To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  He strode past her into the barn, and Maggie sat motionless, her throat aching with unexpected tenderness even as the heat of anger all but burned a hole through her chest.

  He’d said he loved her—which he’d told her once before, but in the darkness, in a husky whisper, as they’d moved as one. This had felt different. Not any more real. But strangely, more . . . intimate.

  And he’d called her Maggie . . .

  Hot tears pricked her eyes. So small a thing, really, considering everything else. But still . . .

  She heard the sharp clank of metal against wood coming from within the barn and wondered if the action rendering the sound had been intentional.

  She guided Belle through the field and up the ridge, then spotted Kizzy not too far away. The girl ran toward her for all she was worth.

  Maggie waved, then glanced back toward the barn. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Cullen’s concern for her. She did. But she simply couldn’t stand by and watch this opportunity go to waste. She had the answer to securing the future of Linden Downs in her grip. Even if he couldn’t see it.

  The root of his disapproval lay in fear for her, of what could happen. She understood that. But as Papa said . . . sometimes a person needed to let go of a loved one and let them follow the course for their life.

  Cullen had already lost so much. Both as a son and a brother, then as a husband and father. She didn’t blame him for being worried about her. She simply needed to prove to him that there was nothing to fear.

  And she would.

  “It look mighty simple to me,” Kizzy said, hand on hip, squinting in the sunlight. “This ridin’ a horse.”

  Bluster crisped the girl’s tone, but as Maggie peered over the saddle, she noted the way Kizzy’s gaze kept darting to Daisy, the mare she would be riding, then darting away again. The girl shifted from foot to foot. Another telling sign. She looked so small standing here in the middle of the corral.

  “Riding is simple.” Maggie lifted a brow. “But it’s not easy. There’s a lot to remember. And to learn.”

  “I can do it. I know I can.”

  “I believe you can too.” Maggie gestured her closer, knowing only too well how overconfidence could work against a new rider. “And now . . . your first lesson. Kizzy, meet Daisy.” Maggie scratched the mare on the bridge of the nose. “And Daisy”—she demonstrated how to extend her hand, palm open and facing upward—“this is Kizzy.”

  The mare nuzzled Kizzy’s hand, sniffing and licking, which coaxed a flood of giggles from the child. Maggie laughed softly. Regardless of whether a girl hailed from one of the finest homes in Nashville or had once lived in Shantytown, the first lesson always drew similar reactions.

  Maggie studied her newest pupil—the anticipation in Kizzy’s eyes, the tattered checkered dress laced together in front by a frayed string of rope, her hair braided flat against her scalp. And her build, thin and wiry like her brothers, not a hint of womanhood about her. Instead of pantalets, she sported britches beneath her dress, turned up at the hem. Britches belonging to one of her brothers, no doubt.

  “Horses are very smart creatures,” Maggie continued.

  “Like me,” the girl chimed in, her grin pronounced.

  Maggie schooled a sober expression, wanting the girl to take this seriously. “Even without being around a person for very long, a horse knows what that person is like. Simply by reading them.”

  “Readin’ ’em?”

  “Horses sense things. About people. About situations. Most times long before humans do.”

  Kizzy peered up, eyes narrowing. “What you mean?”

  “What I mean is that even having just met you, this horse already has a sense about what type of person you are. Whether you’re kind. If you’ll treat her nicely. Or whether you might raise your voice, or take a whip to her flank. Or beat her with a stick.”

  Kizzy’s brow knit tightly as her focus slid from Maggie back to the mare. Her gaze went somber. “You tell this horse for me, Missus McGrath . . . I ain’t never gonna beat her or do any of them bad things you said.” The girl reached up and stroked the mare’s jaw. “Not ever,” she whispered, her dark eyes warm with affection, her soft voice lined with steel.

  After a second or two, Kizzy looked back. “You gonna tell her for me, ma’am?”

  Maggie gently squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t need to.” She glanced at the mare. “She already knows.”

  The mare snorted and inched closer, and Kizzy beamed.

