But he couldn’t harvest without wagons, and he needed lumber and supplies to replace the five that had been burned. Judging by the moat forming between the house and the stable, it would take three to four days for the fields to dry up enough to get a wagon through. So they had time.
A punishing thought arose . . .
If he hadn’t built the cabins for the workers at the first—if he’d chosen something more practical like canvas tents for the time being, which would still have been far and away better accommodations than they’d had—then he would have the money he needed right now to replace the wagons. It didn’t help remembering how Maggie had questioned him on that particular decision.
And also how, when she’d accused him of approaching General Harding to buy Belle, he’d insisted the farm was doing well. But it had been, then. And would be again, once the crops were harvested.
But he simply couldn’t admit to her that the ledgers were running so lean. Gilbert Linden had entrusted him with the land and his daughter, and Cullen still aimed to protect both.
The rain let up a little and he made a dash to the stable, Bucket trotting behind. At the last minute the collie dashed through the door in front of him then promptly stopped and shook, sending droplets of water in all directions.
Cullen knifed a hand through his wet hair, oddly comforted by the smell of damp horse and hay that punctuated the confined space. An acquired preference, no doubt. The steady drum of rain on the tin roof reminded him of the low rumble of a train crossing a trestle, but the repairs he and the men had made on the roof earlier in the summer were holding well.
As of two hours ago Bourbon Belle still showed no improvement, but Rachel had warned them it could take days before they knew which way things would go. Rachel Norris was a hard woman to read, but he’d played enough poker in his life—and won—to know the odds weren’t in their favor.
He peered into Belle’s stall and found Maggie sitting close beside the mare, stroking her head. Maggie didn’t look up, apparently not hearing his approach.
Every time he thought of what losing that horse would do to her, the anger that had ignited inside him two nights ago burned hotter and deeper.
“How is she?” he asked.
Maggie’s head came up, her eyes red-rimmed and weary. “Much the same. Rachel left a while ago to get a special concoction of herbs for a poultice. Belle’s got some swelling in her lower neck here.” She tenderly traced the area with her hand. “Rachel says a poultice will help.”
He studied the two of them for a moment, remembering the first time he’d seen Maggie and Belle racing across the field. Two beauties who seemed made for each other . . .
He squinted, noting a new addition decorating the stall wall. A picture. Drawn by Kizzy, he guessed. Maggie had told him about the girl’s artwork. This one depicted Belle standing in a field with a ribbon around her neck. Not hard to figure out the inspiration behind that one.
But surely by now the girl knew there would be no racing. And no ribbons.
When he’d relayed the news about Belle’s condition to Ennis last night, Ennis said nothing about whether they’d planned on allowing Kizzy to race or not. But Cullen’s guess was that even if they had been, what had happened to Ennis had changed the man’s mind.
All jockeys were children of freedmen. But boys, not girls. Personally, he’d never allow his own daughter to do something so dangerous. He didn’t think Ennis would either.
“I’m sorry this happened, Maggie. And I’m sorry it happened to Belle.”
Culpability shadowed Maggie’s gaze. “Do you really think this happened because someone thought I had plans to race her again?”
The question landed like a punch to his gut. “I don’t know. And trust me when I tell you . . . I didn’t say that to hurt you.”
“I know,” she said softly. But her tone lacked conviction.
He stepped inside the stall. “But I do know there are people in this town who will do anythin’ not only to win but to make sure others don’t. And I’m not only speakin’ about racin’ thoroughbreds.”
She searched his gaze. “The other night. When the cabins burned. That was . . . the ‘wolves,’ wasn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question. “Aye . . . I didn’t want to worry you. You, or the rest of the women and children.”
His gaze went to Belle then back to Maggie, and he wondered if the guilt suddenly prodding him was of his own making, or if Maggie had intended the statement to assign it to him.
Either way, the sense of responsibility weighed heavy.
“Forgive me, Maggie, if I was wrong in not tellin’ you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know that it would have made any difference, Cullen. We can’t be everywhere at once, can we?” She leaned down and kissed Belle on the bridge of her nose.
Sensing movement from the corner of his eye, Cullen jumped a little when he saw a hooded figure standing in the doorway.
“Mister McGrath.” Rachel removed the hood of her dark cape, setting free a mass of curls. A basket laden with herbs hung from her arm. She moved closer and knelt by Belle, then smoothed a hand along the horse’s neck. “She’s restin’ some better. That’s good. I’ll be grindin’ up herbs for a while, Missus McGrath. I suggest you get somethin’ to eat and take a rest.”
“I’d rather stay here. With her.”
Rachel stood. “If your constitution grows weak, Missus McGrath, Belle will know. And that will only add to her burden.” She removed her cape, her dress beneath surprisingly dry. “Go with your husband. I’ll be here with her.”
