Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry)

by Caroline Friday

  “Got a pretty head on him, don’t he? But not as pretty as yours,” Isaac said, winking at Angelina.

  “Flattery isn’t gonna get you anywhere with us, Richardson,” Tom said. “This horse ain’t good for nothin’ but stud, ’less someone can ride him.”

  “You know that’s gonna be me,” Angelina said, gazing at the stallion.

  “I know it’s not,” Tom replied in a stern tone.

  Her eyes widened upon seeing the horse’s long legs and dark, glossy coat with sleek, defined muscles running underneath. It took her breath away to see what God created. “I am,” she said, “and that’s that.” Plopping down on two feet, she took a deep breath and stared at Midnight Storm.

  “Miss Raeford—”

  “Tom, if I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to order you to ‘hush.’”

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Suit yourself. Just don’t come cryin’ to me—”

  “Tom?” She kept her eyes on the horse, watching it toss its magnificent head. “Hush, now. And that’s an order.” She moved forward, slowly and carefully, with her arm outstretched. “Hey there, boy. Hey. Shhh. You wanna ride, huh? Wanna ride?” The stallion tossed its head wildly and blew a stream of hot mucus from his nostrils, but Angelina didn’t mind. She was so close now, mere inches from its deep, velvety nose, until—she stroked it, gliding her hand along the smooth cheek. “You are gorgeous, you know that? Just gorgeous.” Grabbing the reins, she stepped closer and held a sugar cube in her palm which the horse sniffed before licking it up with a quick flick of its tongue. “You like that, don’t you?” It snorted as she offered another sugar cube. “Stevie,” Angelina instructed, keeping her voice calm, “get that saddle blanket.”

  Instantly, Stevie and Ward sprung into action, gently sliding a blanket on the horse’s back and then securing Angelina’s favorite saddle. Midnight Storm neighed as the girth was fastened around its belly. “Not too tight,” Angelina ordered, letting the horse lick up another sugar cube.

  Tom cleared his throat and adjusted his Stetson. “There’s not enough sugar in the world—”

  “Tom?” Her tone was calm yet authoritative—enough to silence her foreman so she could ride. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispered near the stallion’s ear. “Boys,” she announced, “I’m gonna show you how it’s done.”

  “You go to it, little lady.” Isaac grinned, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. He rubbed his calloused palms together like he was preparing to count a bucket of money and stepped back toward the rail.

  Angelina laced her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself up, swinging her leg over the horse’s back. She held her breath as she settled into the saddle. All was quiet—she felt every eye on her, waiting for the worst to happen, but nothing did. The stallion tossed its head a few times, responding to a gentle nudge with her heels. “See, Tom?” Angelina held her head up high as she led the horse around the round pen in a slow walk. “Nothing to it.” Taking a tighter hold of the reins, she nudged the stallion into a faster pace and then a slow trot.

  Suddenly, it lifted its head and reared up on its hind legs. “Whoa boy,” she coaxed, “whoa—I’ve got it, I’ve got, it,” she insisted, warning the men away so she could handle the horse on her own. The next thing she knew, Midnight Storm was acting true to its name, bucking and rearing like a bull in a rodeo.

  “Miss Raeford, Miss Raeford!” Voices resonated around her, but all she could think about was staying glued to the saddle and holding on. Before she realized it, the stallion took off running toward the fence, faster and faster, and then slammed on the brakes, sending her flying through the air and crashing down on the other side of the ring. She tried to catch her breath, but it was knocked clean out of her, like she had taken a swift kick to the lungs.

  “You all right?” Tom asked. She rolled on her back and felt a pair of strong arms lift her to her feet.

  “Yeah.” Her whole right side ached, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. “Just give me a moment,” she mumbled, finally sucking in a gulp of crisp air. “I’m gonna ride him—”

  “You’re not gettin’ on that horse again, Miss Raeford,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Not today. I promised your mama I wouldn’t let you do nothin’ crazy, and this is just plumb crazy, it is. That horse is wild and mean and you don’t have no business on him.”

  Angelina pulled away from his grip and pointed a shaky finger at the stallion. “Mitchell, go get him,” she gasped.

  Mitchell exchanged looks with Tom and hung his head. “Now, Miss Raeford, I agree with Tom. This stallion needs a strong man to break him first. Lemme see if I can work with him a while, get him good and broke, then you can ride him all you want—”

  She pushed past both of them and hobbled back to the fence. A strong man? Huh! There wasn’t a horse on this earth she couldn’t break. She scooted under the railing, being careful not to bump her head.

  “Miss Raeford,” Isaac said, cajoling her, “why don’t you lemme bring over that chestnut mare—”

  “I don’t want any other horse, you hear?” She limped over to Midnight Storm and grabbed the reins, ignoring the stallion’s whinnies and jerks, as well as incessant prancing. As usual, she’d have to do things herself, since these mealy-mouthed men wouldn’t even try. She hoisted herself back into the saddle and melted into the leather seat, positioning her feet in the stirrups. Squeezing her knees again, she walked the horse around the ring once more.

  Tom leaned his forearms on the rail and adjusted his hat, giving her a sad look as he watched. She caught his eye, and immediately the truth shot down into her heart—he and Mama had loved each other like everyone said, even though he was part Iroquois. He had given up everything, being willing to wait, but life dealt a cruel blow when she died long before Daddy passed away. Angelina looked away, not being able to bear the pain in his face. “I can’t quit, Tom. You of all people should know that. I won’t. If I don’t keep going, I’ll die.”

  Before she could finish her next thought, the stallion took off again, rearing, jerking, and bucking until Angelina was sailing through the air, slamming down hard into the dirt.

  “That woman!” Ben tossed his shovel to the ground and stormed out of the barn, making his way to where Angelina lay sprawled on her backside. Didn’t she know by now she couldn’t force an unbroken stallion to walk around a riding ring until it had the fire run out of it first?

  Tom, Mitchell, and Billy hovered around Angelina’s still form. “Miss Raeford! Miss Raeford! Dear Lord’ve mercy!” Tom patted her on the cheeks, trying to wake her up, but there was no response.

  Ben shoved them aside and fell to his knees, gathering Angelina in his arms. “It’s a wonder she didn’t break her neck,” Mitchell said.

  “Be quiet, you hear?” Ben snapped, sensing panic rise up in him. “All of you. She’s all right, I tell you.” He stared at her, lost in the beauty of her dark lashes resting against her soft cheeks. “Angel, wake up. Wake up.” He shook her gently and silently prayed, Dear God, wake her up. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, restoring his hope. “That’s it. Wake up, now.” Slowly, her eyes opened and stared into his, propelling him back in time to when he had first watched her sleep under their oak tree at Palmetto Ridge. That was the day he had first called her “Angel.”

  “Ben,” she whispered with a breathy voice and a dreamy, faraway look that struck fear in his heart, as if she might step into that other world at any moment—a world that didn’t include him. “You came home.”

  “Yes. You remember, don’t you? Yesterday?” She stared at him hard and blinked her eyes a few times. He smiled, wanting so badly to bend down and kiss her full lips. “Come on, lemme get you into the house—”

  Suddenly, a dark cloud swept through her countenance, indicating the old Angelina was back. “I’ll be fine, if you’ll let me up,” she said curtly, pushing him away. He frowned but allowed her to sit up and get her bearings. After catching her breath for a moment, she
said, “Mitchell, go get that horse.”

  “That’ll be over my dead body.” It was Tom who answered, and his voice was firm and authoritative, rendering in Ben a newfound respect for the seasoned trainer. He took mental note not to cross paths with the man unless absolutely necessary. “Now, you’re gonna go straight up to bed and rest that noggin of yours. You hear me?”

  Angelina’s clenched jaw was a sign she wasn’t about to give up, despite Tom’s anger. Why was she being so stubborn? Ben wondered. Why does she have to make everything so hard?

  A loud whinny and neigh reminded him that Midnight Storm was still in the ring, seemingly forgotten for the time being, even by Mr. Richardson. He felt sorry for the animal, fighting with every bit of its strength to hang onto its independence from the white man, as Ben’s native ancestors had. Seeing that Angelina was in good hands, Ben scooted under the fence railing and approached the stallion. It stamped its hooves in defiance, but Ben just inched closer. Lord, he is a beauty, he said to himself. The dark coat was sleek and velvety, like a well-oiled strip of softened cowhide, and the legs were dipped in white, like it had stepped into a vat of whipped vanilla frosting. An urge to jump on and ride like the wind tempted Ben, but he resisted for now. They needed to get to know each other first.

  As he approached, the horse’s nostrils flared and its eyes widened, revealing the whites underneath. Fear was running up and down the animal, and with good reason. If it only knew some of the measures white men took to break a horse, it would bow down on all fours and let even a man like Edward Millhouse ride. Ben was thankful none of those measures were used at Fairington.

  “God is here with us, my friend.” He clicked his tongue and whispered in his native Cherokee, the way his mother taught him. “If you listen, we will be blessed.” The stallion’s ears perked up as though it heard and understood. Then Ben prayed silently, Father God, bring us peace, stillness, calm—a calm in the storm. He crept closer and stoked the long, lean neck, clicking his tongue and whispering in his native language once more. “Let us ride together, you and me. Let’s ride like the wind—away, away from this place.” The horse neighed softly and nuzzled Ben’s palm, licking the sweat off his skin. Ben took this as his cue and hopped into the saddle, grabbing the reins.

  Midnight Storm pounded the earth with its hooves and shook its head, preparing itself for what was meant to be. Ben gave a gentle nudge with his heel, and the stallion took off, cantering around the ring with him glued to the saddle as if horse and rider were one. In no time, they picked up speed and then turned abruptly and raced toward the fence. Ben could almost hear the gasps from Angelina and Tom that made him grin big and wide, for he knew the soul of this horse—it meant him no harm. Like Ben, it wanted only one thing—to be free.

  With a swift kick to the side and a loud Cherokee yelp, Midnight Storm sailed over the fence and took off into the open fields. Ben gave the horse its head and let it gallop with no restraint, as boundless as the wind blowing through the trees. Laughing out loud, he sat back in the saddle and spread his arms wide, feeling like a young boy again as he swayed in rhythm to the stallion’s stride. He closed his eyes and tossed his head back, gulping in the breeze that flowed down into his lungs and through his long, black hair.

  Ben rode like this for a long time, until the horse slowed as they approached Palmetto Ridge. Grabbing the reins, he guided Midnight Storm to the oak tree that he remembered from long ago. It was bigger now, and its long, craggy arms provided more shade than what he recalled. But that wasn’t surprising. It had been ten years, and yet the memories were as alive as though they had just happened.

  Pulling the stallion to a stop, he looked out over the ridge to his boyhood home. His mother would have cried if she could see its current condition. The house was dilapidated and crumbling, looking more like an old, weathered barn than a respectable two-storied farm house. One side of the porch railing was broken, parts of the roof were caved in, and the white paint was crusty and peeling like bark on a pine tree. The barn looked just as bad, appearing wobbly and frail, like it could fall down with the next swift breeze, and the riding rings were broken-down and overgrown. He swallowed a sob, sensing the familiar anger that threatened to rise up behind it. Where were his mother’s flowers and vegetable gardens, and his father’s horses that used to roam the neighboring pastures?

  The rumbling of hooves in the distance made Midnight Storm neigh softly and lay its ears back on its head. Ben spoke soothing words and gave the stallion a gentle pat on its neck. Straining his eyes, he saw a black buggy approaching in the distance. It travelled down the main road and turned swiftly up the drive, stopping in front of the house. A tall, lanky man stepped down, wearing a dark suit and Stetson hat. He strode up to the porch and nailed a white sign to the front door, banging four to five times with a hammer before walking around the perimeter of the house, finally kicking an old fencepost that used to border his mother’s potato patch. In an instant, Ben knew who the man was. He remembered the chiseled, stern expression and the tongue that was as sharp as the whip that he used on his horses. And despite the distance between the two, Ben could smell him too. It was the smell of money, power, and evil, the stench of the devil himself. The stench of a man named Edward Millhouse.

