Just Say Yes: Strong Family, #7

DEDICATION

This novella is for all my readers who greatly supported the eBook reissues of my romance classics and who gently nudged me to continue the well-loved Strong Family series.

PROLOGUE

1995

Ready?

Dane Jackson gave his Aunt Yori a crooked smile and nodded as he took another large bite of one of the two dozen sweet potato tarts she made for him every Christmas.

She reached across the short distance between them and swiped away a crumb on his chin with her thumb. Our great, great, great grandfather Horatio Jackson—

You missed one, he interrupted around the sweet treat in his mouth.

I did? Yori asked, her face filled with surprise.

He nodded with a bright twinkle in his eyes.

Yori raised her hand and began tapping her thumb to each of her other fingers. Great, great, great, great, she said as she counted. You’re right.

He gave her a confident wink.

"I’m happy you’re learning this history—our history—it’s important, she said, walking to the refrigerator to remove the carafe of milk. In fact, let’s switch it up this year and you tell the story to me."

Dane shook his head. Oh no. Let’s not break tradition. Next, you’ll stop making my mini sweet potato pies, he asserted.

Yori chuckled as she refilled his glass. Tarts, she corrected.

Yes, ma’am, he said, before drinking nearly the entire tall glass of milk in one swallow.

The story of their ancestor, Horatio Jackson—like the tarts—was a holiday institution for the last twelve years of his life. As she replaced the milk in the fridge, she began to tell him the story once again. Still, he felt goose bumps race up his slender arms.

Back in the 1800s in Charleston, South Carolina, Horatio Jackson was the tenth child born to Teecee Jackson into slavery, Aunt Yori began with a soft smile that saddened. And like his sisters and brother, he was sold and forced to live away from her.

Hell, they wouldn’t even allow black folks to take a day off from the field work to bury someone properly. Funerals were at night. It’s clear that African-Americans were shown no respect at all. Like animals—worse than animals. Even the dogs were taught things. Humph. Life for a slave was harsh.

Dane sat his empty glass atop the saucer as he eyed his aunt. Over the years, as he aged, her descriptions of the plight of the slave gained more details.

Horatio was a skilled blacksmith who taught himself the craft in his teens. By the time he was in his early twenties he was a sought-after blacksmith in the Charleston area. That made him more valuable than most slaves—something he didn’t take pride in. He wasn’t interested in those levels in which slaves were classified or viewed as field slaves, house slaves, or laborers. A slave was a slave was a slave; you know? she asked.

No one was free, Dane added.

Right. Aunt Yori tapped her hand against the top of the wooden island.

Dane smiled.

Now Horatio couldn’t read or write—they made sure of that—but he was brilliant in the handling of metals and was able to move along the various plantations as a hired out slave. He used that opportunity and risked his own life each time, to help slaves escape to their precious freedom. That gave them the chance to search for their family members who had been sold or run away to the North.

Did he have to hurt anyone? Dane asked, glancing over at the doorway as his father, Lincoln, and his latest girlfriend, Yvonne, entered the kitchen. He never asked that before—he’d never wondered before.

Yori lightly bit her bottom lip and glanced briefly at her brother as she paused. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Survival of the fittest. Do you understand?

Dane nodded. He knew that he was the descendant of a true hero. He could visualize every bit of the adventure. To him, it was all better than the action comics he loved to read.

Good, she assured him, before clearing her throat. Between Horatio’s blacksmithing and his late-night abolitionist duties, he barely had time to sleep. However, when he first laid eyes on Abigail, a pretty dark-skinned slave from a neighboring plantation, he suddenly was filled with the strength and determination of a thousand oxen. Her smile felt as bright as a million stars to him and every time she cast one directly at him his big strong chest would just burst with all the light.

Dane’s father and his girlfriend stared at each other before sharing a passionate kiss.

Yori rolled her eyes at them, before continuing. Unfortunately, just like his he and all his siblings were, Abigail was auctioned and sold. That light in his heart dimmed. Lasting love was rare for slaves and he knew he had to suffer on. And so he did— a broken heart and all.

Dane frowned as his father came over to the island and removed one of his sweet potato tarts from the Tupperware container. The furrow of his brows deepened when his father ate the treat in one big bite and then chuckled.

Good manners kept Dane from saying anything.

When his father reached for another, his Aunt Yori reached over and plucked her brother’s hand away, before replacing the lid on the Tupperware and sliding the container towards Dane. May I continue now? she asked him, her tone bemused.

Dane nodded and set his crossed arms atop the container.

The adults all laughed.

It’s said that Horatio helped hundreds of slaves over the years, even giving up opportunities of his own to flee for the greater good of helping those whose lives were more tortured than his own and because he couldn’t imagine leaving without ever laying eyes on his one true love, Abigail, again.

Aunt Yori’s voice lowered to a whisper. It was another decade before the Civil War brought on the end of slavery. Not that everything automatically became easy for African-Americans. Not at all. But in time, Horatio and other laborers developed a small community of their own and moved off plantations where they had been enslaved for the majority of their lives. Out of necessity, they continued to work those plantations for meager pay but swore not to live in those slave cabins again. Horatio became the unofficial leader of The Jackson Community. Respected. Determined. Still the biggest advocate for his people and their rights.