  “Now,” Maggie patted her back, “let’s get you in the saddle!”

  Kizzy weighed next to nothing, which made assisting the child onto the mare much easier.

  “You’ll want to sit deep in the saddle,” Maggie instructed, which earned her a wary look. “That means you want to press your bottom down so you don’t bounce when you ride. Keep your back straight.” She demonstrated from where she stood. “And keep your legs in contact with the saddle. And with the horse. That’s part of how you communicate with her. Sitting evenly in the saddle is important too. Leaning your body one way or the other will throw off your balance. It’ll make it more difficult for Daisy to carry you, as well.” Maggie thought back to something Uncle Bob had said to her years ago, when she’d first started riding. “It’s a privilege when a horse allows you to ride it, Kizzy. Never forget that. It’s sharing its strength and power with you. That deserves your respect and admiration.”

  Kizzy nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She leaned forward and patted Daisy’s neck. “I ain’t forgettin’ that.”

  The girl’s demeanor endeared her to Maggie in a way few things could. But her posture . . .

  “You need to sit up a little straighter. Imagine a string that starts down here.” Maggie pointed to where the girl’s bottom met the saddle. “And that string is pulled tight straight up through your spine and out the top of your head. So tight that you—”

  Kizzy started to giggle, her eyes dancing.

  Maggie stared. “What’s so funny?”

  “You is, ma’am. Talkin’ ’bout some string goin’ from my backside straight up and outta my head. I ain’t never thought I hear the wife of the boss talkin’ that fool way.”

  Maggie chuckled, appreciating the sparkle in Kizzy’s eyes and impressed at how relaxed she seemed under the circumstances, and so attentive. Attitude was important when learning to ride, and when learning to communicate with a horse. Daisy was exceptionally calm, too, which was rarely the case with first-time students.

  Encouraged, Maggie bent to adjust the stirrups to the proper length. “The bottom of the irons should be . . .”

  The girl’s boot, its sole worn paper thin, had a hole in the toe. But it was the marks on Kizzy’s lower leg—thin, ropelike welts, long healed, wrapping halfway around her thin calves—that chased every other thought from Maggie’s mind.

  “What them irons you talkin’ ’bout, ma’am?” Kizzy leaned to one side.

  Regaining her composure, Maggie pointed. “The metal part here. They’re called irons.”

  Imagining how the girl had come by the welts clenched Maggie’s heart and churned at her gut. She swallowed, but the bitterness caught in her throat. “If your stirrups are too long, you—” She paused, straightening. Then tried again. “You won’t be able to stretch your legs and put down your heels, which means you won’t be able to sit deeply in the saddle.”

  “And what if they’s too short?”

  “Then you’ll find yourself perched above the saddle, which can throw off your ride.”

  Expression alert, Kizzy nodded, as though taking it all in.

  Maggie remembered the day Cullen had taken her to see the workers’ cabins. What was it he’d said about his people? We know what it’s like to have life kick you in the teeth, then shove ’em down your throat.

  Kizzy knew what that was like, too, and at far too young an age. Same as Willie.

  “Keep your legs slightly bent.” She gently touched the girl’s knee. “So that your heels
, hips, and shoulders are all in the same line.”

  “Like that string goin’ up from my backside?”

  Maggie expected to look up and see the girl’s grin. But Kizzy was all seriousness, her features keen. And her posture—perfect.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Admiring the girl’s predilection for learning, Maggie reached up and loosened Kizzy’s grip on the reins, the straps of leather a tight wad in the girl’s grip. “Hold the reins lightly,” she said, demonstrating. “Keep your hands relaxed, and keep the reins a little above the saddle.”

  “Like this?” Kizzy worked to get it right.

  “Good.” Maggie nodded. “Very good.”

  Holding the lead rope, Maggie led Daisy around the corral, keeping an eye on Kizzy and stopping to give her pointers as they went. Starting their fifth time around the circle, Maggie felt resistance in the rope and turned to see Kizzy wearing a quizzical grin.

