Cullen met his stare unblinking, half wishing Ethan were there. Five-to-two odds would be just about even, with his brother in the thick. If not for the gun. “I understand perfectly what you’re saying.”
“Good, then.” The man clapped him on the shoulder in the manner of old friends. “I’m glad we had this conversation, Mr . . .?”
“McGrath is my name,” Cullen said, wanting him to remember it. “Cullen McGrath. And you are?”
Challenge flickered in the man’s expression. “Stephen Drake. A name you’d do well to put to memory. And a word to the wise, McGrath. The quicker you leave town, the better. We’ve had our share of unfortunate occurrences lately, and I’d hate it if you got caught up in any of that ruckus. Believe it or not,” Drake said, shaking his head, “there are those who, sadly, might wish to do you harm. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
A sheen of friendliness, beguiling though it was, lit the man’s expression, and anyone looking on would have thought they were the finest of friends.
Cullen watched the men walk away, wondering if Drake had the least inkling of how ineffective his little speech had been. He heard his mother’s sharply teasing voice clearly in his memory. Whatever it is you want to get an Irishman to do, just tell him that he can’t.
He gathered the reins and swung up into the saddle—no small feat—more determined than ever to buy land and make a way for himself. He could scarcely remember a time when his heritage or religious upbringing—no matter how far he’d strayed from it—hadn’t invited trouble. When his family moved to England when he was fifteen, he’d daily been reminded that his people weren’t welcome there any more than they seemed to be in this city.
But he had a reason for being here, as well as a right.
He flicked the reins, and the Percheron plodded on. If there was one thing he’d learned in his near thirty years, it was that no matter how desperate the circumstances, there was usually someone else worse off.
He just needed to find that someone.
Where was Willie?
Maggie looked out the open double doors of the stable again. Already half past twelve, and still no sign of him. They’d agreed to work here at Linden Downs today, so her father could see the progress Willie and Belle were making together. The boy was never late. Perhaps he had forgotten.
Belle whinnied and nudged Maggie’s hand, and Maggie leaned close, recalling what she’d overheard at the racetrack last week despite Belle’s recent wins. “Don’t you listen to them, girl,” she whispered. “Some say you can’t do it. But they’re wrong. You were born for this, I know it.”
Just as she knew what she was born for. Even if people said it couldn’t be done by a woman. Or shouldn’t be. Which is what her mother, God rest her soul, had said more times than Maggie could recall, and with a sharpness to her tone that stung even now. It was a hurtful thing for a mother not to be proud of her only daughter.
Footsteps from behind drew her attention.
“Thought I’d save you a trip, Maggie.” Her father carried in a bale of hay, Bucket padding loyally along beside him.
How was it that she’d rescued the black-and-white collie, had nursed the sickly little pup back to health, only to have the dog bond with her father instead of her? Yet seeing them together, and knowing how much Bucket had helped ease Papa’s pain when Mother had passed, Maggie wouldn’t have wished it otherwise.
Her father hefted the bale into one of the stalls then paused, his breath coming hard. He braced a hand against the stable wall. Despite the cool air, sweat glistened on his forehead. He rubbed his left arm, the muscles apparently complaining from use.
Maggie felt a tug of concern, especially after what had happened last week. “I’ve told you, Papa. I can do that. I don’t mind.”
“I know you don’t. But neither do I.” He swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief then quickly looked away. He reached for the pitchfork. “Did you have a good ride this morning?”
Recognizing avoidance when she saw it, Maggie moved to take the pitchfork from him, but he held fast.
“I’m fine, Margaret.”
Maggie started to press the issue; then, recognizing the accustomed determination and gentleness in her father’s expression, she reluctantly acquiesced.
“I know I can’t do what I once did . . .” Frustration—or was it worry—shadowed his faint smile. “But I can still heft a bale of hay for my daughter.”
He held her gaze, unblinking. At his feet, Bucket stood stock still, as if sensing the change in temperament.
Her father had always been more than able-bodied. Of average height, he had especially broad shoulders, which made him appear larger somehow. Maggie had ridden on those shoulders as a little girl and oh, the view from that perch. The world had looked so different. Bigger somehow, and wilder.
Yet she’d known that nothing could hurt her because her father would never have allowed it. Her strong tower. Whatever bad was coming would have to get past him first, and that could never happen.
At least, not in the mind of that little girl.
But time had a way of eroding such innocence. And as she’d grown, Maggie had often wished that the world were more like the one she’d viewed from that lofty height.
She eyed her father as he spread the hay. As strong as he’d always been, he was equally kind and good-natured. Her four brothers, all of them older than she, had been just like him—perhaps a bit more rowdy—God rest them all. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss them.
And while she could well imagine her world without her father, she didn’t like to. He was all she had left.
“When Dr. Daniels was here to see you yesterday, Papa . . . You’re certain he told you everything was fine.”
“Like I said. Nothing to worry about.” Her father shoved the pitchfork into the hay and gave the load a toss then repeated the process.
“When you see the doctor next, please remind him to keep his regular appointment. He’s been showing up at odd times, and I want to be here for his visits.”
