Wild Sweet Love by Beverly Jenkins
Chapter 6
After leaving his mother at the church, Madison headed to the bank. Thoughts of Teresa continued to dog him. Common sense said no man with the sense God gave a goat would be attracted to such an outlandish woman. He understood being attracted to her spirit, but she lacked the ladylike qualities he’d always been partial to in the women he’d pursued in the past. Teresa had no polish at all, yet he couldn’t get the feel of her or the kiss out of his mind, and as insane as he knew it might make him sound, he wanted to do it again; this time leisurely, so he could take the time to explore her and taste her in depth. Would she bring that fire to a man’s bed? That question grabbed him, and he forced his mind to a halt before he could contemplate an answer. The jury was in. He’d lost his mind. He’d gone from kissing her to fantasies of bedding her. Again he asked himself why, and the answer was: She intrigued him way more than he cared to admit.
Madison spent the first part of his morning talking to his secretary, Tate, and getting caught up on what had transpired during his absence. According to Tate, a dozen new people had opened accounts, and all expected loan payments had arrived on time.
Tate added, “And the night watchman you hired has had nothing to report so far.”
The man’s name was Solomon. He’d been a pugilist at one time in his life, and had come highly recommended by his friend Ben Norton. No news was good news, Madison liked to think. Maybe Richards had been bluffing all along, but he planned to keep Solomon around just in case.
“There were a few fires while you were away. A small hat shop over on Pine and a grocery a few doors down.”
Madison didn’t like hearing that. As the president of the Seventh Ward Negro Business Association, he knew that all businesses, large and small, were vital to the ongoing economic health of the ward. “Was anyone injured?”
“No, but the fire department is investigating. They think the fires were deliberately set.”
“Arson?”
“Apparently. The hat shop was torched first and the grocery two nights later.”
“Sounds like a topic for the association meeting tomorrow evening. Maybe someone has more information. When were the fires?”
“Last week.”
Madison mused over what he’d heard. “Okay. Anything else I need to know?”
“No, sir. That’s all.
When Mrs. Nance returned from church later that afternoon, a very tired Teresa was seated in the gazebo. The wood she’d cut earlier was neatly stacked inside the barn.
Molly joined her on the bench. “How’d the chopping go?”
“Just fine. I probably won’t be able to lift my arms in the morning, but the activity felt good.” She figured it would take another couple of days to get it all done, but she enjoyed the way the work made her muscles sing. Over the past few weeks, in addition to all her lady lessons, she’d been doing yard work, beating rugs, and mopping floors, but none of those chores made her feel this good.
“Tired you out, did it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Legs are as sore as my arms.”
“You did too much.”
“Probably, but I’ll live. How were things at the church?”
“Good. We ladies are trying to start a social hour for the city’s unmarried domestics. Many are young and with no family in town. We hope bringing them together on their days off will foster some friendships and offer them an opportunity to let their hair down.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“I think so too. If it’s successful, we may do it on a regular basis.” Mrs. Nance then changed the subject. “Madison said you two spoke?”
“We did.”
“Did you settle your differences?”
“I suppose. We didn’t fight, if that’s what you’re asking, so I guess it went all right.” Teresa tried not to think about what he’d said about kissing her; she still had a hard enough time keeping last night’s dream out of her head.
“Glad to hear it. As you’ve probably guessed, my son is very successful with women, but I reminded him that you are not here to become one of his conquests.”
Teresa was embarrassed. “I appreciate that.”
Molly patted her affectionately on the arm. “Good. Now go up and soak yourself in the tub so you won’t be stiff later. No more wood chopping today.”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“And so?”
“Never took a bath in the middle of the day.”
“Today you will. We are fortune enough to have hot water whenever we like. Take advantage of it.”
Teresa smiled. “If you insist.”
Molly’s eyes were bright. “I do.”
After her bath, Teresa went downstairs. As she cut through the kitchen where Emma was preparing dinner, the cook said, “A crate came for you. It’s by the front door.”
Puzzled, Teresa thanked her then went to investigate.
Sure enough, a large crate sat by the door. The post label on the top showed it had been sent by her sister-in-law, Olivia. Mrs. Nance fetched a crowbar, and Teresa pried off the top. The first thing she saw was folded black leather. Excited, she snatched it up, shook out the folds, and the sight of the leather trousers made her crow, “Hallelujah!” She did a little jig and held the leathers against her heart. “Olivia, I love you!”