"And still broken-hearted until...," she added.

Dane listened on as his aunt told of their ancestor’s chance meeting with a new customer whose wheel on his wagon needed repair during his lengthy travel from Atlanta to Florida. "Horatio never expected to look up, as the man helped his wife, children and their nanny from the wagon, and see Abigail. His Abigail. Still beautiful. Her eyes still filled with love for him. Her smile still bright enough to lighten the sky. Her kisses finally healing him, she said. Needless to say the customer was not a happy camper that he had to hire a new nanny to continue on the trip because Abigail and Horatio absolutely refused to be separated. And they never were again."

Aunt Yori reached out and took Dane’s hand in hers, squeezing it gently. For a wedding gift, Horatio made Abigail a beautiful and intricate metal heart. The family legacy is that each Jackson male finds his true love once the heart was in his possession. It’s as if his love for her was its own little piece of magic that has passed on from generation to generation to generation...

Although his father called it hogwash, his Aunt Yori believed in the power of the metal heart and she passed that belief on to Dane.

Unfortunately, as we all know, the heart was sold out of the family nearly fifty years ago and it’s believed that generations of Jackson men have suffered at love ever since, Aunt Yori said with regret.

Lincoln soundly slapped Yvonne on the buttocks before gripping it and yanking her body close to his. Not me, he said with confidence before kissing her soundly as she giggled.

Dane and Yori shared a long look.

Yvonne was his father’s third girlfriend in just the past year and they doubted there wouldn’t be a fourth.

Do you think the heart will ever be returned back to the family? Dane asked, hoping that it would because he didn’t want to have the type of marriage that his parents had before they divorced.

Perhaps, she said wistfully, coming around the island to wrap her arm around his thin shoulders.

Dane was surrounded by the scent of lavender.

Never forget your past, she told him fiercely. One day you will tell it to your own children and then they will pass it on to theirs. And so on and so on.

I will, he promised, opening the container to remove a tart and hand it to her with a dimpled smile.

CHAPTER ONE

Twenty years later (2015)

Dane? Dane! Wake up. You gotta get up!

Groaning and stretching his muscled limbs as he awakened, Dane Jackson opened one eye to look at the young woman staring hysterically down upon him. Monique. She was as sexy as she was beautiful. They had just shared one hell of a night.

Catching a delicious view of her pendulous breasts swinging above him freely, Dane felt every bit of his eleven inches swell with life. Why the rush, baby girl? I’m not going anywhere, he told her jokingly, stroking his full beard as he lay back against the stack of pillows on her bed. He reached for one of her pert nipples.

Monique rolled away from him quickly, climbing off the bed. "Oh, you gotta go, she told him, frantically grabbing up his earlier discarded clothing to throw at him like a fastball. My man’s on his way upstairs and you gotta get the hell out of here!"

Dane removed his boxers from where she flung them against his frowning face. Hold up ... hold up! he shouted with attitude. "Your what is where?"

Monique threw her hands up to the ceiling as if she was pleading with the Great One for guidance. She then leaned forward to snatch the covers from the bed, leaving his tall muscular nude frame exposed. It was obvious she allowed herself one last delicious glimpse of the solid man before she got back on track. Put your clothes on and go out the back door. If my man catches you up in here he’s gonna flip out.

Dane wiped the sleep from his eyes as he glared at her. "Where was your man last night?" he asked her coldly, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed to jerk on his boxers before reaching for his jeans.

Monique was quickly pulling a nightgown over her head. He’s stationed in Atlanta but a sistah got needs on the regular, a’ight, she told him with insolence.

Dane rose to pull on his bright white T-shirt. Whatever, Monique. You should’ve said you had a man when we met.

She imitated playing the violin. Listen, I ain’t got time for your sad song. Army boy pays all my bills including that Honda I’m drivin’. Nobody, no matter how delicious, messes with my money. Especially this close to Christmas.

How did I get myself into this?

Monique began to straighten the bed. She paused when she heard the front door open.

Monique? Girl, come take the chain off the door! her man yelled, the chain rattling as he again attempted to open the door.

Dane shook his head in disgust at the whole situation as he pulled on his black boots and leather motorcycle jacket. If he had known two weeks ago when he first met her that she was anything but the classy woman she appeared to be, he wouldn’t have given her the time of day.

Listen, I’ll go out and stall him. When I say—

Dane picked up his keys and wallet, completely ignoring her as he walked past her and out of the bedroom, calmly smoothing his large hand over his low fade.

Monique dashed behind him. What the hell are you doing, Dane? she whispered with wide, frantic eyes.

Leaving, he told her shortly.

Monique? Who you talking to in there? her man shouted, as he pressed his face into the open crack.

She grabbed at one of Dane’s strong arms but he easily brushed off her touch. He reached the door and shook his head as the one eye peeping through the crack widened at the sight of him.

Who the hell is he? her man roared.

Dane reached with a strong hand to first shut the door and then remove the chain. He heard the man on the other side of