  “Can I take her ’round by myself this time? I do it just like you say. Nice and slow. Like we’s on a Sunday stroll.”

  Sensing the girl’s excitement, Maggie debated. “You’ll take her around exactly as we’ve done. And do as I instructed? You remember how to stop her?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Kizzy’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t only supposed to pull on the reins to stop her, I’s supposed to use . . . my body, my seat, my legs,” she slowly recounted. “And . . . then my hand. And when I push my backside down in the saddle, the horse knows somethin’s ’bout to happen, then . . .”

  Maggie listened as Kizzy parroted back her instructions with surprising accuracy.

  “And when the horse does somethin’ we told ’em, we got to . . .” She hesitated.

  “Reward,” Maggie gently prompted.

  “—reward ’em. Right then. I got to relax my hand too,” she said, more to herself than to Maggie, and did just that. “And always . . .” The girl squinted as though trying to remember something. Then her head popped up. “Look where I’s goin!” She let out a breath, her grin reaching her big, beautiful eyes and lighting her countenance from within.

  Certain the buttons on her riding jacket were about to pop, Maggie gave an approving nod and stepped back. She waved an arm, and around the corral horse and rider went. Once. Twice.

  On the third pass, Kizzy grinned big as she approached, then urged Daisy to a trot and squealed with excitement when the pace quickened. Maggie watched, heart in her throat. But not from fear. Daisy was a well-trained horse with a smooth gait, but Kizzy . . .

  Maggie marveled. Kizzy was a—

  A low whistle came from behind, and Maggie turned.

  Uncle Bob nudged his black bowler higher on his forehead, his focus glued to the corral. “You got yourself a natural there, Missus McGrath.”

  Maggie smiled. “My thought exactly. She’s amazing!”

  “She’s you made over, is what she is.” Uncle Bob’s expression grew sheepish. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ it that way.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Uncle Bob. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  “You took to it just like that, ma’am.” He nodded. “Rode back after a few times around and asked me if you could try a bigger horse.”

  “I did not.”

  His eyes widened. “I swear on my sweet mama’s grave.”

  Maggie smiled again, then turned back to watch Kizzy, thinking about the scars on her legs. “Do you know much about her family?”

  “She belong to Ennis and Odessia, don’t she?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “That family been in these parts for years. Worked on a plantation up north of town ’til the war. Ennis, he a good man. Workin’ for your husband now, ain’t he?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ennis works for my husband.”

  “Won’t find a better worker, ma’am. Same for his wife. They both be—” Uncle Bob stopped midsentence. “Lawd, would you look at her fly!”

  Maggie turned. Kizzy had Daisy at a full gallop, the girl’s seat deep and true, her body bent forward in perfect alignment.

  “I didn’t teach her to do that,” she said softly.

  Uncle Bob laughed. “Nobody taught you either, ma’am. You just knew it. God tucked that gift inside you ’fore you even got here.” He grinned. “Just like he done with her.” He sighed. “Too bad she ain’t a boy. You’d have yourself a horse and a jockey nobody could come close to beatin’.”

  The truth of his statement struck like a hammer on an anvil inside Maggie, and sparks flew.

  “O’ course,” he continued, “the rules don’t say nothin’ ’bout the jockey havin’ to be a boy. Leastwise not that I ever heard.”

  Maggie turned. A trace of humor marked Uncle Bob’s expression, but in his eyes she glimpsed a flicker of possibility. And even . . . challenge.

  “No,” she finally responded, the quickened pace of her heartbeat matching the pounding of Daisy’s hooves. “The rules don’t say that. Do they?”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cullen awakened to find the space beside him in bed empty and the morning light barely reaching through the open windows. Sighing, he raised up and surveyed the bedroom.

  The dress Maggie had hung on the peg by the wardrobe last night was gone. As were her boots. As was she. Again. And apparently she’d taken Bucket with her this time too.

