Cullen glanced behind him toward the hallway then silently chided himself, knowing she was gone. He picked up the Bible, the worn leather supple in his grip. He recalled Mr. Linden reading to them from the latter pages. He opened the book and thumbed through the pages, a little surprised at what he found.
Not only were verses on the pages underlined, but notes crowded the margins too. Some with dates beside them.
He held the Bible at an angle to decipher the man’s handwriting. Not in my strength, Lord, but in yours. “The third of January, 1865,” Cullen read aloud, then turned the book in his grip yet again to read the corresponding underlined verse: And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.
Cullen stared, trying to remember the date inscribed on the wooden markers belonging to Mr. Linden’s four older sons. December of 1864, he thought. Only one month prior. No doubt their passings had been in the man’s mind when he’d penned this note.
Cullen’s gaze jumped to the top of the page. II Corinthians. The title of these chapters was familiar. Mr. Linden had read from this book before. But . . .
Strength being made perfect in weakness? A foolish thought, in Cullen’s opinion.
He eased down on the edge of the bed and flipped through the next few pages, intending only to read a few of the notes in the margins, but what Mr. Linden had written compelled him to read the verses beside them as well. Odd to read a man’s thoughts after he was already gone—even his prayers, Cullen soon discovered as he turned the pages. It made him wish again that he’d had the opportunity to know Mr. Linden better.
“Mister McGrath?”
Onnie’s voice drew Cullen’s attention.
She stood at the open door of the bedroom looking at him, then at the Bible in his hands. “Don’t mean to bother you, sir. But some of the workers already here, and you usually out there by now.”
He glanced out the window to find the sun fully risen. “I didn’t realize the time.”
He laid the Bible back on Maggie’s bedside table, yet as he hurried downstairs and ate breakfast, then met the workers in the barn, he felt as if he were carrying a portion of the verses—and of Gilbert Linden—inside him.
“Uncle Bob, after working with Kizzy for the last week—” Maggie paused, noting how his attention suddenly shifted away from her. Perhaps he guessed her question and wasn’t eager to answer it. But she needed to know his opinion. And the sooner she knew, the better. “Do you believe Kizzy has a—”
“Excuse me, Missus McGrath.” Uncle Bob nodded past her. “I think you got yourself a visitor, ma’am.”
Cullen.
Maggie froze, praying it wasn’t him while simultaneously trying to think of how she would explain giving lessons to Kizzy if it was. But no matter what she said, he would instinctively know what she was doing. One look at her with those gray-green eyes, and the man could read every thought in her head. Bracing herself, she turned.
Relief cascaded through her when she saw Savannah standing at the edge of the corral. Savannah waved and Maggie did the same. Yet even from a distance, Maggie detected unrest in her friend’s expression. Oh, she hoped whatever it was didn’t involve Andrew or little Carolyne.
With a smile Maggie indicated she’d be right there, then slipped her pocket watch to Uncle Bob. “Kizzy has another six—”
“Six laps to go. Yes, ma’am.” He took the watch. “I watch the time for you.”
“Thank you.” She turned, then hesitated, still eager to know his answer. “After seeing Kizzy ride”—Daisy rounded the corner at full gallop, the mare’s hooves covering ground, while Kizzy sat easy in the saddle, looking like the happiest child alive—“do you think she has a chance, Uncle Bob? Not just at racing, I mean. I know she can race.”
“Ain’t no question ’bout that, ma’am.”
“But can she win the Peyton Stakes?”
He smiled, his kind brown eyes shaded beneath the brim of his bowler. “You know good as I do, ma’am . . . Ain’t nobody can answer that. Horses that should win races, don’t. And those that ain’t got no business winnin’ . . .” He shrugged. “Well, sometimes they do.”
Maggie nodded and turned to go meet Savannah.
“But I can tell you this—”
She turned back.
“That girl there, she got racin’ in her blood. She fearless, just like you, ma’am.” He grinned. “She got a heart these horses just seem to take to. They trust her. But the real test is gettin’ her on Bourbon Belle.”
