Before the Dawn (28 page)

He grinned, then ran an admiring finger over her smooth dark cheek. “I would never beat you.”

“Never?”

“Ever.”

“Good. I'll never beat you either.”

“Good.” He ran his eyes over her unorthodox attire. “My shirt fits you well.”

They both knew that to be a lie, but Leah replied haughtily, “It's what all the fashionable women are wearing back East.”

Grinning down, he pulled her into his chest and held her close. With his heartbeat sounding against her ear, Leah said, “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why don't you ever address me by my name? You've called me many things, but never Leah.”

She looked up to gauge his reaction.

Ryder met her eyes and saw the seriousness reflected there. “You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“And you won't get angry and demand to be taken home?”

She shook her head.

“Leah's the name my father called you, am I correct?”

“Yes,”

“Well, I want you to be someone I name.”

“Why?”

“Purely selfish,” he replied, but this time there was no playfulness in his voice. “So I call you
Morenita
…”

“And it means?”

“Little dark lady.”

She smiled. She couldn't help it. It was a name she didn't mind wearing in the least. She placed her head back on his chest. “Thank you.”

He touched his lips to her forehead. “You're welcome.”

After a few moments of silent contentment, she told him quietly, “I should really be getting back to Eloise's you know.”

“I know. I was hoping you'd forget.”

She chuckled softly.

Ryder reached down and lifted her chin so he could look
into her eyes. “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“Here. Just like this.”

Leah realized she was half in love with this man already. Lord help her if the other shoe dropped. “I'd like that.”

“Good, I'll pick you up around, oh say, two in the afternoon.”

Puzzlement claimed her face. “Did you say dinner or lunch?”

“Dinner.”

“Then why so early?”

“Purely selfish.”

Amused, she shook her head. “Two it is, then.”

He slowly traced her lips, then kissed her so deeply, her world was still spinning when he left her for the shower.

On the ride back to Eloise's, Leah was glad it was night because no one would be able to see her rumpled dress or the other one she had balled up on the seat beside her. Both had been ruined during her lessons and she'd never be able to wear either of them again, but she didn't care. Leaning against Ryder's shoulder while he slowly drove the team through the dark countryside, she wished this day could go on forever.

He looked down, and asked, “What're you thinking?”

“How I wished the day wouldn't end.”

In the dark Ryder smiled. He'd been having the same thoughts. This dark jewel of a woman had given him a lot of pleasure this evening and not all of it in his bed. She was witty and intelligent, not to mention passionate. Being with her was making him view his world in different ways. Sam had been right; before meeting his
Morenita
, he wouldn't have cared one way or the other about Mable's plight. He'd have fixed himself a plate of food and proceeded back up
stairs. She was changing him somehow, and he wasn't sure if he knew how to be someone else.

When they reached Eloise's place the light in her studio was still burning. As Ryder walked Leah around to the back where Leah's cabin sat, he asked, “Any idea what Eloise is working on?”

“Haven't a clue, but she's been shut up in there for the past week or so.”

“Another masterpiece probably.”

Leah nodded. “Probably. Do you know that she talks to Alice?”

“Always has. Always will, I suppose. Seems harmless.”

“Well, here we are,” he said when they reached her door.

A twinge of sadness pricked Leah. “So we are.”

“I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Two o'clock. Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ryder.”

“You're welcome, and thank
you
.” He lifted her chin so he could place a kiss of sweet farewell on her lips. “Good night,
Morenita.
”

“Good night, Ryder.”

He waited for her to go in and light a lamp. Then he was gone.

 

Leah awakened the next morning to rain. Lying in bed, she listened to the rhythmic sound of the drops drumming against the roof. Her thoughts drifted to Ryder. What an evening. In spite of this being Sunday morning, she didn't think it wrong to recall how wonderful he'd made her feel. The idea of being able to see him today put a smile on her face. She chided herself for being so giddy, especially at her age, but she'd never been in a situation like this before, never had a man whisper
Morenita
in her ear or tell her how beautiful she was. This was all new.