  With a sharp exhale, he flung back the sheet. The plank wood floor creaked beneath his weight. Yesterday morning’s exchange between them outside the barn hadn’t produced the peaceable end he’d intended. When she’d returned home later in the afternoon, she’d seemed less tense somehow. But still unapproachable.

  Each morning it seemed she rose earlier and earlier. Soon she’d just never come to bed. At least she hadn’t moved into another bedroom or asked him to move. That was something, he guessed.

  But he needed to mend this rift between them.

  Hearing the familiar creak of the barn door, he peered out the window in time to see Maggie climb into the saddle. She paused and gave Bucket the command to stay, then gave Bourbon Belle the signal to do what the mare did best—give the wind something to envy.

  Cullen watched horse and rider until they disappeared over the ridge behind the barn. Beauties, both of them. Aye, he had to find a way to mend things. But without giving in to Maggie’s request. He grabbed his pants on the chair by the desk.

  He’d considered simply telling her the truth. It wasn’t as though he feared she would turn him in to the authorities. He was her husband, after all. And even if she didn’t care for him the way a wife ought to love her husband, he knew Maggie wouldn’t do that. The woman wasn’t capable of such betrayal.

  But if he did tell her, and then by chance the truth became public—if she happened to mention it to Savannah Darby or Mary Harding—and if what he’d been party to in England came to light, then he’d for sure lose Linden Downs, which meant Maggie would lose it too.

  Along with everything she held dear.

  And the promises he’d made to her father—and the vows he’d made to her—would all be for naught. Yet even as the scenario played itself out in his mind, he knew he wasn’t being completely honest with himself.

  In truth, he was afraid she wouldn’t respect him, much less love him, if she knew the man he was. Or had been. He doubted she’d be able to see past her formerly held opinions. And could he blame her? Didn’t he view the British with the same critical, unforgiving eye?

  He retrieved a clean shirt from the wardrobe and caught her scent still clinging to her dresses. A sharpness clenched his chest. He didn’t think he could bear the disappointment in her eyes. Not after having seen a similar disappointment in Moira’s.

  Oh, Moira had forgiven him, he knew that. She’d known his older brother, after all, and had understood what kind of man Ethan was. The same kind of man—Cullen paused as he buttoned his shirt—that he’d been himself. Until Moira. Until their precious Katie. They had changed him, each in her own way.

  If he told Maggie the truth, might
she even blame him for what happened to them? Just as he still blamed himself, at least in part?

  He reached for his boots, sat on the side of the bed, and tugged them on. Then he paused and looked down at his hands.

  They were his father’s hands—large and strong—a similarity he’d never paid much attention to until the first time his father had beaten him as a boy. Or tried to. Ethan had been so brave, stepping between them, cursing their father to his face as he’d taken blow after blow, calling him names that Cullen had only mustered in his heart.

  Cullen fingered the scar across his knuckles. With these hands he’d picked potatoes as a boy, played stickball in the streets, and stolen apples from the fruit stand in his childhood borough. He’d buried his younger sisters and smoothed the hair back from his mother’s brow as she lay in the casket. He’d been in more barroom brawls than he could count, much less remember. He’d cradled his baby girl with these hands, then had secured her tiny body in her mother’s arms and lowered them both into the sea, the thick rope rough and wet with salty spray.

  He could still feel the soft silk of Maggie’s skin beneath his touch, and remember the way she sighed against him. To know a woman’s love, to experience the pleasure in it, was one of the greatest gifts given a man. But for her to return that love, and to experience a similar pleasure . . . Aye, that was a rare gift indeed.

  So many things a man did with his hands in a lifetime. How could the same hands be party to such conflicting pursuits? It didn’t seem right somehow. And yet, he guessed a man’s hands were only a reflection of the man himself.

  He rose and scratched his stubbled jawline, then glanced back at the bed. A soft indention marked the spot where she’d lain beside him last night, very close to the edge, he noted. He shook his head, expelling the air from his lungs. He would fix this.

  Turning to go, his gaze fell to Maggie’s bedside table, and to Mr. Linden’s Bible that still rested, seemingly undisturbed, right where it had for weeks.