Maggie nodded, already knowing that was the next step. But also knowing that Daisy’s speed and power were nothing compared to Belle’s. “I don’t want to do anything that will endanger Kizzy. Or Belle, for that matter. But . . .” She bit her lower lip. “I think Kizzy’s ready.”
“Oh, she ready all right, ma’am. Don’t you worry ’bout that none. Question is, will Belle take to her like Belle took to Willie?”
Maggie watched Kizzy fly. “We only have a few weeks to train her.”
“But Belle, she ready, ma’am. You kept her in racin’ shape. And Kizzy . . . my guess is that girl’ll be ready to face just ’bout any jockey I seen yet.”
Maggie hoped he was right. “If you have time this afternoon, we’ll get them together. See how they do.”
“That’s a pairin’ I wouldn’t miss for the world, ma’am.”
Maggie cast him a hopeful look, yet also felt a wave of dread. She still didn’t know how to convince Cullen to side with her on the racing issue. But that would have to wait. She hurried to join Savannah outside the fence.
Savannah met her, reaching for her hand. “I’m sorry to bother you, Maggie.” She squeezed tight. “I know you’re busy.”
Maggie shook her head. “Never too busy for you. Andrew and Carolyne are well, I hope?”
Savannah frowned, then just as swiftly her expression cleared. “Oh yes, they’re fine. This isn’t about them. It’s . . . about this.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew an envelope. “When you came to visit last, I told you I was reading through my father’s letters to my mother. The ones he sent during the war.”
Maggie nodded.
“In one of his letters—” Savannah halted suddenly and studied the stationery in her hand. When she looked up again, emotion softened her eyes. “Please hear me out before you decide. All right?”
Her curiosity piqued, Maggie nodded again.
“In this letter,” Savannah continued, “he references a hurtful conversation he had with my mother one night.” Savannah withdrew the letter. “Here . . . I’d appreciate it if you would simply read it for yourself.”
Maggie glanced at the missive but didn’t take it, feeling more than a little uneasy. “This is a private exchange between your parents.”
“It’s all right,” Savannah softly coaxed. “It’s nothing overly intimate, I promise.” A tiny smile turned her mouth. “At least . . . not as intimate as some of the others.”
Savannah’s humor lessening her unease, Maggie accepted and carefully unfolded the pages of the wrinkled stationery. That her dear friend had chosen to share this with her warmed her heart, whatever decision there was to be made.
Dearest Melna,
I hope that you will not think I meant to neglect you because I did not write before now. The fact is, we have been marching every day, and by the time night falls I can scarcely spoon the cook’s watery broth to my mouth, much less command a pen to paper. But you and the children have been on my heart day and night. You will remember what we spoke of when last we were together, after the children were abed. I ask you again to forgive me for keeping what I did from you. It was most lovingly done. However, I understand how hurtful a revelation it was for you. It was never my intention to add to that past wound, my dearest.
Maggie turned the page, aware of Savannah watching her. A heavy watermark marred the ink on the time-crinkled page, but Maggie could still make out the words.
Your father was a
most persuasive man and even now, I can see the determination in his eyes. Though I know the relationship between the two of you was never the same, I do believe your father entered eternity with overwhelming love for you, and with a desire that you forgive him for the decision he made all those years ago. And I hope, my love, that you will. The longer I fight this war, and the more men I see taken so swiftly from this world to the next, the more I am convinced that harboring unforgiveness is a costly debt. One that is paid over and over not so much by the one needing forgiveness as by the one withholding it.
The ink blotched the page as though the author had hesitated overlong in lifting the pen.
What your father gave me . . . gave you, he did in a spirit of reconciliation, and I hope that in time you will receive his gift as such. Before I left, I placed it with the rest of our valuables for safekeeping.
Maggie looked up, understanding Savannah’s cause for excitement now. “Valuables? What does he mean by—”
“Read on,” Savannah softly whispered.
