Freedom's Kiss Read online

  Freedom’s Kiss

  Sarah Monzon

  © 2018 Sarah Monzon.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogues are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly coincidental.

  Scriptures used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased, are taken from:

  Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  The Evangelical Heritage Version (EHV), New Testament and Psalms. ©2017.

  The King James Version.

  Cover design by Sarah Monzon

  Manuscript edited by Dori Harrell

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  New to the Carrington Family? Be sure to check out books 1 and 2

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Georgia, 1816

  Freedom. No single word had the right to hold such power. With an iron grip powerful enough to force grown men to their knees. Cause mamas to sacrifice their precious babies. Scatter into the shadows those who thrive in daylight. All for a mere taste of that elusive dream—freedom.

  Winnie hunched in the thicket, quivering like a hare cornered by a sly coyote. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the sound of which she feared would draw attention to her hiding place. If just for a moment, she willed her heart to stop its thrashing, her breath to cease.

  Her eyes strained against the black backdrop, trying to make out the shape of the others hiding among the rhododendron bushes and other undergrowth littering the forest floor. But all remained still. Quiet. She dared not release a sigh as she squeezed her eyes shut in relief. Though the night with its inky darkness whispered of dangers beyond her sight, those along the edges that had dogged their heels these past three days, it also swallowed them up as if they weren’t there. As if they’d never been.

  Lord, how much easier that course.

  But just as sound had no place here, neither did despair. Not when, for the first time in her life, hope lived. A sliver, but a pinpoint of light in a dark place illuminated more than any would know.

  A bloodhound howled. Winnie’s toes curled, and the hair on her arms rose. They were close. Closer than they’d been yet. Would tonight be the night that tiny flame that lighted the small band of souls would be snuffed out? If the bounty hunters found them…

  There’d be no mercy. Not for runaway slaves. Beatings, disfigurement, death. Some or all could be their fate if they were captured and returned. But for that taste of freedom…

  For Winnie, born on a plantation and raised in the fields, slavery was all she’d known. But for her father? Brave, strong, proud, and once a freed man living in the country of his birth, in Africa, to be haunted by those memories, to know what it was like to be his own man and then have that stripped away? If she’d been observant, watched him from cradle to field to table, would she have seen that gleam? That tenacious hold that one day he’d break his chains and again answer to no man but himself?

  That day had come, and now no day after had been the same. But did she want it to be? To work from before the sun rose to after it set. To always feel the pangs of hunger and occasionally the bite of the overseer’s whip?

  A raindrop splashed against her cheek, trailed the side of her face, paused at the ridge of her jaw, and fell to the ground. She glanced up and peered between the broad leaves of the towering trees. Even darker clouds rolled across a dark sky. And then, as if slit with a hunting knife, the underbelly opened, releasing a torrent of fat drops that pelted her skin in warm liquid.

  But even the earth’s sorrow at their plight couldn’t wash away her memories, nor the fright that had been her companion since before conception. Not when they’d dug their heels into her. She lifted her face to the rain and let herself take in deep breaths. The first in days. No one could hear her sign of life with this torrent falling from the heavens.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and she whirled around ready to dash if the strike of lightning illuminated a pale face. But only her father stared back at her, the whites of three other pairs of eyes blinking behind him.

  “We best take advantage of the weather.” He moved ahead, expecting the rest of them to follow. “The dogs’ll have more trouble trackin’ in the rain.”

  Winnie reached a hand in front of her and latched on to the torn hem of her father’s shirt, at the same time gripping the hand of the person behind her. She shot a quick look over her shoulder, and her older sister, Temperance, flashed an encouraging smile.

  Turning back around, Winnie focused on placing one foot in front of the other. If she could do that, maybe she could drown out the other thoughts. Those that wondered how many more of their group would there have been if not for the formidable growl of her father, Asa. No one thought to cross him when his mind had been made up. Not if they didn’t want a beefy fist to their face.

  So the small band of runaways could be counted on old Tucker’s right hand, him having had his thumb cut off the time he fled for freedom himself. Not even Pearl’s anguished cries that Asa bring her newborn babe had swayed him. Not her pleas that her child grow up in a place where the horrors of their reality weren’t experienced day in and day out. But a babe held too much danger, Asa’d said. What with their crying and screaming and carrying on in general. Plus, there’d be no way to feed the child. Not without its mama, and Pearl had a broken leg, so she couldn’t come.

