we?”

He snapped the reins. “Hyah, Rex.”

The wagon lurched forward toward the edge of town where Reverend Warren awaited.

Caesar firmed his lips to stifle his smirk. She sat schoolmarm prim and proper, but she didn’t have him fooled. The tremor in her stiff upper lip disclosed that Miss High-and-Mighty Payne burned as much as he did.

He looked forward to putting her fire out.