First Chapter: Later by Colette R. Harrell #FirstChapter #ChapterOne

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Later

Title: Later Author: Colette R. Harrell Publisher: Intentional Entertainment LLC Pages: 204 Genre: Historical / Interracial / Supernatural / Paranormal

Blurb:

In 1859, Junie Benson was a twelve-year-old genius and enslaved. His older sister, Sari, had her own difficulties, including being auctioned to the highest bidder. She was also beautiful, flighty, and had a repetitive dream about a hazel-eyed white stranger. Everybody with the good sense God had given them knew even her dream was forbidden.

In the present, three things troubled ex-Special Forces Lt. Colonel Zachary Trumble . . . his new job as director of security for Burstein Labs, his loveless marriage, and the green-eyed siren who won’t let him sleep in peace.

Then time’s fickle hand brewed a recipe for a miracle . . . Stir in three runaway slaves, an avalanche, one mad scientist, and an unhappy, in-love hero to create a dish for revenge best served . . . Later.

Book Information

Release Date: September 1, 2022 Publisher: Intentional Entertainment LLC Soft Cover: 204 pages Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dyfTxg

Chapter One

Chapter One 1859 t was 1859, and the tips of fingers and noses were suffering. It was the beginning of what slaves at the Benson Plantation felt was a bitter, cold Tennessee winter. In reality, it was a brisk thirty-five degrees, but with thin-bare coats and a lack of gloves or proper shoes, their perception of bitter cold was skewed. Nevertheless, one of the places outside of the towering, big house with the enormous Roman pillars and its kitchen that held any real warmth was the smithy. And as snowflakes trickled and turned wet as they hit the ground, the clang of the red-hot anvil sang across the air. Clang. Clang. Clang. No upcoming approach could be heard in the clamor of the hammer pounding away. Then, with small hands clutching her threadbare coat to her chest, a vision of beauty came flying into view. She slid and was almost upended as she called out, “Papa, Papa, I gots to tell ya.” John’s hammer continued to ring as he placed a new shoe on the hoof of Massa’s favorite horse. Face smudged with ash, twelve-year-old Junie looked up from the corner where he sat huddled, perched on an overturned bucket. He looked down at the mud, where his stick and foot had quickly scratched and smeared out the words he was practicing. “Doggon’ it, Sari girl, I was figuring letters! You beat all. Make some noise, why don’t cha? Sneaking up like a possum trying to get past a po’ hungra fox.” Gasping, the twenty-year-old Sarah, otherwise known as Sari, squinted her eyes, furtively glanced behind her shoulder, and with her hand on her waist, proclaimed, “Watch yo’ mouth, boy chile. If I could catch ya, so can others. You know we neva cipher in daylight, Junie— neva!” Vexed, he peered at his ruined words. “Shush, gal. Nighttime too hard. Gotta catch the light while I can. Candlelight too dim. Can’t see if my letters is straight ’nuff.” Junie stood and walked over to his sister, waiting. Eyes blinking, Sari exhaled, started to speak, and then paused. “Well, girl? You callin’, and I’s here,” John Benson said with a grimace that altered his usually gentle, brown face. Junie knew his father loved him some Sari, nick-named by his beloved “gone to glory” mother, but his sister was prone to fits of drama. Therefore, she never quite grew to the sedate name of Sarah, so Sari she remained and acted to all. He believed her fits came from being up in the big house all the time. Massa’s missus was right theatrical. He heard tell through Cinda that they used up the smelling salts quite regular because of her goings-on. John was a man who was average in stature but stood tall. Sari and Junie looked up to him and imagined his five-foot-nine stature as a towering six feet. Even when they saw their father bend to the will of others, there was steel in his eyes that let them know his spirit was not beaten. “Papa, I hear Massa say war comin’. He say if that there Lincoln fella run for office, they gon’ take us away, and we gon’ starve. We ain’t gon’ have no place to go, and I don’t wanna be more hungra, Papa.” Sari huffed as she pulled her apron hard around her hand, winding it further up her body. Junie looked at his papa and waited for what he would say. He already knew what he had been hearing for the last month, that it was time to go. Junie had shared every word with Papa. They had always planned according to the voice and sometimes just the urgings Junie had in his spirit. Over Junie’s young life, both the urgings and the voice proved to be infallible. When he was just three years old, the old root woman, Betunde, told his papa and mama that they needed to heed Junie’s mumblings, even when it didn’t make sense. The miracle of first Junie’s mother, then Junie hearing from the divine voice moved Betunde. Betunde came to know the Lord better than the plantation’s visiting reverend. What was once her root work became the root of the tree of life. The mumblings Betunde told them to note had become clear sentences and instructions by Junie’s fourth birthday. Betunde had since been laid to rest, along with his beloved mama. However, Betunde’s words were never laid down nor buried. Instead, they became hallowed wisdom they all lived by. Papa decided they wouldn’t reveal much to Sari. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust her, but she was overly excited and had the habit of oversharing when she was overwhelmed. And she tended to succumb to fits of worry easily. Knowing their plans derived from the voice would surely send her into overdrive. But voice or not, even thinking about leaving Benson Plantation would be an act of betrayal, and the consequences were ten lashes. Massa then made bad worse because he mandated that coarse salt and red pepper were rubbed into the mangled, bleeding flesh after each whipping. You could hear in each cabin the grunts of agony and bewildered cries as the solution intermingled with the blood flowing freely from each slash. Some folk might say that Benson folk had it good, as opposed to slaves on the neighboring plantation. They heard tell of hot tar being poured onto the open wounds of whipped slaves and then set on fire at the Plessy place. Junie had never been whipped. Sari and his father, John, had never been whipped. But Junie, like all the other slaves on the Benson Plantation, had witnessed beatings. It was mandated that every slave, young and old, feeble or sick, attend the public whippings. Many who were whipped were never the same. Some just up and died. Once, Duke, a big strapping buck, got whipped for moving too slow for the overseer. That man got so angry that he had Duke tied to the old pine oak and whipped him till Duke forgot who he was. Now, Duke permanently worked slow, shuffled, and drooled. Nobody wanted to end up like Duke. Papa said a scared man wasn’t right-minded. That overseer was so scared of big, strong Duke that he had to bring him down when he failed to bow low and fast enough. Papa shared that anxious men were the most dangerous, and most white gentry was fearful of lots of things, even poor white folk, like being poor was a disease they didn’t want to catch. The overseer was fired due to him messing with Massa’s property, but Duke still had an addled brain. John Benson was the blacksmith on the plantation. He worked from sunup to sundown. He shoed horses, repaired wagons, or anything else needing ironworks. He was hired out around the town and neighboring lands. He had an affinity for anything mechanical. For the last twelve years, he could be seen in the Benson Plantation’s wagon pulled by two robust mules going up and down the road, plying his wares for Massa Benson. He made the Benson Plantation good money and won favor from neighboring plantations, farms, and county folk. He was known to have a fine touch with steel and iron. And could just as easily make a decorative scroll of iron as he could to create tools and fastenings for doors and barns. The neighbors loved his work, especially those who didn’t have to go into town for help. As such, he had more privileges than most. There was hope in those privileges. Junie had a knack for numbers and inventions that made crops more bountiful, and he could hear tell of a stock the Massa shared with him and tell if it was going to prosper as an investment. He had helped make the Benson Plantation wealthy. Massa Benson would always say that the labor of the sinner is laid up for the righteous to get wealth. He then would say, with evil in his eye, that all slaves were sinners, cursed by Noah’s son, Ham. And as much as God spoke to Junie, He stayed silent on that one. It didn’t sound like the God he knew, but Junie got right discombobulated when the reverend held the slaves’ church services on Sunday. He never understood that the God they quoted never felt like the Divinity who spoke to him. Picking up his hammer again, John swung it through the air sending out a large clang. “Don’t cha worry nothing ’bout no war, Sari girl. Go on back ’fore they see ya missin’ from de kitchen.” “Yes’m, Papa. Sho’ be glad when Sunday next come. Christmas Day gon’ be some good eatin’.” Sari slid backward toward the door, her rambling mind already on to something else. Junie shared a look with his father as John shook his head, turned, and continued shoeing the horse. Finally, he sat back down on his overturned bucket and placed his stick in the mud he had created as his blackboard when they heard Sari call out. Junie, legs stretching, flew to the alcove opening, and he braced his back against the wall to peek around the door. Her voice five octaves higher, Sari gushed, “Hey ’there, Massa. Just asking Papa if he want us to bring him his supper. On a count, he workin’ so hard for ya today, don’t want to slow him down none.” Eyebrows bunched like a caterpillar streaking across his forehead, Jacob Benson groused, “Not your concern, gal. Go on and get back to the house. Your Missus or Cinda might need ya.” “Yes, Suh, Massa. I’s goin’ now.” Her long legs spread as she hurried to the big house’s kitchen, calling back, “Missus love her afternoon tea.” Junie was lightning quick moving back to his place. John nodded to Junie, who had moved his bucket over the scratching lines in the dirt. Standing erect from his task, John bent his head when Jacob Benson entered the smithy. Jacob’s piercing green eyes lasered on his stallion. “How’s he looking, John boy? He going to be ready to race come spring?” “Yes, suh. I believes so. Old Silas say this gon’ do it.” “Good. I got races to win.” He then tipped back his hat. “Now, I got two places that need some work. First, you go on out to the Plessy place. They needs some iron fastenings for their barn. Then go on to the Johnson place and fix the carriage. Dag blasted thang almost kilt Ms. Margaret when the wheel fell off.” He then yanked his hat clear off his head, slapping his thigh. “And only do what I tell you. Jedidiah Plessy got a bad habit of trying to add to your list when you get there, but then conveniently forget to pay me.” At Jacob’s last statement, a tiny tick formed in the corner of John’s left eye. “Yes, suh. Be right on it.” Jacob looked over his shoulder as he twirled his hat in his hands. “I see you back there, Junie. You don’t have no work waiting on you?” “No, suh. Filled up all the water pots, dumped all the chamber pots, and gathered the eggs and two chickens for Cinda. She said I could go for a bit unless you’se had need of me. You needs me?” Jacob spit snuff right by Junie’s foot. He flinched but dared not move it an inch. “Well, now, boy, if I did need you, you wouldn’t have been there, now, would you?” He used his hat to point toward the smithy door. “So, go on and git.” Junie walked outside of the smithy and fell back against the smithy wall to eavesdrop on the rest of what Massa Jacob Benson wanted with his father. He could always tell when Massa wasn’t finished spouting like a fountain. “Listen you here, John. Just ’cause you and them youngins of yours ain’t been whipped don’t mean I won’t whip ’em. You hear me, boy? Thangs getting a little too loose around c’here. I don’t like it, coming and going like they got the right. This