Tom kicked the edge of his bunk, rousing Ben from his thoughts. “Got a new job for you today. I’m gonna give Billy here the stall duty while you work with the horses.”
“Aww,” Billy protested, “I don’t wanna be shovelin’ today.”
“You’ll shovel and like it, you hear?” Tom said, silencing any further objection. He looked back at Ben and continued, “You know Mr. Millhouse’s got a stable full of fine thoroughbreds, like us.” Ben nodded in agreement, wondering where this conversation was going. “But he’s got something else I’m not sure you’ve got.”
“What’s that?”
“Drive. Determination.” Tom leaned forward, giving Ben a look of warning. “Losin’ isn’t an option for him. Not even in the realm of possibilities. You understand?”
“I know how to ride,” Ben replied. “Mighty Wind and me can outride him any day.”
Tom chuckled, squinting his eyes in a way that betrayed his native heritage. “I’ll take that as a no—which is why I’m givin’ you a new job. For the next two months, all you’re gonna do is train that stallion, and you’re gonna train it the way I tell you to, till winnin’ is the only thing you’ve got on your mind, you got that? There’s a lot more ridin’ on this than your land or Miss Raeford’s affections.” Tom’s expression grew serious, as if he was hiding a secret. “Now get up and get some breakfast.”
Ben wiped the sleep from his eyes and slid into his boots before putting on a clean shirt. He wondered what sort of history Tom had with Edward. Couldn’t be good, he thought. Foregoing breakfast at the main house, he filled his stomach with black coffee from the bunkhouse stove and yesterday’s cold biscuits sandwiched around a strip of Ella’s day-old fried bacon. He headed out to the stable, doing his best to avoid Angelina, Jessie, or even Ella. Fortunately, they were busy cleaning up after last night’s party, so he was free to commune with the horses without any interference.
He spoke to Midnight Storm, offering a few cubes of sugar, and then tended to Mighty Wind. The stallion bobbed its head, neighing loudly, as it demanded its share of the treats. Ben laughed and dug into his pocket, pulling out a handful of white cubes. “You ready to ride, huh? Go ahead,” he smiled, as the horse’s tongue lapped against his palm. “You’re gonna need it before Tom gets through with us today.” He patted the stallion’s sleek neck, speaking softly in his native language. “The wind blows freely over the ridge. Come, let us ride and see what the Father has for us.”
Saddling up, Ben led Mighty Wind to the open field toward Palmetto Ridge, hoping to let some steam out of the stallion before the training began. With a little kick, the horse took off at full speed. Ben closed his eyes, experiencing the power carrying him away and the taste of the wind on his tongue. He squeezed his knees and Mighty Wind lived up to its name, running faster and harder, jumping a fallen log, sailing over an old wooden fence, and splashing through a stream that ran through the border of the Fairington grounds. He felt the animal’s soul take flight, and for a moment, visualized the two of them floating up to the clouds where Edward Millhouse and his thoroughbreds could never roam. For the first time in many years, Ben experienced hope rising inside of him, taking him to a place where his daddy’s farm was his home again, filled with horses, wild flowers, vegetables growing in the garden—and, of course, Angelina.
He slowed the stallion and eased down to a canter and then a trot, turning and heading back to the stream to grab a quick drink. Mighty Wind walked along the rocks, splashing through the cool water to relieve itself from the heat. Ben dismounted and waded through the stream, cupping his palms and bringing the fresh water to his mouth. It was pure, clean, and good. Even Mighty Wind drank freely. “Not too much,” he teased. He splashed the horse’s face in a loving banter until it whinnied and neighed. “Alright, I’ll stop.” Ben laughed as the stallion stomped its hooves and swished its tail, objecting. “But you’ve gotta promise me you’re gonna win that race. Huh, boy?” He patted its neck again and kissed the velvety nose. “You’re gonna love it there on the farm. You’ll be the king of the stable. Just you and me and a couple of nice mares. That sound good?”
