She huffed back to the house with her skirt bunched up in one hand and her hat in the other. Angelina gritted her teeth, sensing the fire in her belly rise straight up to her chest. “Oh, what I wouldn’t do to give that girl a piece of my mind!” she hissed.
Isaac moved out of the way to let Isabella pass, looking helpless and weak in the wake of his daughter’s wrath. She stomped past him, marched up the porch steps, and slammed the mahogany door.
“I’m sure you will,” Tom said, slicking his hand over his thinning hair and readjusting his hat over his brow, “when the time’s right.”
The Smith farmhouse lay smoldering on the ground like a carcass of charred flesh and bones. The rain had doused the heat, making it safe to scavenge through the ruins to see what could be saved. Ben tethered Midnight Storm to a large pine tree near his mama’s old potato patch and walked carefully through the debris, fighting back the tears. A silver thimble caught his eye, as well as a blue patch from a quilted pillow which sat in what remained of a wooden rocker. The only other thing he was able to find was a tiger’s eye from an old rock collection. All of his father’s books and his mother’s beautiful dishes, pottery, Cherokee artifacts passed down from former generations, and brightly-colored curtains were gone now, part of a pile of ashes and rubble. Ben was glad his parents weren’t alive to see it now. “I’ll make this right—I promise,” he said, knowing that somehow, his father could hear him. Then hanging his head, he prayed, “Help me, Lord.” I need you.
A fresh douse of rain fell, soothing Ben’s aching joints. He stripped off his shirt and allowed the pellets to cleanse the welts on his back. It felt strange not having his hair trailing behind him, reminding him of his native roots, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Like many things in his life, he would have to wait for it to come back.
He ran his fingers through his thick locks and tucked it behind his ears, but it was too short to stay in place. Grabbing his shirt, he tore a strip of material from the bottom hem and tied it around his forehead, imagining that he resembled his Uncle Bear Claw, who often wore handmade headbands. Before long, his thoughts shifted to Edward and the pleasure he would surely have at seeing Ben reduced to such a state. Ben pictured him with a smirk on his face, staring down his long nose as he sat at his dining room table in Rutherford Hall surrounded by silver and fine linens and eating the best that Laurel Grove had to offer. “I know, Lord,” Ben said, trying to cast the thoughts from his mind. “I know.”
Feeling the bitterness tighten his abdomen, Ben couldn’t help but relive that night. He remembered Tom arguing with Edward over the deed and the heat from the fire, but that was all. Tucking the thimble and the tiger’s eye in his pocket, he walked back through the burnt house, thankful the barn and most of the trees escaped unscathed. Tom’s words came back to him—he had to make this place what his pa always wanted it to be, despite what had happened. And riding the Challenge was the answer. It was just three days away, and he had to be ready.
Stroking Midnight Storm’s long, lean neck, Ben spoke in a soothing voice. “Shall we ride, my friend?” The stallion twitched its ears and swished its tail, pawing the mud with its hoof. Ben smiled and grabbed the thick mane, hopping on the horse’s back. Before heading down the dirt path to town, he took one last look at the burnt remains of the place that had brought him so much happiness as a boy. For a moment, he imagined his mother hanging the laundry on the line, laughing in her infectious way as the sun streamed through the clouds and the cool breeze caused a wet bed sheet to flap gently in the wind. The laughter cascaded through the tops of the trees and fluttered through the leaves like a bird searching for its nest. He couldn’t explain it, but there was a peace in his heart that subdued the pain. He knew the Lord was in control.
Gently pressing his heels in Midnight Storm’s sides, Ben meandered down the dirt path until it reached the main road leading to town. The live oaks lined the way like large wooden creatures with twisted, gnarled arms scraping the ground. He had loved climbing those trees as a boy, even building a makeshift house in one that stood at the edge of a cluster of pine trees. Squinting his eyes, he peered through the foliage until he could barely make out the steps of a crude ladder leading to a wooden platform tucked in the crook of a tree limb. It was a secret place no one else knew about, even Angelina—it was a part of his past that died long ago. Ben hadn’t been back there since he returned to Laurel Grove, and for some reason, he had no desire to see it until now.