Reluctantly Maggie stood, reaching out for the wall to steady herself. “I won’t be gone long.”
Cullen slipped an arm about her waist as they ran to the house. He opened the door for her and barely caught Bucket before the collie, soaking wet, darted inside.
“Stay,” Cullen commanded, and the dog dropped to the porch, head on his paws, soulful eyes pleading.
Miss Onnie met them in the foyer. “Lawd, you two are soaked clean through.” She made a tsking sound. “I got you a bath ’bout ready, ma’am. Was gonna come outside and get you. Thought it would feel good to you ’fore you eat somethin’.”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you, Onnie. And . . . maybe I’ll be hungry later.”
“You best be. I makin’ some eggs and grits for breakfast. Then a crusty chicken pie with peas and carrots for dinner, just the way you like it.”
Maggie sighed. “That was Oak’s favorite, remember?”
Cullen glimpsed the shared bond of loss as it moved from Maggie’s face to Miss Onnie’s.
“Yes, ma’am, I ’member. I think ’bout your brothers near ever’ day, and see ’em all over this house. Now . . .” The woman nodded toward the washroom by the kitchen. “You run on and get yourself warm while I finish in the kitchen.”
Maggie started up the stairs.
Cullen touched her arm. “Where are you goin’?”
“To get some clean clothes.”
He steered her back toward the washroom. “I’ll get those, you go ahead and get in the tub.”
Apparently too weary to put up a fight, she did as he said.
A few minutes later, he knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
He did, but felt a little awkward doing so, with Miss Onnie staring at his back from the kitchen. Reminding himself he was married to the woman in the tub, he closed the door behind him.
Eyes closed, Maggie reclined in the claw-footed porcelain tub, her long hair wet and hanging over the back. Steam rose from the water, filled to within inches of the rim, so though the rest of her was lost to his sight, his memory still worked fine.
“I’ll leave your clothes right here.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to go.
“Cullen?”
“Aye?”
She looked back at him. “I’ve told God that . . . if he’ll let Belle live, I’ll never race her again.” Unshed tears we
lled in her eyes. “And I won’t care. And I won’t feel cheated.” Tears spilled over. “I just want her to live.”
He crossed to the tub and knelt down. “I want her to live, too, Maggie. But I want her to run again. I want to see you ridin’ her like you did that day you nearly scared me outta my wits. Your arms spread wide and her hooves scarcely touchin’ the ground.”
Her smile hinted at the girl she’d once been. “My brother, Oak, called that soaring.”
“Then I want to see you and Belle soar again. That’s what I’m askin’ God for, Maggie.”
Thank you, she mouthed, then lifted her hand from the warm water and covered his on the rim of the tub. “You said you had more to tell me about white snakeroot. And about London.”
His gaze dropped from her eyes to the water, and his smile came slowly. “I’ll do that, I give you my word, and I’ll answer all of your questions. But right now . . . with you in that tub and me in the room alone with you, the last thing I want to do is talk.”
Her face flushed a lovely shade of pink, same as her bare shoulders and other curves.
“So why don’t you finish in here, and I’ll go change from these wet clothes, and we’ll continue this conversation later.”
Cullen had barely finished his first helping of scrambled eggs and ham and was anticipating a second when Maggie posed the question again. He politely declined when Miss Onnie came offering more.
As Miss Onnie refilled his coffee cup, he took a long drink of water, a sprig of mint giving it a cool, fresh taste, and he decided the straightforward approach was best. He waited until it was just the two of them again.
“The reason I know so much about white snakeroot is because my older brother, Ethan, used it to poison a horse in London. And he was paid a goodly sum to do it.”
Maggie leveled a stare as if she were waiting for him to admit he was only jesting. When he didn’t, her expression paled.
“Did you know what your brother was doing?”
“Of course not. All I knew was that somethin’ wasn’t right. I should have followed my gut and found out what was happenin’. But I owed Ethan so much.”
“You owed him money?”
“Not money, Maggie. I owed him my life.” Cullen fingered the rim of his plate. “Our father loved the bottle. You know that already. But when he drank, he got mean. Meaner than he already was. He’d come home from the pub in the mood to give a thrashin’. Only once did he give that to my mother.” He remembered her beautiful face all cut up and bruised, but he spared Maggie those details. “After that, Ethan and me, we decided from then on we’d take the beatin’s. Not our ma, nor our sisters either. But Ethan . . .” Emotion tightened Cullen’s throat. Despite all the heartache Ethan had caused him, he still loved his brother. “Ethan was bigger and stronger than me, always was. He took the beatin’s in my stead. Every last one of ’em.”
Compassion softened Maggie’s face.