A further search turned up two pairs of boots, both new; some men-cut flannel shirts that she could have used that morning while chopping wood; a small velvet box that held all the ear bobs she’d had to leave behind when she left for prison; three pairs of Levi’s denims; and other articles of clothing like socks, bandannas, and nightgowns. At the bottom of the crate, wrapped in one of Olivia’s monogrammed tea towels, was Teresa’s Colt. Beneath it lay her gun belt and a box of cartridges.
She picked up the gun. The familiar sight and weight of it in her hand brought on bittersweet memories. Moved, she placed a soft kiss against the shiny barrel, then looked over at Mrs. Nance, who was now very quiet and still. Teresa wrapped the gun up again and handed it and its ancillary items to her. “You should put these away somewhere. I’ll get them back when the time comes for me to head home. And if it’s all right with you, I’d like to get some target practice in every now and again. Never know when I may need to protect myself or you, and right now, my gun hand’s pretty rusty.”
“I’ll place them in the safe.”
Teresa nodded. “That’s fine.”
“Why would she send a gun?”
“Because it belongs to me and she knows that eventually I’ll be coming home. A woman traveling alone is not always respected.”
“I see.”
Teresa looked into Molly’s eyes. “Please don’t think I’d ever turn it on you, because I never would. Ever.”
“Thanks for the reassurance.”
“You were worrying, I could tell.”
“I was.”
“Well, don’t. You’ve treated me like kin. Julys don’t shoot their kin.”
Mrs. Nance smiled. “Come, I’ll show you the safe.”
“I don’t need to know where it is. Probably make you more comfortable if I don’t. I know it’ll make your son feel better.”
Molly studied her for a long moment. “You’re a rare individual, Teresa.”
“No ma’am. I’m just a July.”
Madison was reviewing a loan application from one of the churches when Tate stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Watson is here. He’s anxious to speak with you.”
“Send him in.” Charles Watson had been a good friend of Madison’s father, Reynolds. In the seventies and eighties Watson had owned one of the city’s finest catering businesses. Now, because of Jim Crow and America’s fascination with French cuisine, his business and the businesses of other prominent Negro caterers handled mostly segregated affairs.
“I’m being threatened,” Watson said as he entered the office, the look on his burly gray-bearded face conveying his anger.
“By whom?”
“Bunch of young hooligans from a ward club down the street.”
Madison gestured him to a seat. “Did they threaten you personally, your property, your family?”
“All of those unless I sign up with the protection service they say they’re offering because of last week’s fires.”
“When was this?”
“Last night just before I closed up.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Yes, and was told they can’t do anything until a crime is committed.”
“Had you seen these men before?”
He nodded. “Yes. They’re usually hanging around the doors of the club when I open in the morning and when I close up at night. Most of them are Richards’s toughs.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes, but of course he claims to have no knowledge of the men or the scheme, but everyone knows that those yahoos don’t spit on the street without his approval.”
Madison recalled his own conversation with Richards. Ruffians of all races were in the employ of the city’s political bosses. With monies provided by the party, the gangs bought votes and ferried in ringers to the voting polls. The men were usually the shiftless and dishonest from the underbelly of society. “Has anyone else been offered this so-called protection?”
“Most of the owners near my restaurant have all been approached. Many are afraid. Me, I’m just angry.”
“Let’s talk about this at the meeting tomorrow night, and in the meantime I’ll do some asking around.”
“I know Dawson Richards is involved. I can smell it.”
“I agree. Nothing happens here without his knowledge. Nothing.”
“I let him know that I’ll not be run out or burned out, not without a fight.”
Madison nodded grimly. Men like Watson were having a hard enough time trying to make ends meet without their livelihoods threatened by members of their own race.
After Watson’s departure, Madison put Tate in charge of the office and left to make some inquiries on Mr. Watson’s behalf.
The Fifth Ward, known for its pimps, hustlers, gamblers, and prostitutes, had been a home away from home during Madison’s youth. He’d spent many a night at the clubs and pool halls there, as had many wealthy White men drawn by the edginess of the atmosphere and the prostitutes they could easily dally with on the side. Many of those same gentlemen won and lost fortunes in the cribs and back rooms of the Fifth Ward, and even now, ten years later, the steady stream of Whites seeking adventure continued to flow.
