To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  I was tryin’ to get you to see things differently from the way most people in your world see them . . .

  Her world. All her life, she’d been only a stone’s throw away, and yet—

  “You like wearin’ them kinda dresses?”

  Slightly startled at the childish—yet decidedly confident—voice, Maggie looked down to see Ennis’s daughter staring up, tiny hand on hip.

  “I once heard tell of a white woman who done got one of them fancy dresses like that all wrestled up in a wagon wheel.” The girl pointed at Maggie’s skirt, a flair of drama in the act. “Horses spooked. Dragged her. Kilt her too.” The girl shrugged matter-of-factly. “That’s what folks say.”

  Curbing a grin, Maggie studied the child. “That’s a very sad story—”

  “Kizzy,” the girl said, thin eyebrows arching. “I ’member your name, ma’am. It be Missus McGrath.”

  Maggie smiled. The girl was articulate for her age. And then some. “To answer your question, Kizzy, yes, I do enjoy wearing a pretty dress sometimes. But when I was younger, about your age . . .” Maggie leaned down and looked from side to side as though she were making certain they were alone. She lowered her voice. “When I’d work in the barn, I would wear my brother’s dungarees!”

  Far from the wide-eyed look of shock Maggie expected, the girl’s eyes narrowed.

  “How you kept them britches up if they was your brother’s? Ain’t they been too big for ya?”

  Maggie liked the girl’s spunk. “I used a length of rope, actually. Tied it in a knot, good and tight.”

  “Kizzy! You stop botherin’ this fine lady.”

  Maggie straightened as Odessia gained the porch. “She’s not bothering me at all, I assure you.”

  “Well, she talk your ear off, ma’am, if you let her.” Odessia tugged one of her daughter’s braids and gave her a look.

  Little Kizzy gave it right back. “I’m gonna pick me up forty-seven bags next week, too, Mama. So I can get me as much as Jobah did.”

  Odessia deposited a basket of laundry on the table. “What your husband is doin’ for the young ones, Missus McGrath . . . It’s awful good of him.”

  Maggie stared.

  “Payin’ ’em like he do. A penny for every sack full of rocks they get.”

  “Oh . . .” Maggie nodded quickly. “That. Yes, well, I’m certain they’re earning it.” She looked down the way for Cullen again and was grateful to see him striding toward her. From now on, she intended to start listening more closely to the conversations he had with her father about the farm.

  “My Ennis, he say Mister McGrath be a real good man.”

  Maggie glanced beside her to see Odessia looking at Cullen then back at her. “Thank you, Odessia. That’s . . . very kind of you to say.”

  Maggie watched as he spoke to people as he passed, and she leaned toward agreeing with the woman. Yet she wasn’t fully convinced of the fact. He did have an ease about him, though, a comfort in his own skin, that was attractive.

  She thought again of last night and how he’d kissed her, and how it had felt to have his hands on her. Her body flushed with warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the day, and that only intensified when he looked up at her and smiled.

  She wondered again what she’d wondered last night as she’d fallen asleep. Which was worse, the fact that she’d married a man she didn’t love in order to keep her land and Bourbon Belle? Or that the man she’d married—the man she feared she was already growing to love—was the main obstacle standing between her and what she knew she was put on this earth to do.

  Taking a different way home, Maggie urged Bourbon Belle across the creek behind the old Harding cabin where Uncle Bob lived, then guided the mare to the meadow beyond and urged her to a canter toward Linden Downs.

  Helping Lucy Blankenship overcome her fear of horses had been a slow and painstaking process, but worth it in the end. In more ways than one. Thanks to Mrs. Blankenship’s enthusiasm, Maggie’s schedule for riding lessons was now filled to the brim. The jingle in her saddlebags felt good.

  The month of June had settled in hot and heavy, ushering in new waves of daunting summer heat, and by the time Maggie reached the lower fields of Linden Downs she had to stop momentarily to remove her riding jacket. She stuffed it into a saddlebag then unbuttoned the collar of her white shirtwaist and fanned her neck. Even the slightest touch of cool was an improvement.