going to stop!” John hung his head and nodded. “And another thang. Don’t cha be paying no mind to any talk you hear in town, and don’t you be bringing it back to this c’here plantation. You hear me, boy?” Head already bowed, John stooped more, then stood still. “Yes, suh. I hear’s ya.” “All right then. You’ve always been a good Negra, John. So don’t go making me change my mind ’bout cha being a good Negra.” “No, suh, Massa.” Not wanting to get caught, Junie ran as fast as he could on the frost- covered ground into the kitchen. There was always work to be done, and he better be caught doing it. The kitchen was two stories high, about seven-hundred square feet wide, and separate from the big house. It stayed toasty warm, which was welcomed in the winter and woefully miserable in the summer. The smells could be overpowering in such close range, but it kept the Benson family from having to smell day-old food, a too-hot house, or risk a fire to their main home. On the first floor, Cinda cooked sumptuous meals for the Benson Plantation; on the second floor, she, Gussie, and Gussie’s daughter, Tulip, had pallets for sleeping and cubbies for their belongings with nails in the wall to hang their clothes. Cinda smiled with warmth when she saw Junie enter the kitchen. “Bells and horns, Junie. You be c’here right on time, and I needs sometin’ from de cellar. Brang me up five apples and ten potatoes, and grab me a side of pork. Massa want pork roast on da morrow.” Junie nodded, grabbed the sack sitting in the corner for that purpose, and ran out the door to the root cellar building right next door. Once he entered the building, he went down the stairs of the dank-smelling dwelling, lay on his belly in front of the first pit, pulled potatoes out of the sand, and placed them in the sack. He then stood and walked down to more pits until he reached the one that held only bushels of apples. Massa Benson was partial to apples and loved him a cobbler, pie, applesauce, or some kind of pork garnished with cinnamon apples. Junie lay down again and reached down until he brought forth the apples Cinda wanted. He placed everything Cinda asked for in the sack and then added a few extra things in his inner coat pocket. He then stood and climbed up the steps and walked over to the many smoked meats hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Next to the hanging meat were dried beans, corn to be ground into meal, and under them, shucks of grain. Junie took down the requested side of pork but took nothing there for himself. The overseer’s wife checked the inventory in the root cellar regularly, and while she never could tell if any root vegetables were missing, she counted all the meat and checked it against the missus’s daily menu. Junie was smart enough only to take the items Cinda was cooking for the big house meals. He would then transfer them to their storage root pit in their cabin’s dirt floor. “It’s not thieving. It’s payment.” Junie spoke to the dank air and hoped the voice heard him. It would be hard to go through with their plans in the early winter, but one advantage was hiding things in their oversized coats. Junie’s coat was a hand-me-down, too big for him but perfect for hiding his stash. The other winter benefit was that nighttime came early, giving them more time to run and less daylight to follow. They also didn’t have to contend with soggy land, mosquitoes, and such on their journey. The voice said go, and they had used every bit of each day to prepare. Papa and Junie knew time was running out. Going out the cellar door and into the kitchen building, he saw Sari sitting at the table kneading bread. They smiled at each other, Sari’s accompanied with a saucy wink. They were different in looks. Her leafy- green eyes, long, brown-auburn tipped curls, a heart-shaped face with her pert nose, and almond-toasted complexion was in sharp contrast to his cinnamon-hued eyes, warm brown skin, and broad forehead and nose. Both were attractive people, but the observers’ hearts measured beauty. Some folks, like the missus, called Junie ugly because his looks spoke to a land far away. But both Cinda and Sari assured him often he was a handsome boy and would be a fine, strapping man. As though looks mattered when what a man needed was a broad back and fit mind . . . Junie didn’t put much worry in his looks. He knew his mind worked right well. But he worried about his Sari girl every day. The only thing that kept her safe was that Massa had an uncommon soft spot for her, but Junie knew it wouldn’t be long before Massa bred her. She was over the age, and her beauty was well known. Massa had turned down offers to buy her or just to bed her, but he said no with a gleam in his eye like she was a Christmas turkey not quite ready for the table . . . but almost. Sighing, Junie said, “Cinda, Massa still going to his mama’s for Christmas?” Cinda clapped the flour off her hands as she moved around the kitchen in sync with her tasks. “Yes, Junie. Third time ya done ask me such. Why?” “Uh, I’se hopin’ he don’t make me go, that’s all.” “He say you staying here, Junie.” Sari’s neck swiveled back and forth between the two. “Missus say she might take me. Ain’t that nice, Junie?” Startled and eyes wide, Junie stuttered over his words. “Y-y-you don’t need to go, Sari.” “But I neva get off this c’here place. I so too will go.” Junie saw Cinda purse her lips and was glad when she said, “Baby girl, sometime, home is the onliest place you’s safe. And that there might not be true most time.” Sari’s face fell, and her eyes glazed. “You hear tell I can’t go, Junie?” Junie knew she was referring to how he heard the voice and how, over the years, that voice had kept them safe. Do I lie? he wondered. “No, I ain’t heard on this in particula. But, Sari, I know. Don’t go.” Sari bit her lip and then gave a sharp nod of her head. “I think on it. But may not be my call, Junie. If Missus say, Massa do.” Junie sucked in his breath and turned his head so they couldn’t read his face. On top of the anxiety for all his plans to come through, he was now extra worried. Sari girl, just ’cause a thing got silk walls and padded don’t mean it ain’t a cage.