Mighty Wind tossed its mane and rubbed its nose against Ben’s arm. He grabbed the stallion by the muzzle and planted another kiss on its nose, remembering when it was a foal, fresh from its mama’s womb. It was hard to believe the same wobbly legs that gamboled about his people’s land in the foothills of Western North Carolina were strong and lean and would be running the Carolina Challenge in two months. “I always knew you were special, you know that?” The stallion neighed softly, agreeing with this truth. “Thank you, God, for this horse,” Ben prayed. Thank you.
Mighty Wind neighed again and lifted its head up high, looking into the woods. “What is it?” Ben asked. The horse grumbled and whinnied as its ears flattened against its head and its front hooves pawed the earth. “Whoa, whoa there!” Ben grabbed the reins and clicked his tongue, speaking gently in Cherokee. “God has not given us a spirit of fear, my friend. God has not given us a spirit of fear.”
He jumped into the saddle and nudged the horse to the edge of the trees, listening intently. As he got closer, he heard it—a whimper and then a sob coming from a clump of leaves under a pine tree. Yards away, he saw what appeared to be a deer grazing through the leaves and underbrush, but as he looked closer, he saw that it was actually a dappled gray mare with a sidesaddle on its back. It lifted its head, took one look at Ben, and scampered off into the woods.
Ben dismounted, suddenly regretting that he didn’t have his flint knife with him. He reached into his trouser pocket and felt the sharp point of Angelina’s arrowhead, but little good that would do him. Tying the reins to a nearby sapling, he approached the pine tree, taking quiet, careful steps like his uncle had taught him.
As he got closer, he heard the whimper again and saw the edge of a dark blue riding coat crumpled in the dry leaves. “You hurt?” Ben called. There was no answer other than a soft moan and the movement of a pale, white hand. He quickened his pace and saw a face with dark eyelashes and thick, curly brown hair. “Miss Richardson.”
“It’s watching,” Isabella whispered, looking at him with fear and terror. Her eyes darted toward the dense woods, and immediately Ben knew. These hills were crawling with what his people called klandagi or mountain lions. Even though they usually stalked their prey at night, they were known to attack during the day. Ben slowly reached into his pocket and grabbed the arrowhead. It was all he had, so it would have to do. That and his prayers.
Placing the arrowhead between his thumb and index finger, he slowly stood up and peered into the woods, thinking about David slaying the giant Goliath in the Old Testament with nothing but a rock and a belief in his God. “Stay very still,” he whispered to Isabella. “It’s gonna be all right.”
In the distance, a twig snapped and a horse screamed. Adrenaline coursed through Ben’s veins, sending him running toward the sound with the arrowhead wedged between his fingers. As swift as the wind, he scurried through the brush, dodging trees and low-lying limbs, and leaping over fallen logs. He saw the gray rump of the dappled mare prancing in a circle and the black fur of the mountain lion lunge forward. A call rose up from somewhere deep within him and came tumbling out—a Cherokee yell—as his arm slung back behind his head and the arrowhead flew from his hand like a bullet, hitting the cat behind the ear. It fell to the ground, writhing and twitching, its black tail flapping back and forth like a decapitated snake.
Ben rushed forward and shoved his boot on its neck, jerking the arrowhead free. The cat growled, trying to get up, but Ben’s strength kept it on the ground. He stared at it, hard, warning it with his prayers. “Go back, back to your place,” he spoke in the language his mother had taught him. “Into the night.” It growled again, reminding him of Edward Millhouse—strong, dangerous, and deadly. He had heard his mother refer to the dark panther as a wampus, or lord of the forest, who embodied the spirit of death and the earth, and the sound of
its cry meant someone was about to die.
Even though Ben rejected these myths and legends, he sensed death all around him. He could kill it if he wanted to. It would be so easy to take a thick tree branch and sink it deep into the animal’s throat. Ben tasted the bitterness of hate on his tongue—not for this wild creature, but for what was done to him and his mother. Don’t. Don’t do it, a voice inside him said. Vengeance is mine. I will repay.
