Before the Dawn (3 page)

Leah had no plans to stay perched on the edge of the car forever. “Cecil for heaven's sake, hop down, it's no more than a foot or so.”

“You folks need some help?”

Leah looked up into the coal black eyes of the handsomest, most exotic brown-skinned man she'd ever seen. He was dressed no differently from the other gentlemen passengers but the black waterfall of hair flowing freely over the shoulders of his tailored, Chesterfield coat made him commandingly unique. Tall and muscular, he appeared to be of mixed ancestry. The hair was undoubtedly Indian, but the strong, proud features bore the stamp of African ancestry.

Realizing she'd been staring like a transfixed rube at a fair, she hastily settled her eyes elsewhere just as Cecil replied, “It appears as if we might. Our steps haven't been brought around.”

“Well, how about we hand you down first, and then the lady?” Although the man had spoken to Cecil, his dark eyes were on Leah.

A bit flustered by his attention, Leah turned her gaze to
his companion, an older, gray-haired man dressed in a fine, dark suit and long gray coat. His ready smile seemed to steady her.

Sounding grateful, Cecil replied, “That would be appreciated.”

Each man took hold of one of Cecil's elbows and eased him the short distance to the ground.

When it became Leah's turn, her pulses raced as the long-haired man stepped up, placed his large hands on her waist, and lifted her free of the platform. He brought her down slowly, so slowly their eyes mingled and the heat of their bodies touched. The aura in him was so overwhelming that a few moments passed before she realized she was standing on firm ground again. Gathering her senses, she stammered, “Th-thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he replied, his interest in her quite obvious.

More flustered than ever, she sought to calm herself by fussing with her big, feather-edged hat and straightening the hem of her matching blue traveling costume. It didn't work. She could still feel the warm pressure of his strong yet gentle hold on her waist.

“Do you have luggage you need to retrieve also?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head “We're just going to stretch our legs, then travel on to Denver.”

The older man interrupted by declaring in a pleased-sounding voice, “Why, that's where we're headed. You visiting?”

Finding it hard to pull away from the other man's powerful gaze, Leah replied, “Uh, no. Cecil and I are going there to settle my late husband's affairs. They both lived there a while back.”

The elderly man said, “I'm sorry for your loss. When did he pass?”

“Almost two weeks ago,” Leah responded.

Cecil took the initiative and stuck out his hand in greeting. “Name's Cecil Lee.”

“Sam Waters,” the old man said with a smile.

As the two men shook hands, Leah saw that Sam's companion seemed to be staring at Cecil in a curious yet ominous way.

Finally, the younger man asked, “You aren't the same Cecil Lee who once worked for Louis Montague, are you?”

Cecil hesitated for a brief second, then answered, “Yes, I am.”

In response, everything about the man seemed to alter: his jaw hardened, his eyes glittered dangerously, and he drawled caustically, “So, Satan's Butler has returned.”

Cecil stiffened in turn.

Leah stilled and stared at the man
Satan's Butler
? Who was he?

“Is he dead yet?”

Cecil's chin rose in anger. Leah noted that Sam Waters had grown visibly grim.

“Yes,” Cecil finally managed to reply. “Louis Montague is dead. Who are you?”

The man didn't reply. Instead, he turned to Leah and beheld her with a such a wintry glare gooseflesh ran up the back of her neck. “And you are?” he asked coolly.

Leah didn't care for the mordant change in his manner nor his rude questioning of Cecil. “Leah Montague.”

“Montague?” For a moment he seemed surprised by her reply. He studied her as if trying to discern the truth. “What are you, a long-lost daughter?” The deadly sarcasm in his voice reflected in his eyes.

Leah's dark chin rose in anger. “No, I'm his widow, and how dare you refer to Cecil as Satan's Butler.”

“As your
bastard stepson
,” he whispered vehemently, “I'll refer to him any damn way I please.”

Leah's heart stopped.

Cecil's eyes went round. “Ryder?” he gasped. “Ryder Damien? Songbird's son?”

