To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  Yet he’d not been with a woman since Moira, no matter how much at times he desired to. He wouldn’t tarnish her memory that way. Not after what they’d shared.

  The closing of a door brought him back to the moment. Onnie had left, and Mr. Linden held a cup aloft. “Shall we?”

  Cullen drank from the delicate china cup, finer than anything he’d been able to buy Moira. The tea was strong and pungent with an herb he didn’t recognize, but liked.

  “You know your thoroughbreds, don’t you, Mr. McGrath?”

  “I grew up on a farm. So aye, sir. I know horses. And as I said before, my da was fond of the track. Too much so. And of gamblin’. Not a good union, those two.”

  “I agree with you. Though horse racing can be a lucrative business for some. General Harding, for instance. The man whose thoroughbred you rescued earlier.”

  Cullen stared, feeling a stir of caution.

  “He owns Belle Meade Plantation and Stud.” Linden smiled. “Which encompasses the fifty-three hundred acres south of here and the finest stable of racing thoroughbreds you’ll find in the southern United States. Once he learns about what you did for him today, I’m certain he’ll want to show his appreciation.”

  Cullen shifted in his seat. “There’s really no call for that, sir. What I did, I did for the horse, not for the man.” And the last thing he needed was a connection to thoroughbred racing.

  With a faint smile Mr. Linden reached for a piece of paper and pen and wrote something down, then angled the page Cullen’s direction. “This is my asking price for Linden Downs.”

  Cullen read the figure. Then read it again. Fifteen hundred dollars? Why, he had nearly twice that in his pouch and had been prepared to offer most of it. But Linden’s asking price didn’t make sense. The newspaper listing indicated the property was worth well over three thousand. “I don’t understand, sir. I’ve seen every farm—either on paper or in person—that’s for sale in this area, and your land is worth—”

  “More than that. Yes, that’s my opinion as well.”

  “So why are you pricin’ it for so much less? Surely you’d fetch more than that at the auction, if it comes to that.”

  Linden gave him a thoughtful look. “If you’ll allow me, Mr. McGrath, there’s a . . . stipulation I’m adding to the sale.”

  Stipulation? Now Cullen’s curiosity was thoroughly piqued. “And what would that be?”

  Linden leaned forward. “You’re a good man, Cullen McGrath. I raised four sons. Fine, true, and strong, every one of them. So I can read a man’s character. And as my daughter says—”

  “You have a daughter?”

  Mirth lit the man’s eyes. “Indeed I do. Margaret is my youngest child, as well as my only remaining kin.”

  “Seein’ you today at the cemetery, sir, and with what you said about your sons earlier, I—” Cullen attempted to soften the words. “I assumed you’d buried all your children.”

  “All but one. And she is most dear to me, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Aye,” Cullen said softly.

  “As I was saying . . . my daughter, Margaret, says that horses see things in people that we often miss. Much as dogs do.” Linden leaned down and stroked the collie’s head. “Has your experience taught you the same?”

  The man’s line of thought had his curiosity in knots, but agreeing with the daughter’s conclusion, Cullen nodded.

  “One final question for you, Mr. McGrath, then I’ll tell you the stipulation. Is there anything you would not have done to save your daughter?”

  Having asked—and answered—that question a thousand times over, Cullen responded without hesitation. “No, sir. I would have given my very life in exchange for hers. And for my wife’s.”

  Understanding shaded the older man’s expression. “My own heart’s desire as well, Mr. McGrath. And hearing that it’s yours makes me even more certain of my course.” With a faint smile, he leaned forward again. “The amount I wrote down is the debt of taxes currently owed on my farm, including interest, plus a loan I took out to help us through the past two years. Pay that, which will bring Linden Downs back into right standing, and the land and everything on it—the house, the outbuildings, what animals there are, everything is yours . . . provided you agree to marry my daughter.”

  Chapter

  FIVE

  Maggie!”