“I’m not tellin’ you this so you’ll feel sorry for me, Maggie. I’m tellin’ you because I’m responsible for what happened.”
“You didn’t poison that horse. Your brother did.”
“Don’t you see? I knew Ethan was in trouble. I knew he owed those men a lot of money. But I was tryin’ my best to change my own ways, to make a life for me and Moira and our sweet little Katie. So instead of goin’ to Ethan and demandin’ he tell me what he was doin’, I just looked the other way. Until it was too late.”
“What do you mean . . . too late?”
“London’s racing commission—”
She held up a hand. “The horse was a thoroughbred?”
“And a racer.” Cullen looked her in the eyes. “The stallion that stood to win the Belmont Stakes that season.”
Her jaw slipped open.
“I don’t know how,” he continued, “but the commission traced the act back to Ethan. And then to me, likely because I’d helped get him a job in the stables where I worked. The job that allowed him access to Aristides.”
“The stallion he poisoned.”
He nodded. “Which belonged to some rich American who lived in New York City.”
The muted clang of pots and pans drifted from the kitchen.
“The commission issued warrants for our arrest. But Ethan—he disappeared. Like mornin’ dew, here and gone. And I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.”
“So the commission, they blamed you.”
“Aye. If I’d stayed I would’ve gone to prison. And Moira and Katie, with no family left, no one to care for them . . .” He sighed. “I thought I was savin’ them by comin’ here. But with the way everythin’ turned out . . .”
“You did the right thing in leaving London, Cullen. You weren’t at fault. And there’s no way you could have known what would happen on that ship.”
He studied the mint leaf floating in his glass. “And now you know why I was so determined that you not race Belle. And that I not serve as your front, as it were.”
“Because if anyone found out, and then reported you . . .”
“It would cost me, and therefore you too, everything.” He studied her across the table. “So you see, Maggie, I’m the last man in the world you’d want representin’ you to the Nashville Thoroughbred Society.”
She leaned forward. “Do you have any idea where your brother is now?”
“Somewhere far away from London. That’s all I know.”
“And the horse,” she asked softly. “Did he die?”
Cullen shook his head, and heard an audible breath thread her lips.
“But he never raced again.”
Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN
At the lumberyard the next morning, Cullen paused outside the door of the warehouse to knock the mud and muck from his boots. The sun hot on his back and the skies stretching a cloudless blue overhead all but guaranteed to dry the rain-drenched fields as he’d hoped. Two or three days, and they’d begin harvesting the crops at Linden Downs. And it was none too soon for him.
Inside, he spotted the proprietor in the back and gestured. The man seemed to hesitate, then held up a hand, indicating he’d be right there.
Cullen eyed the shovels on one wall, then picked a couple and placed them by the front counter. Once the crops were sold at market, Linden Downs would be back on firm financial footing again, and he’d feel more confident about the future.
As it was, he hoped Mr. Blake, the proprietor, would remember how good a patron he’d been when he’d purchased the loads of lumber for the new cabins earlier in the summer. Because as it stood now, the cash in his pocket would scarcely cover the few tools he needed to replace. All of the lumber and supplies to build the wagons, he would have to buy on credit.
“Them’s good shovels, for sure. The best, if you ask me.”
Cullen turned to see a man sitting atop a barrel in the corner, his hair shock white, his face shriveled and marked with time.
Cullen nodded. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the recommendation.”
The man’s thickish eyebrows shot up. “I hear Irish on your tongue, son!” Then he grinned, revealing the absence of a few teeth.
Hearing only curiosity in the man’s tone, Cullen laughed. “That you do, sir. You wouldn’t be hailin’ from my island, too, now would you?” Cullen was only jesting with him, since the man’s accent was thick with the South.
The gentleman’s brow furrowed. “Why no, son. I was born right here.” He eased off the barrel as though his legs, bowed as they proved to be, might break if given too much to bear at once. “Been here all my life, nigh onto seventy years now.”
Seventy years? From the look of the man’s gnarled hands and hunched shoulders, those years hadn’t been easy ones. Cullen wondered if time hadn’t thieved a measure of his sanity along the way.
The man kept worrying at something tied around his frail wrist, and Cullen finally caught a glimpse of it. A piece of string.
“Good day, Mr. McGrath. What can I do for you?”
Hearing the proprietor’s voice, Cullen tossed the old-timer a parting nod then turned. “Mr. Blake, good to see you again. I’m needin’ a load of lumber and supplies. I’ve got my list here.” He handed it to him.
Blake read through the items. “This is quite a list, McGrath.”
“Hey, Blake, this the best string you got?”
Both Cullen and Mr. Blake looked over to see the older gentleman holding up a ball of twine.
“Yes, