Selena’s fingers clenched involuntarily around the nib of her pen, indignation and anger filling her at the possibility that Montrose’s factor had taken such unscrupulous advantage of the kind and generous-hearted Bea. Eyes flashing, Selena glanced at the far wall of the sitting room, where she had hung the portraits of her parents to help keep her homesickness at bay. Dishonesty is like a pestilence, her father had always told her. It must be rooted out and destroyed.
Struggling with the effort to repress her anger, Selena closed the account book. It wasn’t fair to accuse an innocent man. She would have to make certain of her facts before she approached Kyle with her suspicions.
“Theft is a serious charge,” she told Bea. “Before I present this evidence to Kyle, I want to inspect the cotton gin to see if it truly was damaged.”
Determined to waste no time, Selena made her way out to the enclosed gin lot and entered the building. The wooden cylinder of the cotton gin was in serviceable condition, she discovered, but a number of the slender spikes that encircled the cylinder had been broken off, and the grid was bent where the cotton lint was pulled through to separate it from the seed. Yet the damage wasn’t irreparable, Selena noted, wondering why the work hadn’t been done.
She was still pondering the problem when she heard shouts coming from outside the building. Hurriedly she went to the door.
The sight that greeted her brought her up short, and for an instant, shocked disbelief held her immobile. Across the yard at the entrance of the plantation store stood a gaunt-faced man, holding a long, rawhide whip. At his feet, sprawled on the ground, lay a young, dusky-skinned woman gowned in the simple cotton garment of a slave.
“Lazy slut!” the white man stormed. “I will teach you to disobey me!” His declaration was followed by a sharp, cutting sound as he sent the whip snaking through the air. The girl’s shoulders jerked convulsively, and she cried out as the wicked rawhide sliced through the thin material of her striped cotton gown.
She was heavily pregnant, Selena saw with horror. The girl was clutching her protruding stomach, trying to protect herself from the savage force of the lash.
“Please, Mista Whitfield,” she whimpered. “I be sorry.”
The factor ignored her plea. “I’ll not tolerate indolence!”
He had raised the whip to strike again before Selena found her voice. “Dear God, no! Stop it! Stop that at once!”
He gave a start, glancing over his shoulder at her, but his stroke never slowed. The girl screamed again in pain.
Selena began to run toward them just as a giant black man erupted from the smithy. Before Selena had taken two steps, the huge slave had thrust himself in front of the factor.
He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing dingy trousers of drab cloth, but he was powerfully built. He stood there defiantly, as tall and dark as ebony, his stance menacing, the corded muscles of his forearms bunching as he clenched his fists in challenge.
“Get out of my way, you black devil,” Whitfield snarled, “or I’ll flay the skin off your hide.” With a vulgar oath, he brought the whip whistling down on the black man’s shoulders. The dark skin that was glistening with sweat was immediately tinted with blood.
Still running, Selena finally reached them and grabbed desperately at Whitfield’s arm, trying to restrain him. “I said stop it!”
Neither her action nor her words made the least difference. The factor wrenched back his arm to fling her away, sending Selena sprawling in the dirt.
Dazed from her fall, she had trouble recognizing the sudden pounding in her head as the clatter of hoofbeats. But from the corner of her eye she caught the sight of Kyle’s powerful roan gelding, and she clearly heard Kyle’s savage growl as he launched himself from the horse’s back. Selena raised her head in time to see him land squarely on the factor.
Whitfield grunted as he hit the ground, crushed by the impact of Kyle’s weight, his breath knocked from his body. But he recovered enough to yelp as Kyle’s powerful fists rained blow after blow on his jaw.
At the violence, the roan gelding shied in fright and galloped away, while people started to gather about the yard, looking on in shock. Selena clenched her hands, wincing each time Kyle struck the factor, yet feeling a fierce satisfaction at seeing the vicious Whitfield receiving his due. After a moment, though, she realized Kyle meant to pummel the factor’s gaunt face to a bloody pulp. “Kyle, no!” she exclaimed finally. “You’ll kill him.”
Kyle’s face was contorted with rage, but his blows ceased with her frantic plea. Breathing rapidly, he pushed himself off the factor’s chest, jerked Whitfield up by the lapels and shoved him hard against
the wall of the plantation store.
Whitfield was not a tall man, and Kyle towered over him. “All right!” Kyle ground out between his teeth. “Start explaining. I want to know what you were doing striking my wife.”
“Your wife?” The factor’s eyes slid to Selena. Blood poured from his split lip, and absently he reached up to wipe it from his chin. “I didn’t know it was her. But she had no right to interfere in the discipline of a slave.”
“She has every right! She’s the mistress here.” Kyle’s voice was as cutting as the lash.
Whitfield cringed in fright. “I was just doin’ my duty— floggin’ that slave for laziness when that black devil Saul tried to stop me.”
A muscle in Kyle’s jaw flexed grimly as he glanced over his shoulder at Saul. The tall slave stood protectively over the girl, his giant fists still clenched. Kyle’s gaze dropped, taking in the young girl on the ground and her obvious pregnancy. The dusky cast of her skin was tinged with gray.
Kyle’s eyes flashed with fury as they narrowed on Whitfield. “Get out,” he said, his voice deadly. “You’re dismissed. You have two minutes to clear off my land.”
The factor stared at him. “But what about—”
“Now! If you want to keep your teeth.” Kyle drew back his fist. “I’ll have your things sent to your brother’s.”