“I’m a good girl,” I said.

  He was a breath away.

  I whispered, “Don’t kiss me.”

  “Make me.”

  He leaned forward and put his lips right on my throat. My arms rose and curled around his neck. His rough hands circled my wrists and jerked them against his chest. More gently, Jake suckled at my skin, tasting me, sweat and all, holding me still as I shuddered against him. His teeth nipped at my ear; then caught on the fabric of my nightdress and began to draw it off my right shoulder.

  I scrambled to think what would be next. Would he draw my clothes off me like the skin of a fruit, unpeeling me to my center?

  Suddenly the barn door opened. We sprang apart like rabbits.

  “Jake,” Papa called in his rumbling voice. “You up there?”

  I hastily pulled up my dress. Jake put a finger against his lips. As if I would suddenly giggle and give myself away.

  “Yes sir,” he called, in an uneven voice.

  “You seen Minnie?”

  A breath. Jake’s blue eyes flicked over mine. He hated to lie. “No, sir.”

  “Huh. Well.”

  “Maybe she went to the pastures,” said Jake.

  “This time of night? And why you got this lantern burnin’?”

  “I’ll put it out. Took it here to see the way.”

  Papa grunted. For a moment he hung in the doorway. I shuddered. Jake nodded to me, stroking my arm slowly, like he did with the horses to calm them down.

  “Jake. I was proud of you today,” said my father. “You know I don’t hold with brawling. I had half a mind to punish you. But that Henley brat has had it coming, and I’m glad you were the one to bring it to him. Can’t have these men talking about Minnie that way.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jake.

  “And, well, my own Pa was part Irish,” said Cal. “So he said. I’m not ashamed to admit it. We got to take pride in our heritage.”

  Oh, when would he leave? We heard him rustling below, fidgeting with the bucket. He wanted to say more. He had never been so full of words when it came to me.

  “Minnie’s a good girl,” said Papa, now talking partly to himself. “She doesn’t fling herself at the boys. She’s too good for all of ‘em. I’ve a mind to see her married soon, to an honest man with some education. But rumors spoil reputations. So you’ve done her a good turn. I hope she thanks you for it.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Jake, in a strangled voice.

  “And she’s not the boldest of girls. It’s hard for her...”

  The silence grew and became uncomfortable.

  “Good night, son,” Papa said finally.

  “Good night, sir.”

  Papa left. Son. Son. The word vibrated in my head like a curse. I flung my wrap back on and scrambled down the ladder.

  “Wait,” said Jake.

  But I wouldn’t wait. I knew for sure if Papa caught me he’d skin me alive. And Jake would get it worse, much worse.

  For what? A stolen kiss-that-wasn’t-a-kiss?

  The spot where his lips had touched my throat burned. I wondered if it would leave a mark, like the kind whores got.

  I wasn’t a whore yet. I would be married soon. Papa had just said so. Married to an honest man, so I wouldn’t have to roll in the hay with farm hands.

  I slipped in through my bedroom window. My thoughts danced with what had happened. The feel of his skin on mine. His heat, his smell. His rough hands. The sarcastic twist of his mouth. And most of all, the way his blue eyes flicked quickly behind his lashes, looking out on a world that had always underestimated him.

  Jake McCoy was not an idiot farm boy. He was something else entirely. The thought frightened me deeply, even as I hungered for his touch again.

  *

  The next day Mama showed me the picture.

  A tall man in his thirties, light-skinned, with a razor-neat haircut and a curly moustache. He wore a full suit, tailored neatly to his slight frame. The stare he gave the camera was frank. Behind him was a shelf of books. I thought that added touch seemed dishonest, as if trying to convince me he’d read them all. Perhaps he had.

  “John Miller,” said Mama proudly. “He’s a teacher from the East. Staying at my brother Sam’s place. I believe he’s Sam’s wife’s cousin.”

  “A mulatto?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Why is he all the way out here?”

  “Come to scope the state of education for Negroes and colored folks in California,” said Mama. Her dark eyes twinkled. “And maybe to find a wife.”

  “Oh, Mama.”

  “I wrote to Sam with the picture of you. I mentioned you were interested. And Miller wrote to say-”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “And unmarried?”

  “Married to his work,” said Mama quickly. “He’s written some articles for The Liberator. I have ‘em here.”

  She rustled a sheaf of papers. The unabashedly hopeful look in her eye embarassed me. My eyes glazed over the titles, picking out a few sentences among the prose.

  “What’s he like?” I said, trying to sound cool.

  “Kind,” said Mama. “Considerate. Smart. He’s got his own house in Connecticut.”

  I choked on my custard. “Connecticut!”

  “Not too far,” Mama insisted. “There’s lots of colored folks over there. You’d be right at home.”