  Hearing her name, Maggie looked toward Mary Harding’s house and saw her friend standing on the edge of the lawn. “Father would like to speak with you before you leave.”

  Maggie cringed. She was eager to return home and see to her own father, who’d promised to rest for the afternoon, but she knew she had no choice. When General William Giles Harding requested one’s presence, the only response was, “Thank you, I’ll be right there.”

  Turning back, she found Martha Blankenship, the mother of her newest pupil, Lucy, descending from the carriage, reticule in hand.

  “Thank you, Miss Linden, for agreeing to work with my daughter. I fear she can be rather dramatic at times.”

  “It’s I who am grateful, ma’am, for your trust.” Maggie sneaked a look at the young girl already seated inside the carriage. She could still make out the girl’s red-rimmed eyes. “Our lesson went well, considering this was her first time back on a horse. With time and experience, I’m confident she’ll warm up to them again.”

  “I sincerely hope you’re right, Miss Linden. That you were able even to get her on the horse was a huge feat!” Mrs. Blankenship pressed the money into her hand. “There’s a little extra for your trouble. And for your patience. Same appointment next week?”

  Maggie nodded. She’d sincerely enjoyed her lesson with the woman’s daughter. Lucy Blankenship, eleven years old, was petite for her age, and even the smallest mare at Belle Meade dwarfed her lithe frame. A challenge to which Maggie could relate.

  As the carriage pulled away, young Lucy leaned out the window and waved, and it did Maggie’s heart good to see her smile.

  She hurried up the walkway to the mansion, her thoughts returning to Willie and his family. She couldn’t get the scene he’d described out of her mind. Sometimes it seemed the world was coming apart at the seams. All the hatred, the violence. Would Willie’s family ever find a place free of such trouble?

  As she neared the front steps, her gaze drifted upward over the massive limestone columns—six in all—that framed the front of the home. She knocked on the partially open door, glancing upward. The transom above was fitted with ruby glass that likely cost more than her entire house at Linden Downs.

  “Mary?” She peered inside.

  Having been friends with Mary Harding since they were girls, Maggie still felt comfortable at Belle Meade, even while being keenly aware of the ever-widening gap between her own station in life and Mary’s.

  “Come on in, silly!” Her friend appeared from around the corner. “Father’s in his office.” Mary linked arms with her. “How were your riding pupils today?”

  “Everyone did well, for the most part. I do appreciate your father allowing me to conduct the sessions here.” She hoped that wasn’t what General Harding wanted to talk to her about. Not only did she no longer have saddle horses, but the stables and corral at Linden Downs didn’t come close to matching the amenities of Belle Meade.

  “Have you spoken with Savannah this week?” Mary asked, lowering her voice.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “I saw her in town earlier today.” Mary opened the door leading to a side porch and to the entrance of her father’s office, then paused just outside. “She heard someone bought their family home at a recent auction.”

  Maggie felt a pang of empathy. “Does she know who it is? Or if it’s someone local?”

  Mary shook her head. “But I was thinking we could get together, the three of us. Maybe go into town for lunch one day next week. An attempt to cheer her up. My treat,” Mary added quickly, as if reading Maggie’s mind.

  Maggie gave her hand a quick s
queeze. “You’re sweet, Mary, but I’m not comfortable with you paying for me.”

  She knew Savannah shared her feelings about the disparity between Mary’s situation and her own, even though they both loved Mary and her family.

  In light of the upcoming auction of Linden Downs, Savannah had written the kindest note last week, and Maggie appreciated every word of encouragement and reassurance . . . while still praying for a way out.

  “Why don’t the two of you come to my house instead?” she continued. “Onnie will be happy to prepare a luncheon for us.”

  “Well, as long as it’s Onnie doing the cooking, and not you.” Mary gave her friend a playful nudge.

  “Mary? Is that you? Is Miss Linden with you?”

  Hearing General Harding’s voice through the closed door, Maggie quickly sobered. “Why does your father want to speak with me?” she whispered.

  Mary shrugged, then grinned. “Good luck!”