About the Author

Colette R. Harrell

Colette R. Harrell made her debut as an author with the book, The Devil Made Me Do It. As a published author, she has enjoyed meeting her readers; for her, it’s all surreal. She holds a master’s degree and worked as a director of social services, which allowed her a front-row seat to the conflict and struggles of everyday people. Her day is filled as an Author, Playwright, Story Editor, Wife, Mother, Grandmother, and child of God. She wears many titles allowing twenty-four hours a day to meet the challenge. Her goal in writing is to engage readers and provide them with golden nuggets of wisdom that feed and titillate. Her biggest lesson is that it takes a village to raise a dream. She loves and appreciates her village. She prays everything God has for you manifests in your life. And that you stretch and reach for it! Colette’s latest book is the historical/interracial/supernatural/paranormal Later. You can visit her website at Coletteharrell.com or connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads or Instagram.

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“I invested in a three month virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Books promotions for my noir thriller, Moonlight Falls. Not only did the marketing campaign work wonders for spreading the word about the new novel, in the very last month, on the very last day of the tour, Moonlight Falls became an Amazon Kindle bestseller!”
–Vincent Zandri, MOONLIGHT FALLS and THE REMAINS

“I’m so pleased every day when I look at Google Alerts and see our titles all around the blogosphere, so thanks for that!”
–-World Ahead Media

“This has been a wonderful experience. Dorothy Thompson and her whole team are very committed to each author, take each author’s tour very seriously, and work towards maximum exposure in the right places. This is the best book promotion expenditure I’ve made in terms of return on investment. I highly recommend Pump Up Your Book Promotion.”
--Phyllis Zimbler Miller, MRS: LIEUTENANT

"I used Pump Up Your Book promotions a few months ago for my novel, Nephilim. My publisher is a great person, but when it comes to promotions, she encourages authors to do that on their own. Enter Dorothy Thompson at Pump Up Your Book. I had 8 reviews of the book and was featured as a guest author every day of the week at various websites during the month that I used her company. Amazing! She secured everything for me which was really nice and I didn't have to do anything but write a few blogs or answer interview questions. I would use Pump Up Your Book again in a heart beat!"
--Mary Ann Loesch, NEPHILIM

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PUYB Book Trailer of the Week

The Death of the Kremlin Czar by Jorg H. Trauboth

Question of the Day

How do you make sales happen for you?

A lot of hard work! I sponsor a lot of on line parties, festivals and contests. Book sales don’t magically happen, believe me. An author has to work hard to earn her readers. And then she has to work hard to keep them by giving them something they’ll enjoy reading. I try hard to make my books worth a reader’s time.

-- Sheila Roberts, Author of Winter at the Beach