  “It’s across the country! Might as well be across the world!”

  “Well, he’s thinkin’ of staying out West for a few years anyway. Maybe if y’all started a family...”

  I made a face. Mama patted my shoulder, abandoning her false brightness for a moment. “Just go see him, Minnie. He’s a good match. He seems to like you.”

  She was right, of course. But what did his touch feel like? Could he set my blood and bones on fire? Would the thought of him drive my body to twisting, aching lust?

  I looked at the sensible photograph and tried to imagine.

  I said, “How long is it to Uncle Sam’s?”

  “Two weeks’ ride,” said Mama. “Papa’s doing a drive then. He’s taking all his men. You’ll have lots of company there.”

  “All?”

  “Even that boy.”

  Maybe she didn’t notice how my cheeks lit up, how the breath suddenly left my chest.

  “Alright,” I murmured. “I’ll go.”

  “This could be it,” said Mama happily. “I know it’s not the most romantic way to do it...”

  “I understand.”

  “He seems like a good man. And Sam vouched for him.”

  “You haven’t talked to Sam in years.”

  “He’s still my brother. And John is educated. You know how rare that is?”

  It made sense, of course. I forced myself to push down the annoying thoughts of barn lofts and forbidden kisses. I concentrated on the photo in front of me.

  Jake McCoy had been a distraction. Now was the time to get down to the real business of life. Marriage.

  “Minnie?” said Mama.

  “Hm? Oh. I said I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Mama broke out in a smile. “I know you’ll be happy,” she said.

  ✽

  Thoughts of marriage danced through my mind like ripples over a lake, feeding on each other. But then thoughts of Jake would leap in and disturb everything.

  One afternoon it grew too much. I decided to go see him. Maybe not even talk to him. Just look at him again. It was the time of year for an early apple harvest. At breakfast Pa said he wanted Jake down in the orchards. The opportunity could not have been better.

  I fixed my hair quickly, cleaned my teeth, and capered out of the house. Mama never looked up from her sewing. I hurried quickly through the fields.

  I had never been one for secret escapes and lover’s meetings, so my absence would not alarm. I was a good girl, and good girls did not need to be watched. Good girls watched themselves.

  I crested the hill alone and unseen. The trees blushed with apple colors. My plan was crude. I would wander through the orchard paths until I “happened” to run into Jake. What a coincidence! So sorry!

  The summer heat sucked my dress against my skin. I felt sensitive to every gust and breeze, my breasts feeling like two fruits themselves, my stomach like the trunk of a straining tree. The area between my legs stirred.

  It was a beautiful, sultry place, the orchard. A place girls lay down in to let their skirts be lifted. The kind of place old women remembered with secret blushes.

  I wandered about until I heard voices. A flash of white. Jake’s shirt. Another flash; someone was with him.

  With the jagged breath of a nervous virgin, I tiptoed through the leaves. The smell of apples clotted my nose. I did not want to throw myself at him. Not yet. I had to play it off.

  A giggle. I peeped around the tree.

  A girl with yellow hair sat on a stump. The stump Jake had chopped down a year ago. She wore a gray dress. Her hair was spilling from its braid, like she’d rolled around in the grass.

  “One kiss, Jake,” she said, kicking out her toes. Her hand jerked out, grabbing for his crotch.

  “Leave it,” he growled. She had his hand clamped between her legs. She tugged his wrist, encouraging his fingers.

  “You gave me one yesterday.”

  “That didn’t count.”

  She got up and began walking backwards in my direction. I flattened myself and ducked. She pulled Jake with her. Jake brushed the dangling branches aside, stepping into the tree-shadow. I stifled my breath.

  I heard the kiss. His mouth slid over the girl’s, sucking softly on her lips and tongue. His arms raised up and wrapped around her waist, grabbed the fluted swell of her hips Ground it against his groin. Maybe he did something with her skirts; brushed the soft place between her legs with his thumb. Maybe he slid her shirt a ways off her shoulder, to kiss the skin there...

  “Oh Jake,” she panted.

  He was pushing away. “That’s enough, Lu.”

  Lucille Beck. That’s who it was. I had a name to my hatred.

  “Why?” she whined. “We can do more. I’ll let you.”

  “It’s enough.” he said. Finally, harshly.

  “Why? Why won’t you let me make you feel good?”

  “You always want more.”

  I heard her skirts moving. Maybe she had his hand again, pushing it towards her. Jake made an irritated sound; there was a scuffle.

  “I’m not your puppy,” said Jake, with real heat in his voice. “You won’t snap your fingers at me.”

  She gave an angry reply. More scuffling. But I’d heard enough. I hurried back through the trees, to the open safety of the meadows, and to the house.

  I burst in through the door. “What’s the matter with you?” Mama exclaimed.

  “Stomach pain,” I grunted. I went to my room and shut the door.

  My face was burning. With rage, hatred, and worst of all, desire. Desire I could never quench. Desire I had no right to.

  “I hate him,” I gritted. “I hate him.”

  But my mind turned over the vision of him pressing Lucille Beck against the tree, ruffling up her skirts, sucking on her lips. I wanted it to be me. I wanted it so bad. The wanting and the hatred twined together like two snakes, until I could not tell them apart. They would not be separated.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The thought of him burned through me like an infection. All day, and nights, especially nights, my skin fevered just remembering his touch. I suspicioned that Mama knew the source of my affliction; and that in part made her eager to get me away from Meadows, and to a marriage.

  I even suspected she’d had a word with Jake, because if I had seen little of him before, now he was like a ghost.

  But my future husband awaited, and his name was not Jake McCoy. After the incident in the orchard it became clear. I had to start thinking sensibly.

  A week after the Orchard Incident I found myself bumping out of the Meadows in the back of a buckboard carriage. Mama waved me off, her kerchief becoming a little prick of white in an ocean of green pastures. I stared at the picture of John Miller until my eyes went blurry. If I looked long enough I could give him a personality. I could just see under his neat little suit, and imagine those arms were strong and muscled, twining around my waist.

  Papa rode ahead with his men. Which left myself and the surly carriage driver to long hours of not speaking. I knew it annoyed him to have to drive a colored girl, even if she was the boss’s daughter.

  At night the cowboys and my driver sat around the fire in a silent ring. They ate corn mush and beans and fried pork without a single word. The cowboys like Papa enjoyed their silence; some others in the crew were frightful gossips. So conversations started and abruptly died. I tried to catch Jake’s eye across the fire. But his dark head was dipped towards his food.

  “Let me ask you somethin’, Cal,” said one of the cowboys, the one they called Big Ben.

  Papa grunted.

  “Now you know I’m a Kentuckian by birth,” said Ben.

  “Sure.”

  “I worked on a plantation before I took the move West.”

  I concentrated on the watery beans, feeling all eyes slide covertly towards me.

  “And?” said my father.

  “Well now don’t take this personal,” said Ben, rubbing his thigh. “But I seen my share of mulatto gals. Most of ‘em is yellow, like prairie dirt. But your girl here’s dark as varnish, if you don’t mind me sayin’. It’s a funny thing.”

  Papa took a mouthful of beans and chewed them thoughtfully. His pale eyes locked to mine, warning me to keep my mouth shut.

  “What’s your question?”

  “Well, I’m just wonderin’ how you feel about it, is all.”

  “She’s my daughter,” said Papa. “How should I feel about it?”

  A smarter man would have backed down at Papa’s tone. Ben said lightly, “Well, I might be a mite concerned, is all, when it comes time to marry her off.”

  Cal swallowed.

  “Unless she marries one of her own kind,” said Ben.

  “As far as I know, that’s her preference.”

  “Well,” chuckled Ben, “I guess that solves that problem.”

  “She’s too young to be thinkin’ about that anyway,” said Papa. “And if you meant to toss your hat in the ring, Ben, you’re a sight premature, and a little too old.”

  Ben blushed all the way to his bald spot. The camp laughed. I did not.

  Cal scraped another spoonful of beans. “Any more questions?”

  “Don’t bust my balls, now, Cal,” said Ben. “It was an honest question.”

  “We’re all gonna keep civil tongues in our heads in front of my daughter,” said Papa, a warning creeping into his tone. “If you don’t mind.”

  No more questions. They began talking about the drive. Jake put his food down and stretched out his long legs.

  I wrapped the blanket around myself and went to the bed made up for me in the wagon. I took out the picture of John Miller, but could see nothing but his outline in the darkness. Even that looked clean and sensible. The thought of him, and a chance to get away from these white folks, was a great comfort. Maybe that’s what Mama had in mind. Get me away from the white folks and married to one of our own. White folks were something else. Either they’d talk like I wasn’t there, or put me on the spot to pick me apart. I just didn’t have Mama’s boldness. I never stood up for myself. Always I’d be rooted to the spot, cringing, hoping they’d eventually grow tired of the game and leave me alone.

  Of course Papa didn’t understand it. He never could.

  Mama knew that. She loved Papa, but it was a fault in their marriage all the same. If Mama had had the chance to marry an educated colored man with some property I bet she would have jumped on it.

  And knowing that, how could I say no to her? To reject John Miller’s proposal would be spitting in the face of her love.

  I laid awake with my thoughts. The cowboys set their bedding down in a circle and dropped off to sleep one by one. Whispered conversations died. Finally we only had the moon, and the songs of crickets chattering through the night. I began to hear snores.