  The door opened before Maggie could respond.

  “Miss Linden!” General Harding motioned her inside. “Please have a seat. This won’t take long.”

  Maggie did as invited, finding her surroundings—and this man—rather intimidating. She reminded herself not to stare at his beard, which nearly reached the waistband of his trousers. He’d vowed not to shave it until the Confederacy won the war, and she wondered now if he would have that beard until he died.

  She spotted a miniature portrait of Mrs. Harding on the general’s desk and found it difficult to believe that this August would make two years since her passing.

  “Miss Linden, I’ll keep this brief.” General Harding eased into the leather chair behind his desk. “Two of my workers experienced difficulty in transporting a most expensive thoroughbred from the train station to Belle Meade this morning. A gentleman came to their aid and rescued the blood horse—as well as my investment,” he added with a humorless laugh. “I’m determined to discover the name of this gentleman so I can thank him properly, and was told he was in the company of your father.”

  “My father? But that’s impossible. My father’s been at home all day . . . resting.”

  He peered at her over steepled hands. “According to my men, who know your father, Miss Linden, he was on the turnpike to Belle Meade with this gentleman.”

  “I see.” She tried not to let her frustration with her father bleed through. “I’ll do my best to find out the gentleman’s name.”

  “By week’s end would be appreciated, Miss Linden.”

  He rose from his chair, so she followed suit.

  “I trust that hosting your riding lessons here at Belle Meade is still a satisfactory arrangement?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Very much so. I’m grateful for your generosity in allowing me to use your facilities.”

  “I’m equally pleased that you’re satisfied. And . . . that you’re willing to help me with this little endeavor.”

  Hearing what he was saying, and what he wasn’t, Maggie nodded.

  He opened the door for her. “Is your father entering Bourbon Belle in the heat later this week?”

  Maggie’s thoughts went again to Willie and his family. “No. She won’t be running this heat.”

  “Well . . . perhaps Belle Meade has a chance of winning then.” General Harding’s beard trembled when he laughed.

  “Actually, our jockey is—” The images the boy had described returned in vivid detail. “He and his family have decided to move north. They’re leaving this week.”

  “Oh . . .” The man quickly sobered. “I’m truly sorry to hear that. A good jockey is a rare find.”

  “You don’t happen to know of any needing work, do you?”

  “I don’t at the moment. But I’ll keep on the listen. Even if that does mean I’ll have more competition on the track.” His stare lengthened. “I don’t suppose your father would be interested in selling Bourbon Belle, would he? I’d appreciate having such a fine filly sired by my own stallion Vandal.”

  While Maggie wasn’t surprised at the man’s proposal, the idea of parting with Belle made her heartsick. “You graciously purchased our stable of horses last year, General Harding. And I’m grateful for that. But no, sir. Bourbon Belle isn’t for sale.”

  “Trust me, Miss Linden, there was nothing gracious about my gesture. I simply know fine horse flesh when I see it. As does your father, apparently. He’s done a remarkable job with Bourbon Belle.” Smiling, he offered a perfunctory nod. “Until the week’s end then, Miss Linden. And give your father my best regards.”

  Cullen was certain he’d misheard. “You want me to do what?”

  Mr. Linden offered a look of patient understanding. “It’s not that uncommon of an arrangement, Mr. McGrath. Certainly marriages in Ireland are decided upon, at least in part, by the parents of the couple?”

  “Aye, but . . .” Cullen shot him a stare. “This . . . stipulation, as you call it. It’s quite a ripper!”

  “Yes, I realize that,” Mr. Linden consented, his tone humble. “But I know from personal experience that a man and woman who scarcely know each other can join together and become as one. It doesn’t happen in a day. It takes time and commitment, patience and forbearance, but it can happen.”

  Remembering what was inscribed on the wooden marker belonging to Linden’s wife—Heart of my own heart—Cullen found he couldn’t argue with the man’s personal experience. But his and Moira’s own coming together had been far different.