I’ll adhere to your wishes and will wait to share the story with our entire family once the boys and I return home. But know that this was far more than a simple gesture on your father’s part. It was an olive branch intended to heal, and I pray its roots spread deep and wide through our family. I left additional monies in the box as well. Save it if you can. Spend it if necessary. Even if the house is commandeered, it will be safe.
Maggie didn’t even glance up this time, eager to finish the letter.
When last you wrote, Melna, you told me you believed without fail that it was God’s design for me to see home again. I cling to that hope and your faith in it, for my own grows less day by day. I pray to God that I am wrong. But if I am not, and heaven is soon within my sight, know that with my last breath I will be thinking of you, and thanking God for the gift of your love and for all of our children. Jake and Adam are doing well, fighting bravely, as you would imagine. Though I know they are frightened, as are all brave men, from time to time. I am attempting to keep them safe and am so proud of them both. They send their love.
We all look forward to being home soon.
With deepest affection,
Merle
With Merle Darby’s words settling inside her, Maggie felt a familiar weight of grief. But she also felt the spark of excitement and hope emanating from her friend beside her.
“Papa left something behind,” Savannah whispered, though no one else was within earshot. “Money, for certain. If mother didn’t spend it. But also something from my grandfather. Something valuable.”
“Do you have any idea where he hid it in the house?” Maggie continued softly.
“No, but I intend to find it! And I want you to come with me.”
“But . . .” Maggie searched her friend’s eyes, wondering if, in the excitement, Savannah had forgotten the truth of her situation. “The house has already been sold. Weren’t whatever furnishings were left sold with it?”
Savannah’s gaze clouded. “Yes, but it was something Father left for us specifically. Doesn’t that mean it would still belong to us? To me, Andrew, and Carolyne?”
Maggie didn’t respond as she returned the letter. Not because she didn’t know the answer to Savannah’s question, but because she hated to dash her friend’s hope.
“I’m asking you to go with me, Maggie.” Savannah’s countenance held a mixture of pleading and admission of guilt. “The new owner, whoever it is, hasn’t yet taken possession of the house or the property. He doesn’t even know it’s there.”
“If whatever your father referenced is still there, Savannah. Who knows but what your mother might have—”
“She never said a thing about such a box. And she would have . . . if she’d had the chance.”
Maggie recalled how swiftly Savannah’s mother had fallen ill. She’d been fine one moment, then complained of a severe ache in her head the next. Then she’d collapsed. By the time Maggie arrived at the Darby’s house that afternoon, Savannah’s mother was already slipping away.
The doctor thought the incident was caused by her heart, but whatever the sickness, it had left Melna Darby unable to move, to speak, and within hours, even to breathe. She’d been gone by the next morning.
“All I’m asking, Maggie, is that you go with me to the house. You don’t even have to look for the box if you don’t want to. But I haven’t been back there since the day I moved us into town, and it would be so much easier if you were with me.”
The Darbys’ house and estate were a ways from town, about the same distance as Linden Downs. The chances that someone would see them were slim. Still . . . Maggie knew only too well the legalities of ownership when someone else purchased one’s family home. Everything became theirs.
Everything. Fair or not.
“I’ll go with you,” Maggie whispered. “And we’ll find that box.”
Later that afternoon, heart in her throat, Maggie held Belle’s harness as Kizzy settled into the saddle. The girl looked even smaller astride Bourbon Belle than Willie had looked. And with good reason. She was a good three inches shorter and at least ten pounds lighter.
The child was a newborn kitten grasping the reins of a locomotive, and the weight of responsibility Maggie felt for her pressed down hard inside. She prayed she was doing the right thing.
Uncle Bob tightened the stirrups a little more. “You ’member everythin’ Missus McGrath told you, child. And you do it.”
Kizzy nodded, her dark eyes sparkling. “I will, Uncle Bob.”