“You and Willie were over at Belle Meade working with Uncle Bob. I know how important that time is to you, especially with a heat coming up this week. I saw no need to disturb you.”
“Disturb me?” She scoffed playfully, but touched his arm, letting him see she was serious. “Next time send Cletus for me. Or Onnie. All right?”
He chucked her gently beneath the chin the way he’d done as far back as she could remember.
“I will, sweetheart. Next time.” He glanced out the open door. “I thought you said Willie was coming.”
“I did. But I’m wondering now if he’s forgotten.”
“Do you have appointments later today?”
Maggie resisted the urge to sigh. “Yes, three. And all new students.”
“That’s a good thing.”
She nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“And yet . . . it’s not what you wish to be doing.”
It wasn’t a question, she knew. Still, she shook her head. “But we need the money, so I’m grateful.” As soon as she said it, regret moved into his eyes, and she wished she could take back the remark. “Papa, I—”
He lifted a gentle hand. “If Belle doesn’t win the heat later this week—”
“She will win. I know it.”
“But if she doesn’t”—he lowered his head briefly before looking back at her—“then you know what we must do. We’ll have no choice, Maggie. Stephen Drake was very clear on that point.”
Stephen Drake . . . at the Tax and Title Office.
Maggie would have thought the childhood friend of her eldest brother would be more understanding. Yes, Mr. Drake had granted them an extension—two, actually—but couldn’t he offer to do so again, under the circumstances?
She remembered his coming to the house when she was younger. Twelve years her senior, he was now as he’d been then—handsome, successful, and well thought of by all who knew him. And no wonder, when the Drake family own
ed so many businesses in Nashville. He was now the object of pursuit of nearly every unmarried woman in town, especially the wealthy ones. These women were regularly seen on Mr. Drake’s arm at social gatherings.
Not that Maggie attended such events. Those invitations had ceased coming over three years ago. Which was about the time she’d given up the girlish dreams that no longer fit with her lowered place in society.
Most of the young men her age had been taken by the war, and those who had not had their pick of either wealthy widows or women younger than she, with far more promising assets.
“If the worst happens,” her father continued, pulling her back to the moment, “if Bourbon Belle doesn’t win . . . everything we have is scheduled to be sold at auction two weeks hence.” His gaze moved beyond her to Belle. “Everything,” he repeated quietly, as his focus trailed out the open double doors to their family home—a shadow of what it had once been.
“We’ll need every penny we can manage in order to”—his voice broke, his composure faltering—“to secure a place in town.”
In his eyes Maggie saw years of pain and disappointment well up. Her own throat tightened.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Maggie.” Hollowness filled his voice. “I wish I could change it. I’ve searched, I’ve prayed, I—”
“We’re going to be fine, Papa. Don’t you worry.” Maggie forced a bright countenance to veil what felt like a lie, even though she wanted to believe it. “Belle will win, and we’ll get another extension. I’ll call on Mr. Drake myself this time.”
Is this how her friend Savannah Darby had felt when she’d lost her family’s land only months ago? Along with their home and the majority of their belongings? And Savannah was on her own besides, with two younger siblings to care for. Maggie had held her friend as Savannah wept, thinking she understood. But she hadn’t.
Until now.
So many fine families, once landed gentry, first families of Nashville’s settlement nearly a century ago, now near destitute.
Her father leaned down and gave Bucket’s head a gentle rub. “I’ve already spoken with a woman at a boardinghouse. We’ll need to stay there. Only temporarily,” he added, straightening again, “until we find something suitable.”
By suitable Maggie knew he meant affordable. The concern in his expression caused a tightening in her chest. Not wishing to add to his worry, she managed a weak nod. Yet the looming possibility of losing Linden Downs tore at something deep inside her.
It wasn’t that she loved the land itself so much, although she did feel an affinity for it, especially the bluff that overlooked the river in the distance. She appreciated that the near four hundred acres had been in the Linden family since Nashville’s settlement. Land that her grandfather had farmed, along with his only son, and after that her father and his sons. Land that—except for the small garden they still tended—had lain fallow for the past two years.
And yet, her own love for Linden Downs—guilt nipped her conscience—was slightly less altruistic. She wanted to save the family land for her father, yes, because it meant so much to him. But mostly she was fighting to keep it because without Linden Downs, her dream was dead.
As was her chance to prove—if not to her mother, then to others, maybe even to herself—that a woman really could ride, race, and win—and still be a lady.
In the past she’d tried to imagine her mother peering down from heaven and smiling as her only daughter rode the fields, jumping fences and creeks and anything else in her path. But Maggie gradually accepted that the daydream was only a foolish attempt to fill a void that could only be filled with a mother’s pride. Which was an impossible wish.
But regardless of that, she had to keep this land. She couldn’t raise thoroughbreds, much less train them to race, while living in a boardinghouse. She needed to be here, near Belle Meade and Uncle Bob. She loved the land because it allowed her to keep Bourbon Belle.