Midnight Storm tossed its head and neighed with a ferocious whinny, indicating that it wanted to move faster. Ben obliged the stallion by clicking his tongue and speaking firmly in his native Cherokee. Before long, they were galloping down the dirt road, running faster and faster with the wind whipping all around them, threatening to blow Ben’s headband up into the clouds. He didn’t know where they were going, but there was freedom in letting the stallion choose its own way. With the grace and agility of a deer, Midnight Storm galloped through leaves and moss, bounding over tree roots and fallen logs and leaping over brooks and streams, like it was in the final leg of a steeplechase. They rode and rode as though on a mission from the Lord Himself, with very little time to accomplish it. Ben heard an internal warning sound off in his mind, but he didn’t have the heart to slow Midnight Storm or dictate the direction they should travel. He was merely along for the ride.
A tall hedge waited for them up ahead, which only made the stallion run that much faster. As they approached, Ben felt the exhilaration of sailing through the air and flying over without hesitation. With thunderous power, the horse’s front legs hit the ground and sped them to the edge of an open field where several thoroughbreds roamed, munching on grass. A black mare with a white star on its face stared at them and then dashed away with her brown foal frolicking behind. Ben gazed past the white wooden fences that snaked beyond and saw a dark, stone mansion that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Midnight Storm had taken him straight to Rutherford Hall.
CHAPTER 31
“Whoa!” Ben called, pulling on Midnight Storm’s mane so that it reared up on its hind legs. Ben had vowed he would never set foot on the Millhouse property again, and yet here he was at Rutherford Hall. It was a breathtaking—not because of its beauty, but because of its magnificent presence that resembled something from the pages of a European history book. A Negro man chopped wood near the barn, Edward rode a white horse in the far field, and a handful of trainers worked a team of horses in the main training ring. But despite the abundance of activity going on, the estate felt cold and stagnant. Ben thought it an ominous and terrible place.
A horse screamed in the distance, piercing Ben’s heart. Midnight Storm balked and pitched its head before taking off toward the group of trainers. “Stop!” he shouted, but it was as if the stallion could hear nothing but the continual screams. As they came closer, he saw the trainers were actually a group of stable hands who had surrounded a white, leopard-spotted appaloosa filly with a device in its mouth, called a twitch. Normally, a rope was placed between the horse’s gum and upper lip and was twisted with a stick until it dug into the flesh, creating a calming effect. It was typically used for grooming or medical reasons, like administering medicine, but here at Rutherford Hall, it was obviously used as a means of torture. Ben had heard stories from his parents about certain horse breeders, mostly white men, who used metal twitches instead of ropes, and other cruel treatment like staking and prodder fire-sticks, to obtain obedience from unruly animals. All of these methods were forbidden at Fairington, Middleton Farm, and most of the other reputable operations around Laurel Grove, but not here at Rutherford Hall. Edward Millhouse stopped at nothing to get what he wanted.
The men released the filly and stared at Ben, their eyes freezing in fear as though they were being attacked by a native determined to remove their scalps. “Whadda you want?” one of the younger men finally asked. He was tall and wiry with a deep tan and long, unkempt hair that swept across his fore
head. His skin and clothes were filthy and a front tooth was missing, resembling a pistol shot straight through the mouth. When he spoke, the outline of his ribs rose and fell with each breath, indicating he could use some of Ella’s good cooking.
“You’re gonna ruin that horse treating her that way,” Ben said, trying to keep Midnight Storm still. “Let her be, run the fire out of her, and then she’ll behave. If you keep treating her like this, she’ll grow up evil and mean, and you’ll even see it in her offspring. She won’t produce half the amount of good, strong foals she normally would.”
“How do you know that, you ole half-breed?”
Ben stared at the young man, suddenly feeling sorry for him. If anyone knew about torture, it could very well be this man. A deep look in his eyes told Ben there was a horrific story to tell.
“Mr. Ben!” The Negro man dropped his load of firewood on the ground and came running toward the ring, leaping over the railing with little effort. Ben recognized Mason, with his distinctive hairline and thick physique. Despite his age, he still had the strength and agility of a man half his age. “Mr. Ben,” he said, his voice laced with panic, “you better get on outta here, ’less you want a repeat of the other night.”
Ben noticed one of Mason’s eyes was partially swollen and ringed with a dark bruise. Once again, he felt compassion for this man—they were kindred spirits, both objects of Edward’s wrath. “I don’t want any trouble, Mason.”
“Well, trouble’s what you’re gonna git if you don’t git on,” he said with a scowl across his brow.
“What’s this?” Edward galloped toward them, riding Almighty. He pulled tightly on the reins so that the horse reared its head, coming to an abrupt halt. “Trespassing on my property?”
“I didn’t know it was your property until I cleared the hedge,” Ben said, suddenly aware that he was bare-chested, scared and bruised, with a strip of white linen tied around his head. And yet, he sat up straight and tall, feeling more powerful than ever.
“Didn’t know?” Edward mocked. “Everyone around here knows this is my land, and visitors aren’t welcome, not unless they’ve been personally invited by me!” His brown eyes looked inky black as they skated over Ben, stopping at a grouping of large, red welts on his chest that had scabbed over. Despite his tanned skin, Edward’s cheeks flushed a deep red, which made his eyes narrow into slits.
“My horse and I were riding and we stumbled upon your farm. He doesn’t like the way you’re treating this filly, and neither do I.”
“That’s none of your business,” Edward said, pointing his finger at the woods. “Now get off my land!”
“All right,” Ben said, holding his gaze. “Like I said, I didn’t know it was your land, but I believe Midnight Storm did, and I believe the Lord was the one behind it all. I believe He led us here today for one purpose.” Edward’s eyes narrowed again as Ben continued. “I figure I’ve got something to say to you, Mr. Millhouse. What you did to me and my home wasn’t right, and in my own flesh, I want nothing more than to see you pay. But I’m called to forgive, so that’s what I’m gonna do. I don’t want to, but I will.”
“I don’t need your forgiveness—”
“I forgive you anyway, whether you want it or not, whether you think you need it or not.” There was confusion in Edward’s expression, which wasn’t surprising. “This is for me, not you,” Ben said. “I forgive you for everything, even for what you did to my mama.” There was a long silence as he stared hard into Edward’s eyes and prayed in Cherokee before saying the next words. “And for making me watch.”
“Get off my land!” Edward bellowed, his face turning a dark shade of purple.
Ben saw fear in the man’s eyes for the very first time. In that moment, the hatred he had felt all those years melted away and was replaced by pity. Edward Millhouse was a sad, pitiful man who needed saving. “The Lord’s forgiven you too,” Ben said. “You’ve just gotta believe it.”
The tall, wiry man rushed toward Midnight Storm and screamed, “You heard him—Git!”
The stallion reared up on its hooves and almost struck the man in the chest, but Ben calmed it by speaking in his native tongue, “Let us go, my friend. Let us run like the wind.” Immediately, Midnight Storm turned and galloped away toward the trees.
When they approached the hedge, Ben slowed the horse and looked back to see if they had been followed. Surprisingly, Mason made his way to the barn, and the stable hands were back to their task of twitching the filly. Edward rode Almighty around the pen, watching their progress as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But then suddenly, the filly screamed and flung her body every which way, like it had been hit with a bolt of lightning. “Come!” Ben hissed. “Come with us!” Midnight Storm neighed loudly, as if translating what Ben said. Cupping his hand to his mouth, Ben yelled again, but this time it sounded more like a native battle cry.
The filly rose up on its back hooves, and the wiry man fell to the ground in a cloud of dust. It reared up again and broke free, racing past Edward and Almighty and making a beeline to where Ben and Midnight Storm stood. The stallion’s ears flattened and its nostrils flared as it whinnied long and loud.
The stable hands raced after the filly, shouting, but Edward called them back. Ben couldn’t help but smile at the sight of this beautiful appaloosa with a twitch hanging out of its mouth and a rope around its neck, running like the wind. It slowed down when it reached them, spewing spittle all over his chest, but he didn’t mind. Removing the device, he threw it deep into the woods and patted the filly on the head and neck. “Be free. Be free, my little flower.”
“Leave that horse alone!” Edward screamed, watching from afar. Ben waited for him to follow, but he didn’t. He stayed back, continuing to watch.
“You stay here,” Ben whispered, kissing the filly on its silky nose. As he looked into its eyes, a name came to his mind—White Flower.
Raising his hand in the air, Ben gave Edward one last look and then let out a native cry that would have made his uncle proud. Midnight Storm turned in response and galloped through the trees, leaping over the hedge with plenty of room to spare. The stallion cleared a row of fallen logs and quickened its pace, running faster and faster, when a flash of white appeared on Ben’s right flank. He looked over at their pursuer, expecting to see Edward’s grim face, but it was only the filly racing beside them, making a clear path through the woods.
CHAPTER 32
The sun was close to dipping below the horizon, ushering in another peaceful night on top of Palmetto Ridge. Angelina lay under the oak tree, staring at the palette of yellows, purples, and pinks swirled together in the sky like a bouquet of summer daisies. She was dog tired after sitting up all night and day with Jessie, Tom, and Billy while Ginger Snap gave birth to her foal. It was a beauty—a newborn colt with an auburn, red dun coat, gangly legs, and the innocent face of a fawn—and stood up within minutes of being born. Its father was a sixteen hand liver chestnut stallion from Woodland Falls, one of the finest horse farms around, so it was sure to be a champion racehorse. She had let Jessie pick the name, and it was Red Sky—a good choice in Angelina’s opinion.
Angelina smiled at the memory of Jessie doting on the new addition to Fairington. Red Sky was one of three foals born to Fairington mares in the past year. Her daddy would certainly be pleased with the growth of the farm, and yet, there was a heaviness in Angelina’s heart, a lack of peace. Her thoughts constantly drifted to Ben, and when they did, she heard Isabella’s accusations ringing in her head, along with the image of Ben holding Isabella in his arms.
The little wooden box with her initials lay by her side as she rolled Ben’s arrowhead over and over in her palm. She had hidden it away in the hollow of the tree several weeks ago, but now it seemed wrong to keep it buried in the ground. Sighing deeply, Angelina rubbed her thumb and fingers against the edge of the stone—it was still sharp enough to cut, like it had the night of the engagement party. She remembered the blood on her
hands and the smear on Ben’s face that made him look more like a savage than ever. Why had she done that? she wondered, hating herself for making him more vulnerable to Edward’s attacks. If she had known where all of this would lead, she would have run away with Ben that very night.
Wiping her eyes, Angelina rolled onto her back and stared at the swaying tree limbs and rustling leaves. She couldn’t bear to look at what lay below her on the other side of the ridge—a black, yawning, cavernous ruin that used to be Ben’s home. Guilt slammed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Closing her eyes, she could see Isabella’s finger jabbing the air, pointed straight at Angelina—it was her fault Edward was so cruel, it was her fault Ben was in this predicament, that he didn’t have the peace, love, and respect he needed. She could almost hear Isabella’s voice hissing in her ear, You don’t really love Ben, and he doesn’t love you. You only love yourself. Selfish, selfish, you should be ashamed!
Angelina winced as the arrowhead sliced into the center of her palm, oozing a bubble of blood. “I’m sorry, Lord!” she cried, wiping her hand on the mossy ground. Isabella was right—she had been selfish, thinking only of herself. If she had gone to Ben earlier that night and not sat through dinner, watching Edward gorge himself, or if she had never taken Edward’s ring back, giving him hope that she would marry him, or if she had just run away with Ben when he first came back to Fairington—she had struck him that night in the barn when she could have thrown her arms around him. Now it was too late. Mighty Wind was gone, the Smith house was gone, and Ben’s beautiful hair, not to mention Edward’s humiliating beating. How could Ben ever look at her again and not blame her for all he had lost?
Angelina wept until her throat ached and her body jerked uncontrollably, giving her a serious case of the hiccups. The tears flowed and her nose ran, soaking the edges of her sleeves. What am I going to do? she asked herself. How can I ever make things right? She thought of Ben’s firm physique under the brown skin made darker from the sun, the sculpted face, and the long, silky dark hair that was lost to the fire. Had she truly lost him forever? A new wave of tears washed over her, and a voice came behind it, Forgiveness is yours. All is forgiven.
Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) Page 22