  With clenched teeth, Ben watched Edward get back into his buggy and ride away until he disappeared. Clicking his tongue, he steered Midnight Storm down the ridge to the house. There on the door was the sign with the words FOR SALE written across in blood-red paint. His mother’s sad face loomed before him, weeping over his father’s disease-ravaged body. Ben had looked on, wishing he could make things right, that he could protect her from the Edward Millhouses of the world. But it wasn’t meant to be.

  Hopping off Midnight Storm, Ben stomped up the porch steps in three long strides and ripped the sign off the door. No matter what happened in the past, this was still his daddy’s farm, his mother’s house—his home. It belonged to Ben Eagle-Smith. And it wasn’t for sale.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Oh, you should’ve seen him, Miranda. Daddy said he showed that Miss-Know-It-All a thing or two. Just jumped on that stallion and in no time disappeared like the wind.”

  Angelina rolled her eyes as she stood behind a sack of feed in Davis Supply & Co., listening to Isabella Richardson go on and on to a group of her Charleston friends about Ben and his infamous ride on Midnight Storm. It was all anyone in Laurel Grove could talk about, and Angelina was getting downright sick of it. She was the one who bought the horse after all, and so what if Ben could ride an unbroken stallion? She rode it twice around the riding ring. Didn’t that count for something?

  “I heard he’s as handsome as can be,” Miranda Sutherland squeaked, sounding more like a little mouse than a grown woman of eighteen. “Even if he is a savage.”

  Isabella giggled to another one of their friends, Rebecca Thompson, recounting Ben’s dark, good looks and long, thick hair, which had all the women talking. “Daddy says he’s gonna be at Edward’s engagement party next week. All of Fairington’ll be there, and I intend on dancing every dance with him.”

  “Isabella! What’s your daddy gonna say with you gallivanting with a Cherokee, even if he is a half-breed?” Rebecca exclaimed. “And what about Mark—”

  “Oh, Mark won’t care if I have a little fun—or Daddy for that matter. And don’t look at me like that, Rebecca. You know you wanna dance with him too.”

  “Do not!”

  “Do too, because I see that look in your eye when you talk about him and don’t deny it, now.”

  “Stop it, Isabella. You know I’m engaged to Robert. You better keep your voice down saying such things.”

  “Oh, all right, be that way. But I’m gonna have a big time,” Isabella said, flitting her arms around the skirt of her green silk dress. “Let’s see—what am I gonna wear? I think maybe that new dress I had made in New York,” she mused, “you know, the blue one with the pearls? And then I’m gonna wear my new drop pearl earring
s with the little diamonds. Why, Ben Eagle-Smith won’t stand a chance once he sets his eyes on me . . .”

  Huh, Angelina thought as she listened to the incessant chatter, as if it’d do her any good to gape at a man like Ben. Immediately, she felt his strong arms cradling her close to his firm chest and the heat of his stare as he looked into her eyes, telling her to “Wake up, wake up.” A sick feeling hit her stomach and a shiver ran up and down her arms at the thought of him holding Isabella in that way. Wasn’t her beau that uppity Mark Kennedy from Charleston? Oh, it doesn’t matter, she assured herself. Ben would never look twice at a girl like Isabella—all fluff and no substance. Maybe her daddy knew a lot about horses and was one of the best breeders around, but his daughter didn’t know a thing about riding, always in a sidesaddle like some stuffy Brit. All she talked about was Charleston and parties and that fancy finishing school, where they did nothing but drink tea and talk about music and dress patterns—the type of women Edward was used to being around.

  Peeking around the feed bags, Angelina watched Isabella, noting that the girl was somewhat pretty, despite her silly personality. Her thick, curly brown hair was always styled in a half-up, half-down ringlet updo which complemented translucent skin and refined features. And her clothes were always in keeping with the Charleston elite. Angelina felt a twinge of envy as she noted Isabella’s fashionable sage green dress trimmed in ribbon, silk brocade, and lace that accentuated her willowy figure and green eyes. She had known Isabella all of her life but never liked her for some unexplained reason. And now that they were young women, Angelina disliked her even more—especially when Isabella’s hands fluttered around her face like an injured bird when she spoke or when her delicate teeth flashed in an exaggerated manner when she laughed. What a ridiculous thing she is, Angelina thought, cringing at Isabella’s dramatic gestures and childish giggles. Just look at her—