Chapter 10: Out racist the racist
The breakfast dishes were cleared, but the consortium remained at the table, the ghost of their new name hanging in the air like gun smoke. The practicalities of their new existence settled over them like a weight.
“We need mobility,” Marshall said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Two proper rigs. One for me and Eliza, something that looks the part for visiting neighbors or going into town. The other for the rest of you—sturdy, roomy, inconspicuous. For moving people, for scouting, for getting the hell out of somewhere fast.”
Sarah nodded. “Can’t be liberating folks if we’re all walking.”
“And walking attracts attention we don’t need,” Aiyana added.
John just grunted. “Horses cost. So do carriages.”
“We have Thornton’s money,” Eliza said softly, but Marshall shook his head.
“We use that too freely, someone notices. A sudden splurge on transport from a widow in mourning? Raises eyebrows. We need a deal. A quiet one.”
A long silence followed. Cora tapped a finger against her chin. Eli, who had been quietly whittling a piece of wood with his knife, looked up.
“There’s Beulah,” he said, his voice low.
Everyone turned to him. “Beulah?” Marshall asked.
“Beulah Finch. Runs a livery stable on the old Post Road, about ten miles east. Her old man died of the fever last fall. She’s trying to keep it running herself.”
“What’s the problem?” Sarah asked, sensing the hesitation in his voice.
Eli exhaled slowly, looking at the table. “She’ll give you a good deal. Likely too good. But there’s a real problem.” He met Marshall’s eyes. “She’s a foul-mouthed racist. I mean, proper venomous. Thinks the sun rises just to hear her complain about… my people.”
“Explain,” Marshall said, his voice flat.
“Her husband was worse,” Eli continued, setting his knife down. “Got in a fight with some freedmen over a debt, lost the fight, died bitter. She blames the whole race. It’s… ugly. You go there with me, you’re gonna hear words you haven’t heard in a while. Words that stick in your teeth.”
Marshall considered this. A source of transport, vital for their operations, tainted by pure hate. “And she’s our only option?”
“Only one who won’t ask questions or talk about it after,” Eli said. “She needs the money, bad. Business is failing. Pride’s the only thing keeping her from selling up. She’d rather scream at a black man than take a fair price from a white one. Logic doesn’t live there.”
Marshall pushed his chair back. “Take me there.”
The look that passed between Eli and the others was a mixture of apprehension and grim understanding. This was part of the work now.
“Now?” Eliza asked, her hand finding his.
“No time like the present,” Marshall said. He looked at Eli. “You up for it?”
Eli gave a short, humorless laugh. “Been up for it my whole life, brother. Let’s go get cursed at.”
Beulah Finch’s livery stable sat at a sun-bleached crossroads, a stubborn, peeling monument to a past that was rotting out from under it. The main building’s whitewash had flaked away to reveal grey, sickly wood. Weeds choked the paddocks; the only sound was the listless buzzing of flies. Two carriages sat under a lean-to—one a sleek, enclosed buggy with faded burgundy paint, the other a heavier, open-sided wagon. Both looked serviceable.
Eli reined in their horse a good distance from the front door. “You sure about this?”
“We need the rigs,” Marshall said, his eyes scanning the property. “Let’s go.”
They had just dismounted when the front door of the attached living quarters slammed open. The woman who stormed out was in her late twenties, and life had carved harsh lines beside a mouth that looked built for scowling. She was also, undeniably, striking in a raw, weathered way. Her hair, the color of wheat left too long in the field, was tied back in a messy braid. She wore a man’s shirt, sweat-stained and rolled to the elbows, and a simple skirt that did nothing to hide the generous, solid curves of her body—the full swell of her chest, the pronounced sway of her hips and backside. She moved with a furious, physical grace.
Her pale eyes scanned them, landed on Eli, and her face contorted into something truly ugly.
“Well, goddamn,” she sneered, her voice a raspy drawl. “If it ain’t Eli. Come to stare at what your kind helped run into the dirt?” She planted her hands on her hips. “You and your nigger friends happy now? See a white woman brought low?”
Eli said nothing, his face a mask of weary patience.
She took a few steps closer, her gaze like a physical slap. “Cat got your tongue, boy? Or you just here to steal what little I got left? I see you looking at my rigs.”
Marshall watched, cold and still.
Beulah shifted her venom to him. “And who’s this? Your new massa? He look a little young to be owning your ass.” She spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the dust near Eli’s boots. “What do you want? Come to gawk? Get off my land ‘fore I set the dogs on you. ‘Cept the dogs died too, so I’ll just have to use my scattergun.”
Marshall took a single step forward. He didn’t raise his voice. He let it drop, cold and deliberate, sharp as a shard of glass. “You done?”
Beulah blinked, taken aback by the tone. “What?”
“I asked if you were done polluting the air with your ignorant, white trash whining.” His words were precise, each one chosen to wound. “Your failure is written on every rotted board on this place. You smell of despair and cheap liquor. You’re a stereotype so pathetic it’s almost funny. A poor, uneducated, hateful cracker blaming the world for her own stupidity.”