As in most of the city’s slums, be they the neighborhoods of the Negro, Irish, or Italian, the streets were lined with houses in disrepair, laundry was strung between light poles, and in the evenings the doorways and stoops were filled with crowds of loitering men playing dice and drinking, while rouged women offered tumbles for whatever you could pay. In early afternoon, like now, the night crowd wasn’t on the streets yet, so the children were free to play, the elderly could visit the nearby grocers, and women could sweep debris from the walks in front of their homes.
Madison parked his horse and buggy in front of the house he was seeking and gave a few coins to a young man nearby to keep an eye on it until he returned. A knock on the door was soon answered by an obviously sleepy Irene Garner.
“Madison,” she said with a welcoming smile. “Come in.”
Even though the drapes were drawn on all the windows, there was enough light filtering inside to show that the place was well furnished. Quality furniture, landscapes on the walls, carpets on the floors. By day it could have been any tastefully decorated row house in the city, but at night it was one of the most well-known gambling clubs in the ward.
Irene had obviously just gotten out of bed. The thin wrapper she held closed made it easy to see she was nude underneath. “Can I get you a drink?”
He shook his head. “No, just need to see Ben.”
“Must be important to get you down here during the day. Or at least it better be. He just went to bed a couple hours ago.”
“It is. Can you get him for me?”
She nodded. Irene was Ben Norton’s woman and had been for ten years. She was the madam for the prostitutes Ben supplied for the high rollers who filled his club each night from the moment the doors opened until whenever closing rolled around.
Ben came out a few minutes later. At six feet four inches tall and almost three hundred pounds, he filled the room. They shared an embrace.
Ben took a seat on one of the embroidered back chairs. “What brings you to my little corner of paradise at this ungodly hour?”
“To see if you’ve heard anything about the fires set in the Seventh last week. Authorities think it might be arson.”
“I heard about the fires but nothing else.”
“There seems to be a protection scam spinning off the fires too. Charlie Watson was threatened last night.”
“The caterer? What is he, almost seventy years old now?”
Madison nodded.
“He catered my sister’s sixteenth birthday ball. Remember?”
“I do.” Ben and Madison had grown up together, and in their youth were best friends. Ben’s father was a prominent minister in those days. When he died of a heart attack five years ago, Ben’s mother had forbidden Ben’s presence at the funeral, holding him and his lifestyle partly responsible for his father’s demise.
“Does Mr. Watson know anything about the men?” Ben asked.
“He says they hang out at the local ward club.”
“Richards’s thugs?”
“I’m pretty sure they are.”
“Do you want him killed tonight or tomorrow?”
Madison chuckled. “Let’s wait until the facts are in.”
“I say we do it tonight, then if we find out he’s not, he can be held up as an example to wayward youth anyway.”
“Like the ones we used to be?”
“Exactly.” Ben grinned. “I’ll put some feelers out on this arsonist business and get back to you. Can’t have that bank of yours burning down. Some of my money’s in it. Obviously, Richards doesn’t know that you know the people you do, or that at one time you were one of those people.”
“Obviously.”
“But now you’re all cleaned up and respectable. Well, somewhat. Still giving the society ladies hell. Any of them serious candidates for the title of Mrs. Mad?”
Teresa July’s face floated into his mind. He quickly shooed it away. “No.”
“You need a woman, Mad. Can’t go through life doing nothing but counting your dividends—you’re as old as I am. Irene was and is the best thing that ever happened to me. Something to be said for having someone in your life you can be honest with and will overlook your faults.”
“And we know that you have many,” Madison tossed back.
Their bond to each other was strong.
Ben countered, “Almost as many as you. So find you a woman.”
“Yes, Pa. Can we get back to Richards?”
Ben’s face soured at the name. “Disliked him since the very first time he came down here. Walked in, throwing his weight around—demanding this and that—then had the audacity to think he could leave without paying his bill. Told me, as the new ward boss he expected everything to be gratis. You can imagine my reply.”
Madison could.
“I’d just as soon send somebody over to pour kerosene on that big fancy house the party purchased for him.”
“Let’s see if we can nail him first, then you can burn his house.”
“All right. I’ll play fair for now, but you’re taking all the fun out of this.”
“I know. One of us has to function as the conscience.”
“I miss raising hell with you.”
“I miss those days too, but not enough to go back.”
“Well, you know me, in for a penny, in for a pound. I’d never be able to make it on the other side, not after all this time.” Ben’s voice dropped to a serious tone. “Have you seen my mother?”
“Saw her at the post office about a month ago. She’s aging but doing well. I’ve been keeping an eye on her for you. Mother goes over and visits with her regularly.”
“Good.” Ben quieted then, and Madison knew his friend was thinking back. He hoped that Ben and his mother would one day reconcile. Ben had taken the death of his father pretty hard, and Madison knew how much he loved his mother.
“I’ll let you get back to sleep. There’s going to be an association meeting tomorrow. If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. How’s Solomon working out as the night man?”
“The bank’s still standing, so thanks for the recommendation.”
“Any time.”
Madison stood and Ben stood as well. They embraced each other with the mutual affection of old friends, then stepped apart.
Ben said, “If there’s any dirty work to be done on this, let me do it. My reputation can stand it, yours can’t, at least not anymore.”
“We’ll see. I haven’t been in a knock-down, drag-out in a long time. Might be fun.”
Ben shook his head and laughed. “Go back to the bank. See you soon.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
As he drove away, Madison was glad to have Ben as a friend and on his side.
It was now the middle of July. Teresa was all but settled into her new life. She and Molly were getting along well. Madison, the Kissing Bandit, hadn’t stopped in for a few days and that suited her just fine. She was nearly back to her old weight, her hair was growing in, and she wore her denims, boots, and work shirts more often than not. All in all, life was good. For it to be perfect, she’d have to be back home, but knowing that would come around soon enough, she had no complaints.
At least not until Mrs. Nance decided the time had come for them to make her a few gowns. By the second day of the project, Teresa was tired of all the fittings and fussing. She prayed the half-done gown she was wearing now would be the last of them. She couldn’t deny the beauty of the midnight blue silk, but the sharp pins holding it together were like bees stinging her arms, waist, and chest. No matter how she maneuvered herself in an effort to avoid them, the pricks continued to bedevil her mercilessly.
“You have to stand still, Teresa,” Mrs. Nance gently cautioned while placing more pins to create seams for the gown’s flowing skirt.
“Sorry, but the pins are like hell fire.”
“A lady doesn’t say ‘hell,’” she admonished while folding the length of silk across the bottom of Teresa’s ankle to estimate where the hem should be.
“Then I’m glad I’m not a lady.”
“You could be if you tried.”
“Only if I can still belt on my Colt.”
Mrs. Nance’s amusement was obvious. “You are truly an original, Miss Teresa July.” Still adjusting the fabric, she looked up. “Can you lower your arms for just a moment. I want to get the true drape of this hem.”
When Teresa complied, the partially finished bodice she’d been holding together slipped to her waist, showing off the thin white silk camisole she was wearing beneath. She’d made the simple undergarment herself.
“Turn slowly.”
The pins were placed one by one, and when Mrs. Nance was finally satisfied, she said, “Good. Now, let’s—”
The sudden opening of the sewing room door followed by the unannounced entrance of Madison caught both women by surprise.
“Mother, I—” Then he stopped. The sight of Teresa standing in the center of the room wearing nothing above the waist but an arousing silk confection rendered him momentarily speechless. Her well-formed bare arms and shoulders were unlike the soft-skinned beauties he was accustomed to stroking. The female outlaw appeared to have been delicately sculpted from a living piece of ebony stone so vibrant his hands tingled with the need to caress her skin. He ran his eyes over the tantalizing hollow of her throat, and unable to stop himself, the rounded tops of her veiled breasts. Only then did he meet her eyes and see the fiery displeasure blazing there.
Hand on her hip, she drawled, “You should pick up your eyeballs before they get stepped on.”
Madison’s jaw tightened and he turned his back. “My apologies,” he ground out, mad at himself for the social blunder, and mad at her for being the cause. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of silk, and he wondered if she was removing the gown. The thought made him mentally speculate what the rest of her might look like were he the one easing it off of her. His manhood stretched in response and he cursed silently.
His mother said in a voice tinged with censure, “You may turn back, Madison. She’s decent.”
Madison had a feeling Teresa July would never be decent in his eyes again, and that only added to his mood. When he turned back, he saw that her sculpted beauty was now safely hidden beneath a tightly belted green satin robe, but the fire in her dark eyes continued to smolder.
