Rachel's Choice by Judith French Page A

his hair. “It was hotter than Hades in that loft.”
    â€œDon’t blaspheme,” she admonished. “I’ll thank you to remember your manners, Abner Potts. I’m a Methodist, and I don’t approve of rough talk.”
    Chance laughed, and the deep, merry sound sent shivers down her spine.
    â€œYou hide under the hay all day, and you’ll come down saying worse,” he replied. “And saying
Hades
is not blaspheming. It’s another word for hell.”
    â€œI know what it means. I may have only finished the eighth grade of a one-room country school, but I’m not stupid.”
    â€œI never thought you were.”
    Little sparks of excitement danced along the surface of her skin. That soft Richmond drawl of his was enough to make a saint doubt salvation, and Rachel knew she’d never been a saint.
    â€œSo long as you’re already wet, fetch in my crab trap,” she hedged. “I didn’t check it today.”
    He stood knee-deep in the water, looking at her. “Isn’t it a little late in the day for crabbing? Unless you’re planning on steaming crabs tonight …”
    He was right, of course. The thought of cooking crabs and shelling them to make soup when she was already exhausted was too much.
    â€œIt’s too warm for crabs to keep, alive or cooked,” he said. “But if you want—”
    â€œOn second thought, we’ll leave them until tomorrow,” she agreed.
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He nodded and touched an imaginary hat with two fingers.
    He was poking fun at her. Even when he wasn’t, Chancellor’s fine manners were sometimes disturbing. She felt her cheeks grow warm. “You can check the traps first thing in the morning, before you milk the cow,” she said a little sharply.
    â€œWhatever you say, ma’am.” He strode up the sandy bank and stopped a little ways from her. “Your friends,” he began, “they were all colored, weren’t they?”
    She nodded. “Free men and women of color, yes.”
    â€œI heard Lincoln freed the slaves.”
    â€œNo, not these people. Well, you’re right, President Lincoln did free the slaves. But Pharaoh, Cora, Preacher George, and the others—they were free before the war, some for generations. It surprises you, doesn’t it, that colored folk would do for me what no one else would?”
    â€œNo.” He wrung the water out of his pant legs and reached for the shirt he’d left hanging on a tree limb. “No, it doesn’t. I’ve known a lot of decent blacks, most of them, actually.”
    She shrugged in disbelief. “I wouldn’t expect one of your kind to understand.”
    â€œMy kind?” He stepped nearer, his shirt draped carelessly over his muscular forearm. The light was fading fast; it was already too dark for her to see the startling blue of his eyes, but she could feel the force of them burning into her skin.
    â€œA man who can condone owning another humanbeing—the kind of man I’ve always hated.” She drew in a ragged breath as shivers raised gooseflesh on her arms. She raised her chin, trying to brazen out the moment. “A man who’d go to war against his country to defend the despicable institution of slavery.”
    â€œYou think that’s why I enlisted?”
    He was so close that she could smell the creek water in his hair, feel his breath on her face. She swallowed, trying to maintain her bravado. “What other reason could there be?”
    â€œHave you ever asked me if I owned slaves? Or if I enlisted to defend slavery? Personally, I abhor the practice that one human should own another. My mother was born in England. Her family considered slavery to be barbaric. Mother refused my father’s offer of marriage until he freed all his slaves and signed a legal contract with her that he would never buy another human.”
    â€œBut you’re