Confirming Cecil's deduction with a tight nod, the man called Ryder replied bitterly, “Yes, I'm Ryder. I'm surprised you remember my given name. My father certainly didn't.”

“He remembered you,” Cecil countered quietly. “He left you and your brother the Faith Mine.”

“He left me nothing,” he spat.

Cecil appeared shaken by this encounter. “But—”

“Why are you here?”

Cecil replied, “Louis wanted me to find his sons.”

“Why? The thought of hell make him want to make amends?”

Leah stepped up. She'd decided she didn't like this man at all. “No, but he wanted you to know how sorry he was for running out the way he did.”

“It's a little late for that. Besides, I don't want anything from him. Seth will though—he won't care. He has no shame.”

His icy gaze settled on Leah once more, and it chilled her a January wind. She'd no idea what he might be thinking, but the anger hardening the chiseled planes of his brown face showed plainly. He asked then, “Did you know you were married to a man twice charged with murder?”

Leah's surprised eyes told all.

“No? Well, ask Mr. Lee. He does.”

In the tense, thick silence that followed, his eyes continued to hold Leah's. For one brief second, she thought she saw regret there but couldn't be sure. A moment later, he nodded at Sam, and they both walked away. Leah's heart was pounding so loudly she couldn't speak. When she turned to Cecil, he was staring at their retreating backs as if he'd seen a ghost.

 

“You were pretty rough on her,” Sam said to Ryder once they were out of ear shot.

“She deserved the truth.”

“Not like that. A feather could've knocked her over.”

Ryder didn't respond.

“Do you think she married him for his money?”

“What do you think?” Ryder replied bluntly. In his mind there could be no other reason for such a dark beauty to have married a man old enough to be her father. She wasn't even wearing the traditional widow's black.

“I think, I wish I had his money,” Sam answered.

Ryder allowed himself a sarcastic smile and determinedly put his father's widow out of his mind. “Let's get our bags aboard and find something to eat. We have an hour until the train pulls out.”

 

Leah walked over to the visibly shaken Cecil leaning against the car. “Are you all right?”

While Leah looked on with concern, he remained silent for a few moments longer, as if lost in thought. When he finally met her eyes, he quoted grimly, “And so it begins.”

Leah, still in a state of shock herself, asked, “What did he mean by murder charges? That isn't true, is it?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

“Cecil?”

He reached over and patted her hand. “Don't worry, Louis never murdered anyone.”

“Then why did he say that?”

“Because at the time some folks in Denver believed he had.”

He surveyed the surprise on her face, then slowly, seemingly wearily, got to his feet. “Come, let's go eat, and I'll explain.”

Leah wanted an explanation now, but held on to her
questions—the biggest one being: What had she gotten herself into?

There wasn't a place near the station that would allow Blacks to enter and eat inside. However, one café did let them order at the back door and take their luncheon with them. Leah knew being angry about the discriminatory treatment meant nothing to anyone who was not of the race, so she offered a brittle smile of thank-you to the woman cashier.

The grassy field behind the small eating establishment held a few weathered benches upon which they could sit, and it was a beautiful day, so Leah sat down with Cecil. A few other Black passengers had sought refuge here, too, and were eating and talking in pairs and small family groups. Leah unwrapped the brown paper from her ham sandwich. The first bite confirmed the staleness of the bread, but there didn't appear to be any mold, and the meat tasted fresh. The lemonade they'd purchased held only the faintest hint of lemon, but it was cold and did a fine job of washing down the dry lunch.

“So, start from the beginning,” she prompted Cecil.

Cecil looked up a bit wounded. “Don't I even get to eat?”

“No.”

He gave her an indulgent smile and shook his head. “You know, you're getting more like your mother every day.”

“Thank you.”

Cecil knew Leah well enough to know she wasn't being deliberately disrespectful; she just wanted an explanation, an explanation Leah thought she rightly deserved in light of the startling encounter with Monty's younger son.