As he listened, the bitterness dissipated, turning sour and acidic. Carefully, he removed his foot and the cat scurried away, disappearing into the trees. Ben grabbed the mare’s reins and wiped the sweat from his brow. Fear came over him at the thought of how close he had come to doing the unthinkable. Was he really capable of killing? Could he take the life of another if given the chance? If he had killed that mountain lion, he would’ve been justified, but it still would’ve been wrong. To hate in your heart is murder, resounded in his mind.
“Yes,” Ben answered, feeling guilt wash over him. It wouldn’t have really been a wild animal he destroyed, but something or someone else. Closing his eyes, he thought about the number of times he had murdered Edward Millhouse with his thoughts, wishing him dead or dying a gruesome, horrific death. How many times had he sinned for holding on to such hateful imaginings? His gut justified his actions, but his heart condemned. The very image of Edward lying on the ground with an arrowhead embedded in his skull and a tree branch through his throat sent Ben to his knees right there in the woods, begging God for forgiveness.
CHAPTER 12
“Well, I’ll be,” Jessie said, leaning against the porch railing and squinting at someone galloping across the open field toward Fairington. “That’s Ben—and Isabella Richardson.”
Angelina stood from the porch rocker and watched Ben ride toward them on Mighty Wind, pulling a gray mare close behind. Isabella sat in his lap with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Her head lay on his shoulder with one of her ankles bandaged and bouncing up and down with each stride of the horse. What in the world? A twinge of betrayal zipped through Angelina at seeing him with another woman.
Tom stepped toward the porch and wiped his brow with a blue bandana he kept in his back pocket. “Looks like she’s hurt. Must’ve had a fall.”
“I’ll bet,” Angelina said under her breath as her eyes narrowed, noticing how Isabella’s face brushed up next to Ben’s neck. “Knowing her, she probably fell on purpose.”
“Angelina!” Jessie exclaimed.
“Well it’s true. She’ll do about anything to get Ben’s attention.”
“That’s mean and hateful, and anyway, why would you care?” Jessie said. “Engaged women aren’t supposed to be thinking about what other men do—other than their betrothed.”
Angelina ignored this comment and squinted, watching Ben and Isabella approach. “I don’t know what she’s up to,” she murmured, “but I guess you better let Ella know we’re gonna have company for lunch—and maybe dinner too. And I reckon we oughta get the guest room ready so she can rest till Isaac can get over here and fetch her.”
She followed Tom out to the field to meet Ben and take charge of the horses. Tom grabbed hold of Mighty Wind’s bridle while Billy scampered out from the stable and untethered Isabella’s mare. “We’ve got a sprained ankle,” Ben said. “Horse got spooked by a mountain lion.” He gracefully slid off the stallion’s back, cradling Isabella in his arms.
“Mountain lion?” Angelina asked. “During broad daylight?”
“Pitch black and mean.” Ben ignored her as he made his way to the house with Isabella burying her face in his shoulder. “She’s frightened out of her wits, but she’ll be all right. Could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Take her into the parlor,” Angelina said, opening the kitchen door for Ben. She followed him as he trudged through the house, feeling her stomach drop at the way he placed Isabella’s limp body on the settee like an injured lamb.
Jessie spread a cotton blanket over her bandaged ankle and stuffed a feather pillow under her head. “Poor thing. Is she gonna be all right you think?”
“She’ll be fine,” Angelina answered, surveying Isabella with a suspicious eye.
“Ella’s fixing her a cup of tea, and then I guess we oughta get one of the boys to ride over to Middleton and get Isaac.”
“No need to do that,” Ben said, giving Jessie a nod. “I say we let her rest a while, then I’ll get her and the mare home safe.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
“Maybe not,” Ben snapped, cutting Angelina off. “But I wanna see her home.” He stared into her eyes, and she could see the hurt rising to the surface. He was still angry from last night.
Ella bustled into the parlor with a tea tray loaded down with a steaming cup of lemon tea and a roll of cool, wet rags. “Lord, look at this child—almost eaten up by a mountain lion. Who woulda thought such a thing?” She set the tray down on the tea table and proceeded to dab Isabella’s hot forehead with one of the moist cloths. “Oh, Mr. Ben, bless your heart. The Good Lord sure knew what He was doin’ when He sent you to us, fightin’ off a wild animal like that. I’m gonna fix you the best dinner you ever ate tonight, you hear?” She gave him an admiring look and chattered on, “Roast beef cooked in pot liquor, new potatoes in butter and chives, and some of my fresh collard greens cooked in ham hocks. And you like corn bread?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, feeling a grin creep across his face. “I like anything you’ve cooked up.”