The color drained from Beulah’s face, then flooded back in a mottled, furious red. No one had ever talked to her like that. Not even her husband. Especially not a man who, by all appearances, was just some quiet fellow. The shock was absolute. “You… you can’t…”
“I can,” Marshall cut in, his voice still low but drilling into her. “Look at you. You’re what, twenty-eight? You could have rebuilt this. You could have made deals, worked hard, been something. Instead, you sit here festering, your only talent being hurling slurs at a man who has ten times the character you do. You think your hate makes you strong? It makes you weak. It makes you small. It’s why you’re standing here in the ruins of your life, screaming at the sky, while everyone with a shred of sense has left you to rot.”
Beulah stood frozen. The insults meant for others were now her own reflection, and she didn’t recognize herself. A confusing heat rushed through her—shame, rage, and something else, a dark, unwelcome thrill at being seen so completely, even if it was with contempt. Her gaze flicked between Marshall’s impassive face and Eli’s carefully neutral one. The power dynamic in her yard had just been inverted, and it left her unmoored. She felt a flush creep down her neck, and a separate, deeper heat pooled low in her belly. This man hadn’t come for a chat.
“What,” she managed, her voice suddenly hoarse, “do you want?”
“The two carriages,” Marshall said, as if ordering a drink. “The buggy and the wagon. Well-maintained. Harnesses included.”
She let out a bark of laughter, but it lacked its earlier force. “With what money? You just said I was rotting.”
“I’m not offering money.”
Her eyes narrowed, the calculating part of her brain wrestling with the shock. “Then what?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, let her study him. The rumors from the Thornton place had traveled, twisted and wild, but at their core was a persistent thread about the young man who now stood there, calm as stone. Her eyes dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to the front of his trousers, then snapped back to his face, her own flushing darker.
A slow, knowing smirk twisted her lips, born of desperation and this new, shocking arousal. “I’ll give you the rigs,” she said, her voice dropping to a rough whisper. “For free. But only if you can satisfy a curiosity of mine.” She took a step closer, the scent of hay, horse, and her own sweat mingling. “Heard some rumors. About some black man with a… sizable reputation. Wanna know if they’re true.”
She held his gaze, the challenge stark and crude in the afternoon sun.
Marshall didn’t look at Eli. He simply said, “Eli, wait outside.”
Without a word, without a glance, Eli turned on his heel and walked back to their horse, leaning against it and looking out at the empty road, a silent sentinel.
Marshall turned back to Beulah Finch. “Show me the tack room,” he said, his voice devoid of everything but intent.
She led the way, her stride suddenly unsure, the sway of her hips an unconscious betrayal of the tremble that had begun deep inside her.
The tack room was a dim, narrow space, thick with the smell of aged leather, saddle soap, and dry hay. Harnesses hung from hooks on the wall like slumbering snakes. Beulah stopped in the center of the room, her back to him, and turned just as Marshall closed the door, plunging them into a dusty golden gloom from a single high window.
Before she could speak, he closed the distance. He pinned her against a heavy wooden post, his body firm against hers, and her breath hitched. His hands found the coarse hem of her skirt and gathered the fabric in his fists.
He lifted it up and over her hips in one rough motion.
He expected undergarments, the linen barrier of the time. There was nothing. Only the bare skin of her thighs, the thatch of dark hair, the startling heat and scent of her. Marshall paused, his face inches from her. “Why?” he asked, his voice low.
Her head was tipped back against the post, her throat working. “Chafes,” she whispered, the word strained. “Riding all day, working leather… the fabric rubs raw. I stopped wearing them a year ago.” A defiant, shameful spark flashed in her eyes. “You gonna complain?”
He didn’t answer with words.
He dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth to her. She gasped, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the walls. Her hands scrabbled at the post, then tangled in his hair, pulling hard, a mix of push and pull.
Her taste was sharp and clean, like rainwater and wild herbs. Her thighs trembled against his ears. At first, she bit back her noises, muffling them into a clenched fist pressed to her own mouth. It didn’t last. A low, guttural moan tore free from her throat, then another, each one louder, each one dissolving the last vestige of her hostility into pure, frantic need.
“Wait—stop—” she panted, not pushing him away but tugging him up by his hair.
He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and she pushed him backward with surprising force. He stumbled and landed on a small, messy cot pushed against the wall, its blanket rumpled.
Beulah knelt between his legs, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. She got them open and tugged. His erection sprang free, slapping against her cheek with a soft, wet sound.
“Ow,” she grunted, blinking. Then her eyes focused properly. The shock on her face was genuine, her lips parting. She stared, her earlier bravado melting into stunned reverence. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face.
“You know… barely anyone knows this,” she said, her voice husky. She stuck out her tongue. It was unmistakably, remarkably long. She extended it fully, then pulled it back in. “Back home, the girls… they used to call me names. Lizard. Snake-tongue.”
