Leon Vermeil, having no regard for good horseflesh, cross-whipped the animal with his reins, and tried to push him faster. When they finally reached the farm, both men swung off their horses, left them to the care of the stable hands, who they'd awakened, and strode, boots clomping, up to the front door of the house. The brass door knocker sounded and re-sounded before the tired, sleepy butler opened the door.

Yes sir?”

"Let me speak to Sam Kittridge, Pronto!”

“Beggin' pardon, Sirs, the Kittridges are asleep. I think it's best you come back in the morning, Sir.”

“I didn't ask you what you thought was best, nigger. I said, let me speak to Sam Kittridge. Now!”

“Yes sir but--”

“No more buts!” Leon Vermeil growled, as he took his gloved right hand and slapped the servant hard, so that he fell over backward, hit the door frame, and started to bleed copiously from the gash on the back of his head. Hearing the commotion, Samuel came downstairs, his southern region exposed to all who cared to see.

“What in cold hellfire is going on here?”

“Sorry, Sam. I just had to put one of your niggers in his place. I don't stand for no servant questioning me, or telling me what to do.”

Sam Kittridge was six-foot-two and weighed about 260. Leon Vermeil was short and stocky, weighing one-eighty with a potbelly, looking like a horse ridden hard and put away wet. He was no match for the hard gut blow that Sam delivered, deliberately, with no word or warning. Holding him firmly in place by the neck and the fist in his gut, Sam whispered softly in Leon’s ear so that no one else could hear.

“Touch a hair on one a my nigras again and I'll cut your manhood off and feed it to you. You get me? Or do I have to break your fucking neck right now?”

Sam had him in a death grip, and Leon Vermeil was nothing, if not a realist. He eye-signaled his brother Jubal not to intervene.

“I get you, Sam. Now get the fuck offa me!” Leon said, trying to salvage some shred of his dignity.

“Don't just lay there, Joshua. Get up and get a rag for that head. And I need a robe.” Sam released Leon.

“What brings you here, Leon? It better be important. Y'all coming in here and disrupting my family and my sleep. What's on your mind?”

“Frank Kincaid's gone fool and gave his daughter controlling interest in Sugarbush!”

"He what? His nigra daughter? Tell me you're lying!”

“He gave her his fifty-one percent, Sam. Are you taking hold of what this means yet?”

“Sonofabitch!” Sam swore. His face turned red.

The butler returned, carrying a dark blue silk robe over one arm, and holding a rag to the back of his head with his other hand. Sam snatched the robe, put it on, and motioned for Leon and Jubal to follow him into his study. Sliding the double doors shut, he stood with his back leaning against them, effectively blocking the Vermeils' escape route.

“Y'all want a drink?” Sam offered.

“Sure. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, no offense taken, Sam.”

Sam opened a desk drawer and offered Leon the first swig from an open bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Uh, after you, Sam.”
Sam chuckled. Leon probably thinks it's poisoned. He took a long, thirsty pull on the bottle.

“Did you notify the boys?” Sam inquired. He passed the bottle to Leon, who took a tentative swig before answering, then passed the bottle over to Jubal.

“No, we thought we'd leave that for you to decide.”

“Why's that? Those Willie Lynchers are more your cup of tea than mine.”

"Because it's your damn farm!” Jubal said, wanting to assert himself.

“Get on your horses and tell the boys there's a meeting, noon today, here at Sugarbush. The McLaughlin’s, Mayfields, and Sampsons first. Then the Foresters and Grace Kincannon. Gracie will see to the rest of them being told.”

“I'm riding a horse and taking a message, Sam but I ain't no Paul Revere. What's in it for us?” Leon demanded.

“I didn't think I'd have to go into the ramifications of a nigra taking over and running things. And a female nigra? That's dangerous thinking. Out of the fucking question! With all the changes that will happen with that, you and your brother will be outta business faster than you can spit. But I'll give y'all two hundred apiece to ride, quietly, and sound the alarm.”

“See you at noon, then.” Leon replied. He and Jubal walked over to the stable for fresh horses.

****

Frank Kincaid paced back and forth in his library. Nothing had gone as he'd expected. He didn't know what he could have been thinking, revealing his plans out in the open like that; in front of the Vermeil brothers, no less. But something akin to pride had taken over and compelled him to leave this particular daughter, a virtual stranger, everything. To verbally acknowledge her. The fact that she resembled him more than she resembled her mother and had a good IQ, probably had a lot to do with it too.

Unknown to Devora, he'd been sending twice-yearly checks for her upkeep to Tomaha City, since a little after she'd been born. Always in care of her grandmother, Sharon's mom. Apparently, Mrs. Blessing-Finn had never breathed a word about it to Devora, because even the little bit he knew about his daughter told him she'd have said something by now.

Wonder where she thought the money for her fancy schools came from? Sure she was smart, but being smart with no money equaled shit then. Hell, it still did.

Strangely, she was the only one to whom he felt he could leave his money. They hadn't found the time to sit and talk about her mother. He'd only been able to give her the short version which hadn't been at all flattering to Sharon. Had they the time, he would've told her that her mother had been a beautiful woman, a true songbird, with a bounty of brains to go with her talent.

He'd have let her know that whenever whites met her, their descriptions of her always began with “For a nigra.” “For a nigra, she sure got good taste.” Or, “For a nigra, she sure speaks well.” For them, that was giving high praise.

He might have been able to explain to her about her mother's terrible affliction that had caused him to shut her away, and lie to the world about her existence. He knew he couldn't tell her about the part he'd played; about the drugs he'd given her that finally drove her insane.

Devora would never understand the urgency he'd felt then, how the judgment of the people and the times would have made a life with Sharon and her an impossibility; or how her telling his parents about them would have affected his life. How he'd had no other choice.
 

Dawn had put in its appearance by the time Frank felt he could sleep. Just as he was about to climb the stairs to his bedroom, he heard the window glass shatter in the front sitting room. Rushing inside, he saw a huge rock with a note attached to it lying among the huge, uneven, shards. The crisp wind blew inside the gaping hole as Frank cautiously stepped across the carpet, and picked up the rock. He disengaged the note held there by a large rubber band. It said:  Die nigger lover.
                               ****