Because of his supposed wealth, most women fell at his feet. Not much taller than Lucas, he wore his uniform nice and clean, pressed to sharp flat edges. His lips were taut like the flesh of a dead animal dried in the sun, and when he smiled, it solidified an assertion of uncurbed evil.
Rachel had put him off with her well-extended and obligatory mourning period, mindful to tread careful where Captain Johnson was concerned. She was well-acquainted with his history, and the horror stories of his youth. When he wanted something, he’d acquire it with his fists or bullying. The bloodthirsty rage of his fighting and slyness made him win over peers. Despite having the advantages of a good education, he didn’t apply himself, more interested in terrorizing the boy in the desk next to him. At home, he beat his slaves for any infraction and bragged about the thrashing.
Was it the result of his father hating him? Or the result of his mother’s infidelity? She waved her palm fan, convinced his conduct went beyond the accident of his birth, and believed his behavior was inherent in the cruelty of his nature.
He stood by the railing, in front of her, his shadow engulfing her, a tactic on his part to intimidate—a perfect monster for the Confederacy.
Rachel ignored him, waiting for him to break the silence, but his attention was directed on a fly which he had been trying to catch. Suddenly, with animal-like swiftness, he closed his hand and trapped it. Then he bent over to pull off the wings, one at a time. When the mutilated fly tried to escape, he reached out a thick, wide thumb, holding it over the fly for some moments, moving it about as the insect twisted. Then, grinning, he dropped his thumb heavily and crushed the fly. Only then did he look up at her.
He took off his gloves, one by one, and then drew her to her feet, holding her hands. Her skin crawled. Like a rat in the sewers, he worked behind the scenes, a Copperhead, dissolving and disappearing at a moment’s notice, emerging crafty and cunning enough to fool his staunchest enemy.
“You are a beautiful woman, Rachel. You need a strong hand,” he drawled.
Rachel snorted. “I suppose you are the only one to guide me.”
“I’ve come to demand your hand in marriage. I promise it will be the last time I offer you this proposal.” His dark eyes shifted over her, insulting, and unveiled his underlying menace.
Apparently, he chose to forget his conduct at the Rutherfords’. “I am overcome by your consideration for my tender heart. I promise you, I will never forget, nor will I accept.”
He hovered close to her ear. “At the Rutherfords’, you pricked my suspicions. Have a care—”
Rachel tugged her hands from him, thanking providence for the lemony scent of a blooming magnolia to wipe away the smell of foul whiskey.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
How she loathed this man. She flicked her eyes to the foundation of what remained of the barn, and a vision of smoke swirled before her, choking her, fire singeing her hair, torching her skin. The image gave sudden rise to the night her father died, and to hot, angry, impotent tears. Never would she be vulnerable again.
“You may fool most, but not me. You bear watching.”
She glared at him. “Are you threatening me?” She kept her voice low, prayed Lucas wasn’t listening, prayed he’d have the common sense not to intervene if he was.
“As for marriage to me, it is your only way out. I can overlook the blemish of your father’s sins, since your mother’s southern blood runs in your veins.”
Was he damning her father as a northerner or for freeing slaves or both?
He grabbed her then, kissing her, bruising her lips, his wet tongue stabbing into her mouth. She pushed at him, but his fingers dug into her arms. Nausea heaved in her stomach and rolled in her throat. The cicadas sang louder and louder. How she wished they would swarm together and devour him. With all her might, she thrust him away.
“I will never stoop to marry the likes of you.”
Simon appeared, carrying a tray with tall glasses of lemonade. “I thought you all might want some refreshment on a warm day.” Simon ducked his head.
“Thank you, Simon.” She wiped her hand across her mouth and sank into a chair. Simon’s timing was perfect. She reached for a glass and he warned her with his eyes. With a slight nod, she chose the other glass.
Johnson cracked his neck from side to side, picked up his proffered drink, and took a long draw, finishing the contents to the last drop. “Your darkie doesn’t seem to know when not to intrude on important conversation. He should be taught to know his place.”
Simon laid the tray on a table, and stood at Rachel’s side, staring daggers at Johnson.
“What I do with my people is my business and none of your affair. You may leave,” she said.
He stomped off her porch, his boot heels making half-moon marks in her yard. “I guarantee you’ll regret turning down my offer.”
“The only regret I’ll have, Captain Johnson is you not leaving my property soon enough.”
Johnson mounted his horse, yanked the bit so hard the horse reared, and then whipped the animal.
When he was gone, Simon slapped his hat on his knee and cackled. “I’m afraid Captain Johnson will regret drinkin’ that lemonade long before he arrives home.”
Rachel widened her eyes. “You didn’t.”