  Almost from the moment he met her, he’d loved her. And she’d felt the same, though she hadn’t told him until a good while later, sweet and shy as she’d been at first. Two months after meeting her, he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d accepted almost before he got the question out.

  So marrying a complete stranger wasn’t appealing. Not after what he’d known.

  “As you’ve witnessed,” Linden continued, “I am not a well man. Already I’ve surpassed my father’s age when he died, as well as that of his father before him. So to say that I feel a pressing need to get my affairs in order is putting it lightly. I am most determined to make certain my daughter is provided for, Mr. McGrath.”

  “That I can understand, but—” Cullen found he could no longer stay seated. “Askin’ me to marry her? A man she’s never met, and that you yourself have only this day made as an acquaintance?” Cullen laughed at the absurdity. “You don’t know me, Mr. Linden. I could be anybody. A blackguard, a scoundrel. A rogue, even.”

  Linden peered up at him, shades of humor in his expression. “You’re no blackguard or scoundrel, Cullen McGrath. Although I would find it believable that you possessed some . . . roguelike qualities in your past. But I think those traits have been tamed—to a great degree, I suspect, by your late wife.” He spoke the words softly. “And perhaps even by your precious daughter. Becoming a father changes a man. It brings into focus what’s truly important in life. As does the love of a good woman.”

  Linden’s words struck a chord within Cullen. Still, he had to make the man see reason. “I have a temper, sir. You’ve already been witness to that. Surely that’s not a trait you desire in your daughter’s husband.”

  “I witnessed righteous anger today, Mr. McGrath. Anger at injustice. That’s something to be affirmed, not ashamed of. I want to know that after I’m gone my daughter will still be protected, along with the farm. Her future is tied to this land in a way she doesn’t even understand right now. But you do. You know the importance of owning land. And I’m convinced you’re more than capable of protecting both.”

  Cullen thought he heard something the man wasn’t saying outright. “Have you had trouble on your land, sir?”

  The rhythmic ticktock of a clock counted off the seconds as the question hung between them.

  “In a manner of speaking. It started about two years back. I was approached at that time by someone requesting that an old hunting cabin on my property—a plot of land that borders the Belle Meade Plantation—be donated for use as a freedmen’s school. I agreed
. But not long after, someone set fire to the building . . . with the teacher and the freedmen—men, women, and children—inside. They managed to escape, though not without injury.”

  Cullen listened, questions springing to mind. But he’d learned long ago that being a patient listener had its rewards.

  “Following that”—Linden sipped his tea—“certain things would go missing from time to time. Animals, mostly pigs and chickens. I reasoned that a wolf could have gotten them.” He frowned. “Then farming equipment began disappearing too. However, it’s been quiet in recent months. Probably because there’s so little left to take, or maybe . . . since I’m about to lose it all anyway.”

  “You don’t know who was responsible for the fire? Or for the theft?”

  Linden shook his head. “But many others have suffered far worse than we have, even with the challenges that lie before us now.”

  The man’s gaze moved to a window overlooking the meadow they’d just traversed, and Cullen sensed he’d been speaking of someone he knew.

  A moment passed before Linden spoke again. “The time is coming, Mr. McGrath, and in fact is already upon us, when a man will have to boldly stand for what he believes, or everything he holds dear will be taken from him. And from those he loves. I don’t want my daughter facing that kind of world alone.”

  Moved by the man’s statement and the depth of his love for his daughter, Cullen rubbed the taut muscles at the base of his neck. He wanted this land. It was within his grasp, he could feel it. But to marry in order to get it . . .

  A late afternoon breeze drifted through the open window along with the chirrup of a lone cricket getting an early start on evening.

  “Sir, I know you’ve seen the signs in town: NO IRISH NEED APPLY. My people aren’t accepted here. As my wife, your daughter would no longer be accepted either. She’d be an outcast. Is that what you want for her?”

  For the first time Linden winced and bowed his head, and Cullen could see his arguments were finally getting through.