However, as much as she'd have preferred to lie there all
day thinking only of Ryder, it was Sunday morning, and that meant church. She got up, bathed, and dressed. Donning the old oilskin slicker Eloise had loaned her for such occasions, she ran pell-mell through the downpour to the main house.

Eloise was already sequestered away in her studio, so Leah knocked on the door and called through the wood, “Eloise?”

Eloise yelled back. “Mornin', Leah. How are you?”

“Fine. No church this morning?

“'Fraid not. I'm working. I left you some sausages and grits on the cookstove. Help yourself.”

“Thank you. You coming out of there anytime soon?”

“Doesn't look like it's going to be today. Maybe tomorrow. You okay being by yourself?”

“Yes, ma'am. Ryder and I are having dinner later. He'll be by around two.”

“All right, dear, I'll see you when I do. Tell Ryder I say hello.”

“I will.”

So, that was that. Whatever Eloise was working on seemed to be taking up all of her time. Leah had never been around an artist before, but she supposed one had to seize creativity when it called. Maybe the two of them would get a chance to sit and visit tomorrow.

Going into the tiny kitchen, Leah fixed herself a plate of sausage and grits. She poured a cup of hot, black coffee, then went back out to the crochet-covered table in the front room to sit and eat. On the table's other chair lay several newspapers. Leah picked them up to read as she ate.

Denver had four daily newspapers and fifteen weeklies; only one of the weeklies, the Denver
Argus
, was published by and for members of the race. Founded by a Black man named Isaiah Mitchell, the paper was less than a year old. The first few items Leah read pertained to events and ser
vices at the area's two Baptist and one African Methodist Episcopal churches. Zion Baptist was celebrating Founder's Day at seven on Tuesday, and Shorter A.M.E. was soliciting donations of clothing for the less fortunate.

Farther down was some news everyone in Denver had been speculating upon. Andrew Green, a twenty-five-year-old Black man with roots in St. Louis had been arrested on May 24 and charged with the May 19 murder of a Denver streetcar operator. According to the report, the authorities had had no idea the suspect would be revealed as Black; they'd assumed the foul deed had been done by a White. As Leah read further, she learned that Green had been drunk in the notorious G.A.R. Saloon on Larimer Street, when he began boasting of his role in the shooting. Green was currently in jail awaiting trial.

Leah shook her head sadly and picked up one of the other papers. This one, a copy of the
Rocky Mountain News
, also carried news of the Green arrest in a large article on its front page. It read in part that because Green had no money, a White lawyer by the name of Edgar Caypless had agreed to take the case free of charge. Leah chose not to read more. The White papers rarely reported on the comings and goings of Blacks in the community unless there had been a major crime as in the Green incident, or unless some sensational racial event had occurred, so she scanned the rest of the pages for national news.

She stopped at an item on the Knights of Labor. She remembered reading about them on the train ride to Denver. It seemed the Knights and groups with similar goals were experiencing a drop in membership due to all the violence stemming from their continuing efforts to secure an eight-hour day. On May 3, a confrontation between police, strikers, and strikebreakers at Chicago's McCormick Harvesting Machine Company had resulted in the death of one person and the injury of many others. The next day, May 4, a rally
was held in Chicago's Haymarket Square to protest the brutal actions of the police. According to the
News
, the gathering stayed peaceful until the police arrived to disperse the crowd. A dynamite bomb was thrown. Seven policemen were killed, sixty others were injured. Although the authorities had no clue as to the bomber's identity, one of the rally leaders, August Spies, and seven others were charged with aiding the unknown murderer.

Leah put the papers away. Their reports were as dreary as the day.

Although it was Sunday, Ryder was in his office in town. He was also reading a paper: Cordelia Wayne's publication, the
Wayne Banner
. He'd never liked Cordelia. Under her cultured veneer she was manipulative, predatory, and if the current edition was any indication, not very smart. Under a small gossip column titled:
I'D LIKE TO KNOW
, she'd written:

Ryder tossed the paper aside, grabbed his slicker, and headed for the door. Six weeks ago, he'd have ignored this, but now he couldn't. He needed to pay Cordelia a visit.