His mother asked, “What can I do for you?”
Trying his best to keep his vision focused on his mother and off of Teresa July, he spun his mind to remember why he’d come to see her. “Just stopped in to say hello. And to let you know that I saw Ben Norton a few days ago. He sends best wishes.”
“That’s nice of him. How is he?”
“Fine. Just fine.” He swung his eyes in Teresa’s direction and saw that although some of the heat had left her gaze, a simmer remained.
His mother said, “Rebecca and Miller are having the August first picnic a few weeks early this year. Her birthday is August third and he’s taking her to Chicago to see her sister as her gift.”
“So when’s the picnic?”
“Saturday. Can you come?”
“I’ve an early meeting with someone that morning, but I should be able to make it out there around noon.”
“Good. Teresa and I will see you there.”
He looked Teresa’s way. “Again, my apologies.”
“Thanks.”
And Madison departed with the image of Teresa burned permanently into his memory.
When the British Parliament abolished slavery in the West Indies on August 1, 1834, U.S. Blacks in the North embraced the day for the hope it gave to the three million captives enslaved in the South. It was now a traditional day of celebration for America’s Negroes.
The festivities usually consisted of rallies, parades, speeches, and, in churches like Philadelphia’s Mother Bethel AME, commemorative services and night watches were held. Over the years, other dates were added to honor the race’s milestones. In Washington, D.C., Black folks honored April 16, the date Congress abolished slavery in the District in 1862. It was usually marked by a large parade complete with military bands, fraternal societies, and mounted marshals. In its heyday during the 1880s, the processions were a mile long and included five thousand people of all colors, classes, and distinctions. The August 16 parade was so highly regarded that in 1884, when the route took it by the White House, then President Chester A. Arthur stood in review.
Molly was explaining all this to Teresa on the ride to Miller and Rebecca Constantine’s annual August first picnic.
“Never knew about any of that,” Teresa said in response to the short history lesson. “In Texas they celebrate Juneteenth.”
Molly nodded while she drove. “I’ve heard of it. Supposedly the news of the Emancipation didn’t reach Texas until June nineteenth, 1865.”
“Do they still have the big parades here in the East?”
“No, for three main reasons. One, people began questioning why the race should celebrate anything associated with the dark days of slavery, a debate still going on today, as you well know by reading the newspapers.”
Teresa did.
“Two, the cost of the parade permits were skyrocketing, and three—hooligans.”
“Hooligans?”
“Yes. Instead of the tasteful, proud parades we had in the past, where people knew how to conduct themselves and wanted nothing to mar the race’s image, the events began to attract a less genteel crowd, shall we say. Drunks on rickety wagons, people in garish cheap clothing. Bands of rummed-up youth from the countryside wandering the parade route assaulting people, and murdering the English language, as one editor so baldly put it. It was appalling. One year, the parade in Washington even had a group of young men dressed up as minstrels. In blackface!”
Teresa could hear the disgust in Mrs. Nance’s voice.
“Our young people born after slavery have no attachment to the past. For them our holidays were nothing more than an opportunity to leave work, carouse and drink. It’s sad for the race and for our future.” She looked Teresa’s way. “As you can probably guess, I’m very passionate about the subject.”
“Nothing wrong with that. By the time Jim Crow gets done pecking us to death, passion may be all we have left.”
A whole slew of buggies and wagons were parked along the white fences that lined the road to the Constantines’ place. After she and Molly found a place in the line to park, Teresa could smell meat roasting and hear fiddlers as they walked onto the grounds. Happy voices floated on the air, and Teresa admitted to being more than a little excited. She hadn’t been to a party in a long while and was looking forward to some fun.
Rebecca Constantine, wearing more face paint than usual and a simple but elegant blue skirt and matching shirtwaist, met them at the gate with a smile. “Welcome, you two. Teresa, you are getting more beautiful every day. Living with Molly is agreeing with you.”
Amused, Teresa nodded. “That, and Emma’s cooking.”
The grinning Rebecca turned to Molly. “Shall I introduce her as your niece, Tamar?”
“Yes. Let’s keep the ruse going.”
“All right.”