In the end, Cecil took a couple of bites from his sandwich, washed them down with some lemonade, then said, “Okay, but I have to start at the very beginning, or you may not understand how Louis turned into the man folks in Colorado called Satan Montague.”

Leah still found that name hard to fathom but nodded for him to go ahead.

Cecil's tale began with Monty's childhood as the eldest son of Emile Montague, a French Louisiana planter and his blue-eyed octoroon mistress, a slave named Faith. Like many of the sons of such unions, Monty was sent to France for schooling in order to circumvent the segregation in the South. When his father died, Monty was manumitted, but the estate went to his two legitimate sons.

“He got nothing?” Leah asked.

“Nothing. Louis said he was mentioned in the will only once.”

“In what way?”

“To my son, Louis Montague, I leave my best wishes and the hope that the education he has been provided will be enough.”

“And that was it?”

Cecil nodded.

“Was he bitter about not inheriting?”

“Very much so. His mother had led him to believe he would be treated like the legitimate sons, but he wasn't.”

“So what did he do?”

“Went west in the late forties and staked out a claim in the California gold fields. He was determined to make himself more wealthy than his père had ever been. It took him only two years.” Leah's surprise must have shown on her face because he added, “There are legends about men who can sense gold. Louis turned out to be one of those legends. He could look at a stream and tell if there was gold in the sediment just by the face of the rocks around it. Most amazing gift I'd ever seen.”

“Where'd you two meet?”

“In those same gold fields. Personally, I couldn't find gold if you led me to a lode,” he added, chuckling, “but I could do numbers, so I kept records for the men who
couldn't read or write. Louis and I became good friends, and when he left California I tagged along.” Cecil paused for a moment, then said, “I was born dirt poor in Louisiana. I'd heard about the fancy, educated Creole men of New Orleans, but had never met one until Louis. He could speak French, Italian, Latin. He was the smartest man I'd ever met. I suppose I was flattered that he even tolerated my presence.”

“Where'd you two go after California?”

“Headed east to Colorado, where he bought timber, land, and controlling interests in a number of mines. After that, he built the fanciest house around, then sent off to Louisiana for an even fancier Creole wife.”

Leah looked on in disbelief. “Please don't tell me he was still married to her while he and my mother were together?”

“No. Bernice died about a year and a half after their son, Seth, was born. Many believed Monty killed her, although it was never proven.”

“What?”

He nodded sadly.

Leah had to know. “Now, I heard you say he wasn't a murderer, but is that the truth?”

“Yes, it is. Louis was capable of many things in those days…” His voice trailed off as if he were remembering the past. “…Many things, but murdering his wife, no. When she became truly ill, the doctors he brought in from Denver thought she might've been poisoned, but they had no real way of knowing. She died a long, painful death.”

“But why blame Monty?”

“Because everyone in town knew the arranged marriage wasn't a happy one. Bernice hated the mountains and everything connected with them, and voiced her displeasure as publicly and as often as she could.”

“My goodness. How did Monty react?”

“Badly. He began spending less and less time at home
and more and more time acquiring profit. Maybe he used it as a substitute for the love Bernice refused to show him, I don't know, but I do know he drove his mine and timber workers like mules. He was as rich as Midas in those days.”

Leah, more accustomed to the menial jobs and wages of the folks she knew at home, found Monty's wealth hard to believe. “But how could a member of the race accumulate such wealth?”

“By not declaring himself a member of the race. To the bankers and men he did business with, Louis Montage was a blue-eyed Frenchman from Louisiana, and I, his dark-skinned valet. If they suspected his true ancestry, it was never discussed within Louis's hearing. They didn't even seem to mind him opening up some of his land to Black homesteaders as long as his business deals continued to line their pockets with gold dust.”

Leah was admittedly confused. How could a man some thought guilty of poisoning his wife be the same one who'd taught her to ice-skate and make crepes? “This is all very confusing, Cecil.”

“I know.”

“What happened to the baby, Seth, after his mother died? Did Monty raise him?”