  She gained the ridge a minute later only to see who she’d been wanting to see all day. She spotted him just before he looked in her direction, and she returned his wave.

  She was thrilled to discover they hadn’t cleared her field yet. Cullen had told her last night they should get to it today. And they might yet, with plenty of daylight left.

  She leaned down and gave Belle’s neck a good rub. “You ready, girl?” The mare pawed at the dirt. “All right then. Let’s make this one count.”

  Maggie had never seen a horse with so swift a start as Belle. One minute you were sitting astraddle and the next you were flying on the back of Pegasus, sleek muscle and brawn carrying you through time and space so fast not even the wind could catch you.

  Her focus on the well-worn path, Maggie heard the cheers and briefly looked up to see Cullen smiling and shaking his head, the workers whooping and hollering, and the children running through the field as though trying to keep up with Belle.

  The moment was perfect, just like her Bourbon Belle, and Maggie couldn’t contain the laughter inside her. Coming to the smoothest part of the path, she gently tightened her legs around Belle, let go of the reins, and stretched her arms out wide, lifting her face to the sun. Happy tears moistened her cheeks, and the image of her eldest brother came to mind.

  The first time Oak saw her ride without reins as a young girl, arms outstretched, he’d been livid. Scared to death for her, she’d learned later from her father, who had always been her greatest support and encouragement. Oak had given a name to what she did: soaring. And he hadn’t approved.

  But he simply hadn’t known horses the way she did. And she knew Belle. Like no one else.

  Belle slowed as she always did when they approached the end of the meadow, and Maggie grasped the reins again. She turned around, the cheers of the workers now replaced by their applause. She took a bow atop Belle, and when she looked up again she spotted Cullen.

  He wasn’t clapping. And judging by his stance, he wasn’t smiling anymore either.

  He lifted a hand, not so much in a wave but as a we’ll-talk-later gesture. She did the same, knowing he’d get used to seeing her soar. Or, like Oak, he would simply learn to accept it.

  Her heart light, she directed Belle toward the creek. Once their thirsts were slaked, they continued on, Maggie letting Belle set the pace.

  When they crested the last hill and home came into view, Maggie looked down to see her father seated in one of the rockers on the porch, waiting for her as he oftentimes did, with Bucket right beside him.

  Even from a distance she thought she detected Papa waving, and she waved in return, big enough so he’d see her. Knowing how he enjoyed watching her ride, she snapped the reins, and Belle ate up the distance.

  Chapter

  NINETEEN

  Maggie reined in and Belle skidded to a halt, sending dirt and pebbles flying.

  Papa smiled, rocking slowly back and forth. “I never tire of seeing you do that.”

  “Do what?” She dismounted and removed the saddlebags, grinning as she did.

  “Do what you love most. And what you’re so gifted at, Maggie. Riding.”

  Cletus came for Belle and led her to the barn, and Maggie claimed the rocker beside her father, dropping the saddlebags at her feet. She leaned down and rubbed Bucket between the ears, smiling when the collie’s tail thumped the floor.

  She settled back. “I thought of Oak earlier when I was riding across the lower fields.”

  Her father gave her a knowing look, and she laughed. “I couldn’t help it. The
field was just so pretty, and they’ll be tilling it tomorrow. But I don’t think Cullen liked seeing me soar any more than Oak did.”

  “No.” Her father shook his head, looking out across the fields. “I don’t imagine he would.”

  Maggie briefly covered his hand on the arm of the rocker. “You’ve always believed in me, Papa. You’ve always trusted that I knew what I was doing with horses.” She glanced toward the stable. “Especially with Belle. I appreciate your faith in me. So very much.”

  He turned and looked at her, the creak of the rocker falling away. His brown eyes, so much like her own, shone bright with emotion. “I do believe in you, Margaret. But it—” The break in his voice and slight tremble in his chin revealed his struggle. “It took me years not to be half frightened out of my wits every time I saw you ride like that. Arms stretched out with such abandon. So . . . fearless.”

  Maggie’s smile faded. “Papa,” she whispered, seeing his eyes glisten.

