“Some of them Indians kept slaves the same as everyone else,” Jackson says, his words clipped. “Ain’t a single body in this entire cursed country that didn’t have a hand in trying to own the African.”
I shake my head, because neither the words nor the tone beneath them sound like the Jackson I know. But I got bigger problems than a bit of proselytizing. “I don’t think the Duchess or Sallie will care about going to a Negro town,” I say, deftly changing the subject. I’m pretty sure Sallie and Nessie are sweet on each other, and the Duchess was one of the few allies I had in Summerland. Gideon and Ida are both in the wind, and while I hope they made it out of Summerland safely I can’t worry about that just yet. I still haven’t saved my own miserable hide.
Jackson shrugs. “Maybe not, but we really should head east. If we skip Nicodemus altogether, we’ll have a better chance of getting to the Mississippi, and from there we can go anywhere, quickly and safely.”
“But there are Miss Preston’s girls in Nicodemus,” I say. “Sue might still be there. And Ida and the Summerland Negro patrols were planning to make their way there. If Nicodemus is crowded or compromised, we have to find them and let them know. They’ll want to come along with us. And there’s safety in numbers, especially when they know how to put down the dead.”
Katherine crosses her arms, and a look I recognize all too well comes over her face. Jackson is about to get an earful. “Jane is right. Our friends are in Nicodemus, Jackson. There is no way we could abandon them like that. It’s unconscionable.”
Jackson presses his lips together. “Since when do you have friends?” he asks me.
“What, you think there ain’t anyone I care about more than you in this world?” I shoot back. “Don’t forget why we’re in Kansas in the first place.”
“Fine,” he says, hightailing it toward the wagon.
Katherine and I exchange a glance.
“What got into him?” she asks.
I shrug, and jog to catch up to where Jackson is stopping the wagon.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
—1 Corinthians 13:4–8
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 2
Notes on a Broken Heart
Once the wagon is stopped, Jackson, or Red Jack as Jane sometimes refers to him, addresses the group. It is easy to see he is uncomfortable. There is a reason he avoided the discussion of Nicodemus, and even though it is not immediately clear, I believe it has something to do with Jane. His gaze skips over her as he surveys our group, like whatever the boy is about to say is something that she will not want to hear. It is curious, and, like Jane, I want to know just what is going on.
But his nerves are catching, and I press in at my sides, trying to find some security in the relaced corset. The familiar panic is still there, just as it always is, right below the surface. I take a deep breath and recite Scripture in my mind to distract myself from the feeling.
Jackson shifts his weight a couple of times, and we all watch him warily, except for the little Spencer boy, who is fast asleep in the Madam’s lap. Red Jack takes off his hat, and I know for a fact I have never seen him look this unsure of himself. Granted, we have not been long acquainted, but even while we were on that miserable train ride west, a consequence of an overzealous investigation into affairs that did not concern us, he still looked like he was out on a lark. This is a different Jackson, and he chews on his words, as though weighing them carefully will somehow make them more palatable. “We ain’t headed to Nicodemus.”
Jane and I exchange a glance. She shrugs. I twist my hands in my skirt, as though the material can absorb the anxiousness I am feeling. My only comfort right now is the knowledge that Jane has no more of a clue as to what is happening than I do.
The Madam—I refuse to refer to her as the Duchess; it is a ridiculous nickname—pushes her red hair out of her face and adjusts her grip on the little Spencer boy. “Then just where is it that we’re headed? Jane said Nicodemus was our best bet.” Her face still bears the bruising of Sheriff Snyder’s wrath, and a fiery rage swells within my breast, pushing back the panicky feeling. I would never tell Jane this because her penchant for violence does not need any encouragement, but I am glad she killed him. That man deserved to die.
I hold close to my anger, because it is a much more welcome feeling than the fear that some terrible thing waits just around the bend.
Jane crosses her arms, Sheriff Snyder’s hat, now her hat, pulled low over her eyes. “It is our best bet, but Jackson thinks we should head east to Fort Riley.”
One of the other soiled doves, a white girl named Sallie with long, dark brown hair and a defensive jut to her jaw, crosses her arms. “That makes sense to me. Fort Riley is on the way to the Mississippi, and we could go anywhere from there. We should find the Big Muddy and try to head up north before winter gets on. One of my weekly callers heard tell of an enclave up around Saint Paul. Hardly any dead up that way, and they say Fort Snelling is big and strong enough that those who can get there won’t have to worry about anything.”
Nessie, a colored girl a bit darker than Jane with mournful eyes, frowns. “What’s wrong with Nicodemus?”
“Nothing, if you’re a fan of those temperance biddies,” Sallie says, her expression going stormy. “They’re all about respectability in Nicodemus. They like to say they survive by being a better class of people. It’s not as if I think Negroes ain’t good people or nothing, but those folks in Nicodemus make a big deal about it. No drink, no whoring, no swearing. It’s like a town made of a church.”
I look to Jackson. “Is that true? Is that why you want to go east?” I cannot keep the edge out of my voice. I get the sense there is something he still is not telling us, and I despise secrets.
Nothing good ever comes of withholding the truth.
“Sallie is right, Nicodemus is a bit . . . restrictive.” It is not an answer, and it is a vexing response to say the least. “And it’s not nearly as safe as Fort Riley. I’m not putting Lily in danger again, if I can help it.”
“Hey! I can defend myself,” she says, cheeks going ruddy. “I’ve been taking care of me and Thomas for months. Don’t treat me like a baby.”
Like me, Lily is light enough to pass. It was looking for her that got Jane, Jackson, and me carted off to Summerland in the first place. She is a plucky girl, and seeing her gives me some idea of just how Jackson and Jane fit together. Jane says the two of them are no longer an item, but I see the way her expression softens when she glances in his direction. And I saw that kiss he gave her outside Summerland. Jane might deny it, but she has a soft heart, and one too easily given, in my opinion. Her love affairs were a constant source of conversation at Miss Preston’s School of Combat for Negro Girls, although to hear Jane tell it she was as discreet as they come.
“It seems to me making a beeline for Fort Riley only makes sense if you think there’s somewhere to lay on for supplies along the way,” Jane says, crossing her arms. “If it’s further than we can walk in a day or two we’re setting ourselves up for trouble, especially in this miserable heat. Just how far you think the lot of us is going to get without food or clean water?”