The women walked out to join the rest of the invited guests. Teresa had no idea the gathering would be so large. People were spread out over the grounds talking and visiting, while others sat on blankets under the trees. Children were chasing a rooster that suddenly turned and charged, sending them running and squealing with laughter. A group of men gathered at a horseshoe pit were pitching shoes and having a good time. Domino players were slapping bones, while spectators stood around smiling and waiting for a turn to play. Molly and Teresa each picked up a tumbler of the ice cold lemonade waiting on one of the food tables that was fairly groaning from all the covered dishes placed on them.
As they walked, Teresa met more of Molly’s friends—a Mrs. Mitchell, who, Molly informed her later, was one of the two female undertakers in town. She was then introduced to a Mrs. Fletcher, one of the teachers at the famous Philadelphia Institute for Colored Youth. Teresa met a host of other women and their husbands, who all smiled kindly at her and welcomed her to the city.
Leaving Molly to visit with her friends, Teresa wandered over the grounds, enjoying the sights and soaking up the atmosphere. She paused at the horseshoe pit and joined the small group of men and women watching the tosses.
“Well, hello,” said a frosty female voice. It was Paula Wade, decked out in a fancy green walking suit complete with bustle.
Teresa nodded.
Paula said, “Everyone, this is Mrs. Nance’s niece. What’s your name again?”
“Tamar. Tamar August.” She received a few skeptical looks from some of the younger women, but there was a decided interest in the eyes of their young men. Teresa didn’t pay any of it any mind. “Can I toss?” she asked at the end of the game.
The winner, a portly brown-skinned young man in a striped blue shirt and white trousers, looked her up and down. “Shouldn’t you be cutting the pies or something? Girls don’t throw shoes.”
“They do where I come from.”
He paused. Smiling, he looked to his friends for a moment, then said, “Oh really, and where in the South might that be?”
The girls, including Paula, giggled at the veiled insult.
“Texas.”
He studied her.
“So, can I toss or not?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Shouldn’t take but a minute to put you down.”
Teresa gave him a cold smile. “Since you’re so sure of yourself, let’s make it more interesting. How about one of you boys over there walk off another ten paces in the pit and replace the spike there.”
Her opponent stared. Teresa picked up a pair of the shoes from the dirt and tested the weight. “What’s your name?” she asked him.
He stuttered, “Alvin. Alvin Porter.”
“Okay, Alvin. Alvin Porter.”
One of the young men walked off the ten paces, moved the spike, and pounded it into the dirt with a mallet lying in the grass next to the pit.
Alvin gestured and said coolly, “Ladies first.”
“Thanks.”
Teresa wished she had on her denims instead of a skirt, but it couldn’t be helped. She did have on a pair of her new boots, however, and they helped her set her feet in the soft earth of the pit. Bending at the waist, she sighted the spike with the open ends of the horseshoe, then pitched it. It sailed the distance, hit the spike and rattled around it until it hit the ground.
Alvin and his friends were wide-eyed.
“Your turn.”
He stared as if she’d just sprouted wings. Paula and her lady friends appeared stunned, but everyone else was watching with eager interest.
Someone called out, “Hope you didn’t bet the farm, Porter.”
Laughter followed the remark, and Porter looked none too pleased. He threw the shoe, and it landed just south of the spike’s original location. Teresa had been chopping wood, she was fit and strong. The doughy Porter didn’t look as if he’d had any exercise outside of raising a fork to his lips.
Evidently word had spread about a girl tossing horseshoes because as Teresa lined up her second try, there were many more people looking on, including Molly and her lady friends. Her second throw was a duplicate of the first. The sound of metal striking metal rang out as it hit the spike, rattled around it, and landed on top of its twin. Loud cries of amazement and encouragement came from the spectators. Pleased, she stepped aside.
Teresa didn’t know if the game was scored the same way it was back home. She figured it wouldn’t matter if her tosses bested his. And they did, again and again.
Finally, someone hollered, “Game to the lady!”
Cheers went up from Molly, her friends, and many of the older men and women crowded around the grassy edges of the freshly dug pit. Paula Wade looked put out, as did the girls with her. Loser Alvin Porter’s jaws were as tight as the lid on a jar of homemade preserves.
Teresa asked, “How about another?”
“No. I have an appointment to meet someone at home. I’m already late.”
“Ah.”
Then, from behind her, she heard, “Never send a boy to do a man’s job.”
The familiar voice was as much a caress at it was a challenge. Turning, she stared up into the handsome face of Madison Nance. In his hands were horseshoes. In his eyes, mischief.