  “That doesn’t mean I didn’t believe in you then,” he continued hastily. “I did. And I still do. But even when you know someone can do something, even when you think they should, sometimes you’re still a little frightened for them when they do.” He sighed, his focus returning to the fields. “You’re frightened because you love them so much, of course. And you can’t imagine your world without them.”

  Staring at his profile softened by the late-afternoon sun, Maggie started to respond when he leaned forward, the rocker creaking as he did.

  “Ah . . . look there!” A smile swiftly replaced his sorrow. “Here they come.”

  She looked up just as the wagons topped the hill. Cullen drove the first rig, pulled by Levi, the massive Percheron, and the wagon bed was filled with women and children. Ennis, his cargo the same, followed in the second wagon, pulled by two recently purchased mares. A throng of men walked behind them, their conversation drifting downhill toward the house.

  “Look at the fields, Maggie,” her father whispered after a few moments, settling back. “Can’t you feel the life flowing back into the place?”

  She smiled, hearing the hope in his voice. “Yes, Papa, I can.”

  Bucket rose and trotted to the edge of the porch as Cullen brought the wagon to a stop in front of the barn. Ennis guided the second wagon in right behind him. They assisted the women and children down, then Cullen made his way to the porch. His boots were caked in mud, his shirt and trousers stained with dirt and sweat.

  He came as far as the bottom step then stopped. “Mr. Linden,” he said, nodding and giving Bucket a firm pat on the head. “Margaret . . .” His gaze met hers, changing ever so slightly before moving back to her father. “It’s good to see you sittin’ outside again, sir. Looks like the fresh air suits you.”

  “I wish I could be out in the fields with you instead, Cullen.” He breathed deeply. “The smell of freshly turned earth has always been as sweet as honeysuckle to me.”

  Cullen laughed. “I’ve got plenty of dirt on me now, but I promise you . . . I smell nothin’ like a flower.”

  Her father laughed, the sound like a tonic to Maggie. But Cullen’s less-than-warm greeting confirmed what she already suspected. They would have words later.

  The squeak of the screen door brought them around.

  Onnie stepped out. “Dinner be ready soon.” She stopped to give Cullen a good looking-over.

  Papa grinned at him. “You best go on and wash up, then we’ll eat. And you can catch me up on the progress.”

  Cullen gave him a smart—and familiar—salute. “I’ll enjoy that, sir. I have a lot to tell you.”

  “Mister McGrath . . .” Onnie held out an envelope. “This come earlier for you, sir.”

  Cullen started to accept, then glanced at his hands.

  “Thank you, Onnie.” Maggie rose. “I’ll take it.” The fine stationery looked familiar, and she soon realized why. “It’s from Belle Meade.” Addressed, she noted, to Mr. Cullen McGrath of Linden Downs. Not to her. Or to her father.

  Her father resumed his rocking. “Probably an invitation to the yearling auction in August. General Harding was impressed with you, Cullen.”

  Cullen offered a look he likely intended to be amiable, but it was far from convincing. “I’ve got a couple of things to do in the barn, then I’ll go wash up for dinner.”

  Maggie watched him walk away, fingering the envelope. If General Harding was extending an invitation to Cullen to attend the yearling auction, Cullen must have conveyed their financial standing to be quite good. Which made her wonder . . .

  What exactly was Linden Downs’s financial standing? During dinner tonight, she would do her best to find out. Linden Downs was, after all, her family farm. Or had been.

  She stood. “I think I’ll freshen up before dinner.”

  “And I think I’ll stay right here with Bucket and enjoy the evening.”

  She leaned down and kissed Papa’s forehead then grabbed the saddlebags. Inside, she laid the envelope on the side table, looking again at Cullen’s name on the front. It shouldn’t bother her.

  But it did.

  Upstairs, she changed into a fresh shirtwaist and, standing before the mirror, tucked the loose strands of hair back into her braid. Movement from outside the open window drew her eye, and she spotted Cullen, headed, presumably, to the creek. It was nice, in a way, considering what her father had said moments ago, that Cullen apparently wasn’t pleased with how she’d ridden Belle. It would indicate that he cared about her, which she believed he did.