And as it turned out, Bourbon Belle was going to be the answer to keeping both the land and her dream. If Belle won the Peyton Stakes.
She looked over to find her father still, his eyes closed, his grip tight on the pitchfork. “Papa . . . are you sure you’re all right?”
He blinked. “Yes . . . yes, I’m fine.”
A thought occurred to her. “If you don’t feel well enough to go to Burns Island for the race this week, then maybe I—”
“I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it.” He looked at her as though peering over his reading spectacles. “Besides, you know how the club members feel about women poking around in their business.”
“If I made excuses, perhaps—”
“I said I’ll be there. Like I always am.”
Maggie nodded, grateful, but wishing the all-male members of Nashville’s Thoroughbred Society would be more open-minded.
On the ledgers her father was listed as the owner and trainer of Bourbon Belle, and he officially entered Belle in the races. The men in the club had never questioned him about it, and their not knowing the truth didn’t bother Maggie. Much. But those closest to her knew.
And while her father was supportive of her aspirations, she wondered deep down if he would’ve preferred her to have chosen a different path for her life. But she was meant for this.
She’d felt that affirmation yet again as she’d ridden Belle on the outskirts of town that morning.
Her father moved to the next stall, and Bucket followed obediently.
Aware of the hour slipping away, Maggie glanced out the window again, her annoyance slipping into concern. Where was Willie?
The boy loved time with Belle as much as Maggie enjoyed teaching him. He was a natural, as Uncle Bob had said so many times. Thin and wiry of build, Willie, nine years old as of last month, was like a feather astride Bourbon Belle, and together horse and rider sped like a bullet around the track.
Other thoroughbred owners had tried to talk Willie into riding for them, but the boy told them he wouldn’t ride any other than Belle, or for anyone other than Miss Maggie. She appreciated his loyalty and rewarded him accordingly.
“I read the most recent letter from Mrs. Watson.”
Maggie turned at her father’s voice.
“You left it on the table.” He offered a shrug. “So I assumed—”
“It’s fine.” She nodded. “You’re always welcome to read them.”
“It was kind,” he continued, “what she wrote about you. She’s grown quite fond of you through the years, you know.”
Maggie offered more smile than she felt. “As I have of her.”
“I’m proud of you for continuing to keep in touch with her despite her moving to South Carolina. Other young women whose beaus died in the war have quickly forgotten and moved on.” He laughed softly. “Hard to believe you were only fifteen at the time.”
“Mrs. Watson had no one else here in town, and”—Maggie briefly bowed her head—“I had promised Richard. Now his mother is happily situated with her sister on the beaches of Charleston. He would have liked that.”
After a long silence her father returned to his task, and she did likewise.
She drew the curry brush over Belle’s coat with smooth, practiced strokes, trying to recall the details of Richard’s countenance as she’d seen him that very last time, going on five years ago now, only days before the Battle of Franklin. But all she could recall was the portrait of him Birdette Watson had kept on the mantel.
That, and how he looked as a boy standing by the creek with a fishing pole in his grip.
Mrs. Watson had lost her husband and only son in the same battle. How was it that some women grieved and yet moved on with their lives, while others, like her own mother—Maggie felt a sting at the memory—were weighted down by the severity of it, until they finally succumbed?
Apparently the daughter who remained hadn’t been enough to sustain her following the loss of her sons. The thought pricked at an old wound, and for the thousandth time Maggie wondered what she could have
done to have been more for her mother.
Or at least to have been enough.
Yet it was a futile thread at which to pick, she knew, so she tucked it back beneath the blanket of memories.
She hoped her new riding students proved promising. One of the girls had apparently not ridden a horse since being thrown some years earlier, which didn’t bode well for today’s first riding lesson. Yet the best way to beat a fear was to face it.
Maggie had learned that well enough through the years.
She stood back to admire her work. Belle’s coat shone a deep reddish brown, the color of the whiskey Maggie’s grandfather used to bring out on special occasions. When Belle was born, her father had commented on the likeness of the smooth amber color, and the mare’s name had swiftly been decided.
Recalling Belle’s birth and what hopes they’d had back then made Maggie think of the land again, and she sighed.
After the war, she’d thought life might gradually take an upward turn. But it hadn’t. Another war had simply taken the former’s place. One fought not with cannons or guns or bayonets but with bullets just the same, relentless and aimed at the heart.
Empty places at tables, never to be filled again. Fields lying fallow beneath the hot summer sun. Brokenness everywhere a person turned. Northerners soon arrived and started buying up the land, moving into deserted shops to sell their overpriced goods. Foreigners swiftly followed.
When she went into town these days, she scarcely heard English being spoken. She heard German and Italian in abundance. Then there were the Irish, who supposedly used the King’s English. But not very well, from what she’d overheard. They were a lazy and violent lot, given to heavy drink and wantonness. At least that’s what she read in the newspapers.
And in what part of heaven was it acceptable for a foreigner to come in and—for only pennies on the dollar—buy up farmland that had been cleared, tamed, and tended by the same family for nearly a hundred years? It wasn’t right.
To Win Her Favor Page 3