It was still pouring rain when he drove up to the Waynes' mansion. His brother's fancy black carriage was tied up out front, but that didn't surprise him; Seth had been putting horns on Barksdale Wayne for nearly a year now. He sup
posed Cordelia was drawn to his brother's Creole good looks and prowess in bed because Cordelia loved money and Seth didn't have a dime.

At first, no one answered the door pull, but a few moments later, a tight-faced Cordelia snatched it open and froze at the sight of Ryder. He silently noted that she'd misbuttoned her blouse and that her hair appeared hastily fashioned.

“Barksdale isn't here,” she stated dismissively.

“I came to see you.”

After scanning his emotionless features, Cordelia slowly backed up and let him enter. The entrance hall, with its Victorian mirrors and paintings of landscapes, rivaled those seen in the homes of Denver's richest citizens. There was no denying Cordelia had taste, but he hadn't come here to compliment her on her decorating skills.

Carefully keeping her eye on Ryder, Cordelia called up the stairs. “Seth, your brother's here.”

Ryder had no idea why she chose to involve Seth, unless she felt threatened, and Ryder hoped she did. He had no plans to harm her physically; what he had in mind would be far more painful.

When his brother appeared at the top of the stairs, Ryder greeted him. “Good morning, brother.”

Seth's shirt was only partially buttoned. “What're you doing here?”

“I came to speak with Cordelia, but she seems to think you should be a party to the conversation.”

The cold amusement in Ryder's eyes made Cordelia ask impatiently, “What do you want?”

“Your printing presses, and maybe, this house.”

Her response was smug, “Well, you can't have them.”

“I'd like to know,”
he began pointedly, “what you expected would happen when I read that drivel in your paper?”

She stiffened.

From the top of the steps, Seth warned, “I told you not to print that bull about Leah, Cordelia. I told you.”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

She turned her icy glare on Ryder. “You can't tell me what I can or cannot print. My husband paid for those presses—”

“With money he borrowed from me.”

Her eyes went wide as saucers.

Ryder smiled coldly. “So you see, I
can
tell you what to print.”

He leaned close so there would be no mistake. “You will never, ever write about Leah Montague again. Even if she's seen brawling in her underwear in the middle of town. As far as you and your paper are concerned, she doesn't even live in Denver.” Her sullen and hostile face made him add, “Defy me, and it won't matter that you're a woman, Cordelia. I will crush you. I'll take your presses, his barbershop, and this house. Do you understand me?”

The anger in his face was strong enough to touch.

A disgusted Cordelia nodded.

Ryder looked up at his brother. They evaluated each other silently.

Then Seth called down cordially, “Leah's a hot little piece, isn't she?”

The words pierced Ryder like a lance in the back.

Seth showed a triumphant smile. “Taught her everything she knows.”

White-hot rage blazed across Ryder's vision. Urges both primitive and deadly flared inside.

As Seth chuckled, Ryder grabbed hold of himself and turned back to Cordelia. “I'll let myself out.” He ignored her smug smile as he headed back out into the rain.

Leah's a hot little piece, isn't she?
The words taunted Ryder as he drove away from the Wayne mansion.
Was that the reason she'd been so uninhibited with him last night?
She'd been a virgin the first time he'd taken her to his bed, but had she visited Seth's in between? He told himself Seth's boast had been nothing but a lie, nothing more than an attempt to get back at him, but what if Seth hadn't been lying? Had he really shared her kisses? Had she crooned for his brother the way she had for him? That the answer might be yes bothered him, no,
tormented
him. It made him want to go to her now and demand she tell him the truth about her past, her marriage, Seth—everything. In his present state, Ryder knew it made more sense to go home and cool off, but instead he turned the team toward Eloise's. He had to know.