“Well good, ’cause no one else is gonna eat a bite till you say so. You can have all of it.” She pointed a finger at Angelina, trumping any other instruction. “And I mean all. You can stuff yourself like an ole pig.” Then turning back to Isabella, she plumped up her pillow and squeezed a bit of lemon in the china tea cup. “There child,” she cooed, patting Isabella’s hand. “You don’t worry your pretty little head ’bout an old night cougar, like my daddy used to call ’em. You’re good and safe now, and the Good Lord’s gonna take extra, special care of you, ’cause I’m gonna be prayin’ for you, night and day.”
“That’s right, Isabella,” Jessie said.
“All of us are.” Ella glanced at Angelina and poked her leg with the toe of her shoe, getting her attention.
“That’s right,” Angelina lied. “Night and day.” She forced a smile in Ben’s direction, but he just looked away and gazed at Isabella.
“Thank you, Mr. Eagle-Smith,” Isabella whispered. “Thank you for all you did.” Her voice sounded dry and parched, like she had been stranded in the desert for days.
“Ben,” he said. “Call me Ben. And it was my pleasure.”
Angelina bit her lip, suddenly feeling the urge to smack him hard for the way he was looking at Isabella right now. She resembled a china doll, perfect and flawless in every way, even down to the filed fingernails on the soft, pale hands. Instinctively, Angelina clenched her fists and hid her hands behind her back. Her fingernails were dirty from spending time with the horses, and her palms were calloused about as bad as Tom’s in some places. Suddenly, she felt haggard and “worn out” as she had heard her mama say, whereas Isabella seemed fresh, like a piece of fully ripened fruit.
“I guess I oughta get back to Mighty Wind,” Ben said. “I’ll be back later on today.”
“Yes, let her rest,” Ella said, leading him toward the door. “You can come on back before supper.”
Angelina ignored Ella’s glare and followed Ben outside, taking long strides to catch up with him. “Ben?” She grabbed his arm, but he slung it away and made his way toward the stable. “Ben!” Her blood boiled at him ignoring her like this. “You trying to make me jealous, is that it? You’d think you could pick someone better than Isabella Richardson!” Still, he refused to turn around. She followed and grabbed his arm again, and this time he stopped. “You won’t even look at me when I call your name?”
He finally turned and stared her in the eye. “You wouldn’t answer me last night. Not in front of him.”
“I need time, don’t you understand? You said you’d wait.”
“No,” he said, his words sharp and penetrating. “I won’t wait for you to do to me what your mama did to Tom.”
“I’d never do that to you. I told him I’m not going to marry him. Isn’t that enough?” Ben stared at her with a hard look, and she knew what he was thinking—he wanted far more than what she could give him right now. “Ben.” She touched his arm, which felt strong and firm under the cotton shirt. Suddenly, his eyes softened, revealing the tenderness from last night. “You really think all I care about is money and this farm?”
“No,” he said, his voice filled with sadness. “You care about something else.” She moved into his arms, wanting to feel his lips on hers, but instead, his mouth brushed against her ear and he whispered, “The Raeford name.”
“No,” she murmured, speaking into his shirt, feeling the shame of accusation wash over her.
“What’re you gonna do when I win that race? What then?” His eyes blazed with condemnation and judgment. “You think I’ll be good enough then? Will I ever be good enough?”
“That isn’t fair.”
“May be. But it’s the truth.”
“It’s not. It’s not true.” His eyes glistened with emotion, indicating that he wanted to believe her, but something was holding him back. “Listen to me,” she pleaded. “When you win, I’m gonna help you sell that land of yours for a pretty penny.”
“No, Angelina.” Anger flashed through his expression, and he pushed her away.
Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) Page 8