  The sky erupted in light, a deep boom following behind. Winnie’s chest thundered, as if it were the source of such a sound. How could her father know which direction to go? Though many had dared to escape before, the light of the Drinking Gourd and the North Star pointing their way, clouds hindered the view of Asa’s band. They were like blind men stumbling along a trail ready to swallow them whole.

  Asa pulled up quickly, and Winnie slammed into his back. Bending to the side, she peered around her father’s large frame, afraid of what she’d see that had caused him to stop so suddenly.

  A river, swift and strong, ate up the ground, mocking as it tripped and fell over the smooth rocks in its path. Another howl rent into the night air behind them. Danger in front and danger behind. No options to the right or left.

&nb
sp; “We cross.” Asa didn’t even turn as he said those words. Without a backward glance to see if the rest of the group followed, he pressed forward.

  The current swirled and tugged at Winnie’s already sodden skirt as she placed first her left foot and then her right into the river. Cold seeped into her flimsy shoes, grabbing hold of her bones and causing her to shake. Up the water rose, past her calves, her thighs, her waist. She lifted her arms to hover above the water and shuffled her feet across the stony floor. Finally, her body rose out of the wet and cold to stand on the other side, her clothes weighing her down as much as her soul felt pressed. She stood beside her father and watched as the rest of their group crossed.

  Temperance slowed in the middle, where the current had been the strongest, teetered, then fell. Winnie darted forward, but fingers encased her arm, pulling her back.

  “Don’t, child. She’s gone, and I refuse to lose you too.”

  The words may have sounded hard, calloused. But Asa’s deep voice shook with sorrow. Regret. He pulled Winnie to his chest and swayed with a thick arm hung around her shoulders, humming a mournful melody that vibrated from his body to hers.

  She swiped at tears as she watched her brother-in-law, William, splash into the river and dive beneath the white caps. No head popped up from beneath the water. Not his. Not Temperance’s.

  Would this be how all their stories would ultimately end? Freedom had called, but its price equaled death. Winnie took one more look over her shoulder as her brother, Isaac, emerged dripping from the river, and the three of them disappeared into the shadows of the woods, the cries of known death howling and gurgling behind them, the unknown opening its wide jaws and welcoming the trio into its ravenous belly.

  Chapter 2

  Present Day, Florida

  His failure would have an audience. Wasn’t that swell.

  Adam Carrington bent to look out the low horizontal window that ran almost the entire length of the food truck. A line of customers hooked around the block. People milling, killing the wait time by scrolling through their phones. All for a taste of southern comfort food cooked on wheels—his new dream. One that might die this day since the number of consumers and the amount of product did not equal happy customers.

  His perusal snagged on a man halfway down the line. Adam would know that head of slicked-back hair, those shoulders that filled out the tailor-made suit hanging just so. He’d know the guy because he’d once been the guy. Or at least the other half. Tweedle-Dee to Hudson Burke’s Tweedle-Dum. Or as others knew them, Burke and Carrington, the best criminal defense lawyers in southern Florida.

  And if there was anyone Adam didn’t want to witness his downfall, it was his old partner. The same guy who’d been hounding him night and day for months to return to the courtroom. Not gonna happen. No matter how many times Hudson used phrases like justice and defending those who can’t defend themselves. It sounded good but wasn’t reality. Reality looked more like letting sorry excuses for human life back on the streets to devour those weaker than themselves. All on a technicality. He couldn’t do it anymore.

  Hudson raised his face from his phone and connected with Adam’s gaze. Lifted his hand and waved, lips tilted in a smirk. Adam slammed his hand against the cutting board, sending the leftover juice of the tomato he’d cut for salsa splashing against the front of his apron. He really should work a bit cleaner.

  He scanned the inside of the food truck, but nothing had changed. The last leaves of spinach wilted in the plastic container, turning in on themselves because of the heat. Sweet tea pitcher filled with nothing but the sugar crystals. A tub of pimento mac and cheese that had been close to overflowing a couple of hours ago, now down to its last dregs.

  He couldn’t serve food that wasn’t prepped, and stopping to restock everything would take time. Which meant he would have to slink out the back door and face all those hungry people who had been waiting in the blistering sun…he was going to have to face Hudson, knowing smirk and all, and tell them Southern Charm would be closing for an hour. He’d send them all to Pedro’s Tacos one street over. It would kill him. Turning all those customers away would eat his profits and possibly make it so he lost future business.

  Adam pulled his shoulders back so they wouldn’t slump. Failure stung all on its own, but did Hudson really have to be here to see it? Only more fuel for his persuading fire. Not that Adam ever intended to be scorched by that flame again.

  One more order. He had enough food prepped for the next customer, then he’d face the crowd with his chin high and do what he had to do. He turned to the grill, sweat running rivers down his spine, the sides of his face, his upper arms. He worked a spatula across the flattop grill and flipped a burger, juices sizzling against the griddle and releasing another plume of steam.

  The back door to the truck opened, and he whipped his head around as he slipped the hamburger patty off the grill and onto a toasty corn cake. The sun backlit the intruder, highlighting a silhouette that nipped at a curvy waist. “I’m sorry ma’am, but you can’t be back here. If you would wait in line—” He ducked his head to look back out the window. Still no end in sight. “Actually, maybe try Pedro’s Tacos one street over.” He finished stacking the burger, complete with layers of avocado crema, wilted greens, and fresh pico de gallo salsa. A mound of fried okra, brown and crisp, piled high on the side of the serving boat finished the order off, and he handed the dish with a smile to the person waiting on the other side of the window.

  Adam wiped his hands down his apron, a sigh of defeat escaping his lips. Hopefully, everyone would come back to try his food tomorrow. Slim chance some didn’t have anything else to do and would continue to wait. In this heat? Yeah, he was dreaming.

  No time like the present. He turned but pulled up short at finding the stranger still within the food truck kitchen, blocking the back exit.

  “No one’s going to Pedro’s.” The muffled words came through a curtain of shiny black hair as the feminine intruder bent at the waist and gathered her dark locks at the top of her head, twisted, and then snapped a baseball cap from her back pocket and pulled it over her brow. She straightened, her smile bright, then dimming as her gaze bounced around his kitchen.

  He followed her gaze, knowing what she saw. What he’d been watching all morning. The slow death of his new dream…his new life.

  “All right then,” the woman said under her breath before straightening her shoulders. She pulled something else from her other back pocket. A notebook? She tore off the first five pages and jammed the papers into the order bar. She met his gaze, wide eyes that sparked of intelligence set above pronounced cheekbones and a straight nose.

  “Order up.” She winked, then turned her back on him.

  Adam glanced first at the tickets settling into their clipped position. One salad. One mac and cheese. Two teas. The others were filled in pretty script, written on a real honest-to-goodness restaurant order slip. His gaze bounced back to the woman who now made herself at home in his kitchen, opening cabinets and standing on tiptoe to pull pots down from their shelves.

  Who was this woman, and what in the world did she think she was doing? “Umm…excuse me?”

  “If you leave your mouth hanging open like that, flies are going to buzz in.” She continued to work, hands in his ingredients, back toward him. Black tendrils of hair—smooth, rich, and so deep a color that it reminded him of the ink from the Cartier ball-point pen that had been an absurdly expensive welcoming gift when he’d made partner at the firm—curved along the base of her slender neck, her toned arms flexing as she shifted things this way and that.

  His jaw snapped shut. “You can’t be in here.”

  She turned and shoved a plate at his chest. “You said that already.” Her eyes met his, light brown with gold flecks that set off her caramel skin. They seemed to size him up, laugh at his confusion, and challenge him to take a swing at the curveball she threw. His fingers curled around the plate digging into his ribs. Just like that she l
et go and twirled back around, a hurricane of motion and purpose.

  And there he was, left trailing her outer bands. Looking down, he held two perfectly formed ground sirloin patties. He laid them on the grill, the hiss filling the small space before the sound of a knife unsheathing did. His chin brushed his shoulder as he looked back. The woman had withdrawn a watermelon from its place in the bottom cabinet and set it on the cutting board.

  “What are you doing?” And what was the point of cooking the burger? His squeeze bottle of crema had run dry, and a few measly cubes of tomato at the bottom of the salsa bowl were all that was left of that. A burger on corn cakes without the accoutrements would be boring and, worse, dry.

  She turned to face him, a hand waving in front of her. “Not that this confused look isn’t as charming as the name your truck advertises, but you really are on a time crunch. Think the twenty questions can wait? I promise to answer them all after the rush and not poison any of your customers in the meantime. And this”—she turned back around and speared the melon with the knife—“is to tide everyone in that line over until their orders are ready.”

  He stood and stared, lost for words—which given his history and record in the courtroom, never happened.

  “Oh good grief. Am I going to have to do everything?” She sidestepped around him and reached for something hanging behind his back. A pot slammed into his chest in the same manner the burger patties had before. “Water. Salt. Boil. Macaroni. Think you can handle it?” She didn’t wait to find out but returned to her carving of the melon. With a large bowl piled high, balsamic reduction drizzled to perfect proportions on top, she exited the truck as quickly as she’d entered.