Marshall reached up, cupped the back of her neck, and pulled her down into a kiss. Her tongue slid into his mouth, and it was like nothing he’d ever felt.
She broke the kiss with a greedy gasp and took him into her mouth without hesitation. The length of her tongue was not an exaggeration. She deepthroated him with a practiced hunger, and as she did, the pointed tip of her tongue traced a sinuous, wet path along the underside of his shaft with each movement. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a slick, coiling pressure that wound the tension in his gut tighter and tighter.
He felt the climax building, an unstoppable tide. Just as he was about to tip over the edge, she pulled off with a lewd pop.
She climbed onto the cot, straddled him, and guided him inside her with a desperate, shuddering sigh. She tried to ride him, but her rhythm was frantic, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness. “I can’t—I can’t barely—” she choked out.
Marshall rolled her over, pinning her to the rough blanket. He took control, his thrusts deep and measured, each one punching a sharp cry from her lips. Her legs locked around his back, her heels digging into his thighs.
“I’m close,” he growled.
Her eyes flew open, wild and pleading. She licked her own lips, then craned her neck to flick the very tip of her long, wet tongue against his earlobe. A jolt of pure electricity shot down his spine. It was his weakness, discovered by accident.
“Inside,” she begged into his ear, her voice raw. “Please. Fill me up. I’ll take it. I want it.”
The sensation of her tongue tracing the shell of his ear unspooled him. “You’ll get pregnant,” he managed to grunt, even as his hips lost their rhythm.
“I know,” she gasped, her nails scoring his back. “I know Eliza. She’ll understand. She’ll take the fall. Just… god, do it.”
Her legs tightened like a vise around him. He had no choice. He buried himself to the hilt as his release tore through him, a wave of blinding heat.
He collapsed on her for a long moment, the only sound their ragged breathing and the creak of the old cot. Finally, he pushed himself up and began to dress. Beulah lay watching him, a sated, complicated look in her eyes. She didn’t cover herself.
“The buggy and the wagon,” Marshall stated, buckling his belt. “Harnesses. Today.”
She nodded slowly, sitting up. “They’re yours. The bay gelding for the buggy, the dapple grey for the wagon. They’re good, solid animals.” She stood, letting her skirt fall back into place, and walked to the door. As he moved to follow, she stopped him with a hand on his chest.
She rose on her toes, her lips brushing his ear, her long tongue flicking out once more to trace its edge. “Next time you come,” she whispered, her voice dripping with a filthy, molten promise, “I won’t say a damn word the whole time. I’ll just kneel and open my mouth. You can use it.”
She pulled back, a ghost of her old smirk on her lips, then opened the door to the blinding afternoon sun.
Outside, Eli hadn’t moved from his lean against their horse. He watched Marshall approach, his face unreadable. Beulah was already striding toward the paddock, calling for the horses with a sharp whistle.
“Got ‘em,” Marshall said simply, adjusting his shirt.
Eli pushed off the horse, his eyes knowing. “Figured you would. Had to pay the toll, I assume.”
“We got the rigs. That’s what matters.”
They hooked the two carriages to their single horse for the slow trip back. Beulah worked with a fierce, silent efficiency, checking tack and harnesses without meeting their eyes. When they were ready to leave, the wagon hitched behind the buggy, Eli climbed onto the buggy’s driver’s seat. Marshall took the reins of their original horse.
As they pulled out onto the road, Eli glanced over at him. The silence between them was comfortable, but thick with curiosity. After a half-mile, Eli could no longer contain it.
“So,” he said, his eyes on the road ahead. “She holler a lot? Or was she the quiet, seething type?”
Marshall kept his gaze forward, a faint, tired smile on his face. “Started as seething. Ended… less quiet.”
“That tongue thing true?” Eli asked, a genuine chuckle breaking through.
Marshall looked at him, surprised. “How’d you…”
“Small county. Weird rumors. Heard she could lick a stamp from three feet away.” He shook his head, laughing quietly. “Man. The world is a strange damn place.”
“She’s pregnant,” Marshall said flatly, the reality of it settling onto his shoulders like a physical weight.
Eli’s laughter died. He absorbed the news, his face somber. He nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Eliza’s gonna have thoughts on that.”
“I know.”
“Might be messy.”
“Probably will be.”
They rode in silence for another mile, the only sound the creak of harness and the steady clop of hooves. The twin carriages rolled behind them, a solid, tangible asset for their fledgling war.
“Worth it?” Eli finally asked, his voice devoid of judgment.
Marshall thought of the whispered filth in his ear, the visceral hatred in her eyes turning to something else, the two serviceable vehicles now following them home. He thought of the children that might come of it, the complicated future spinning out from this dusty crossroads.
“It’s a tool,” Marshall said, his voice low. “We needed the tool. Now we have it.”
He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. Eli just nodded again, understanding the calculus all too well. The sun beat down on the road ahead, and the Midnight Consortium had its wheels.