Maggie reached up and grasped the girl’s hand. “Belle has been racing all her life. She knows what to do. Listen to her just like she’ll be listening to you.”
Kizzy squeezed her hand. “Don’t you worry none ’bout me, ma’am. Miss Belle and me, we gonna get along just fine.”
Maggie felt the sting of tears. “I know you will. Take it slow the first few times around. Learn her gait. Let her learn your ways too. Remember, sit deep in the saddle. And she doesn’t like a tight rein. So keep it loose.” Seeing the frown on Kizzy’s face, Maggie paused. “What is it?”
“You tell them other girls all these things so many times ’fore they ride Belle? Same as you tellin’ me?”
Holding back a smile, Maggie shook her head. “No . . . I don’t.”
The child’s frown deepened to a familiar scowl.
“Because you’re the first girl who’s ever ridden Bourbon Belle. Besides me.”
Without another word, Maggie stepped back and nodded. Kizzy was still smiling as she and Belle circled the track for the third time, and by the fourth, the girl nudged Belle to a canter. The child’s seat stayed deep and true, her posture perfect, and Maggie felt a tender pride similar to what she imagined parents experienced seeing their children accomplish something for the very first time.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
But when Belle quickened to a gallop, the mare’s stride smooth and true, Maggie pictured herself as a young girl again, astride her first thoroughbred, right here at Belle Meade with Uncle Bob beside her.
“Thank you, Uncle Bob,” she said softly, turning to see his own eyes filled with emotion. “For teaching me all you have.”
His smile trembled. “And thank you, Lawd,” he whispered back, his gaze on the track. “For lettin’ me see this day, and another little girl . . . who’s learnin’ how to fly.”
Chapter
TWENTY-NINE
Onnie tells me the wolf attacks have become more frequent.”
Cullen lifted his head and looked at Maggie across the dinner table, his forkful of creamed potatoes paused midway between his plate and his mouth. She’d been quiet for days on end, and now this.
When Savannah Darby had stopped by the house two days ago looking for her, he’d sent the young woman on to Belle Meade, hoping her visit might be an encouragement to Maggie. But Maggie had since seemed even more brooding.
He followed through on his bite of potatoes, giving himself time
to form an answer, and appreciating how the prolonged silence seemed to leech the urgency from her question. “I wouldn’t exactly say they’re becomin’ more frequent.” He took a drink of water, the sprig of mint fragrant. “Perhaps more . . . determined, might be a better description.”
Her gaze held steady. “I knew of only one incident that occurred almost a month ago. There have been others?”
“Aye.”
“How many?”
“I didn’t tell you because I don’t wish to worry you about it.”
She frowned. “How many?”
“One or two happened around the middle of last month.” It was a true statement, if not the whole truth.
“What are they getting?”
“Chickens mostly. And a cow. But they also got a young bull.”
“They took down a bull?”
He nodded, hoping she wouldn’t press for more.
“How many times has it happened since then?”
The clock on the mantel behind him ticked off the seconds.
“Three,” he finally answered.
A single dark brow rose. “Which could be construed by some as ‘more frequent.’ ”
Her mocking tone was a gauntlet, and he stared unblinking, determined not to take it up. If only she would put as much energy into mending things between them as she did into trying to pick a fight.
In addition to her rising with the sun every morning—or sometimes before the sun—she somehow managed to sneak upstairs before he did most evenings, change into her gown, and get neatly tucked beneath a nunlike cloister of covers. And this before he even noticed she was missing from the parlor.
Last night, however, he’d caught her watching him in the mirror’s reflection as he undressed. He’d curbed a smile at the discovery, not wanting her to know he’d seen.
“So, without my having to ask for a daily accounting . . . How many wolf attacks have there been altogether, Cullen?”
He met her stare. “Seven.”
“Seven?” She laid her fork beside her plate. “This has to be stopped. You need to get a hunting party together. I’ll go with you, and we’ll—”
To Win Her Favor Page 26