  If not as a proper husband should, at least to some extent. Which boded well for a more favorable reaction from him when she finally found the right moment to broach the subject of racing Bourbon Belle.

  Maggie emptied her saddlebags and looked at her reticule stuffed with coins and currency from the lessons she’d taught. Not even a fraction of the smallest fortune, but progress. For when she found a jockey.

  Which would be soon, she hoped.

  On her way down the stairs she caught a whiff of dinner. Chicken and dumplings, she thought—one of Onnie’s specialities—and her mouth watered. She was famished. And tired too.

  The screen door creaked as she opened and closed it, and she paused to admire the sun setting over the hills. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Papa?” she whispered. “So peaceful.”

  She turned to find him asleep in the rocker, and smiled. The hope in his voice earlier, the warmth in his eyes as he’d watched the workers returning home, did her heart good.

  She crossed the porch and leaned down. “Papa.” She laughed softly, touching his shoulder. “You need to wake up. Onnie’s not about to let you nap through her chicken and dumplings.”

  He didn’t stir.

  She nudged his arm, a little harder this time, and knelt down. “Papa, it’s time to—”

  The slack of his jaw and slump of his shoulders drove her to her knees. The air around her thinned. She couldn’t breathe. “Papa?” she whispered, eyes burning. She sucked in a breath and shook him again. “Papa!”

  His arm, resting on his leg, slipped off to one side, and somewhere in the distance Maggie heard a woman wail. Deep, uncontrollable sobs. And not until strong arms lifted her from behind did she realize she was the woman.

  Chapter

  TWENTY

  Margaret cried and struggled against him at first, but Cullen held her fast, his own throat aching with unshed tears. Her sobs tore at his heart, and he turned her in his arms, away from her father.

  “It’s goin’ to be all right, Margaret,” he whispered. “It’s goin’ to be all right.”

  Her shoulders shook, and she fought to gain her breath.

  Footsteps sounded from within the house, and Onnie came running. The screen door slammed behind her. At the same time, Cletus gained the porch, and the two of them stood staring at Mr. Linden. A deep sigh left Onnie, and Cletus slipped off his hat and bowed his head.

  Onnie closed her eyes, her lips moving silently. The only sound, Margaret’s soft,
hiccuped sobs.

  After a minute Onnie turned. “Why don’t you take her to her room, Mister McGrath.”

  Cullen nodded, but Margaret drew back, shaking her head.

  “No.” She took a staggered breath. “I need to take care of him.”

  Her tears started afresh, and Onnie lifted her chin.

  “Child, you done taken good care of your father all these years. Now it’s time you let me do this for you. And for him. This one last thing.” Onnie’s lips trembled. “I be honored . . . if you let me.”

  For a moment Cullen thought Margaret was going to refuse. Then she bowed her head.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and turned to go inside.

  Cullen opened the door for her and followed her to the staircase. She got to the second stair and her gaze slowly lifted, weariness in the act, and that’s all the prompting Cullen needed.

  He lifted her in his arms. She didn’t fight him. He carried her up the stairs and into her bedroom, then laid her on the bed. She immediately curled onto her side and pulled the second pillow to her chest.

  Cullen saw a blanket folded atop a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, shook it out, and drew it up over her, wishing he could do more.

  “Is there anythin’ I can get you?” he asked softly. “Anythin’ I can do?”

  She shook her head and buried her face in the pillow.

  He reached out to stroke her hair then hesitated, not certain she’d welcome his comfort. He drew his hand back. “I’ll check on you again shortly.”

  When she said nothing, he turned.

  “Cullen . . .”

  The fragile whisper brought him around again, the weakness in her voice touching something deep inside him.

  “Would you . . .” She took a sharp breath and pulled the blanket closer beneath her chin. “Close the door . . . when you leave.”

  Rain pelted the heavy canopy of branches overhead, and Maggie held her mother’s parasol closer, as much to shield herself from stares as to protect from the rain. Her gaze fixed on the coffin in the damp, dark hole at her feet, she heard the pastor’s voice, yet didn’t hear it at the same time.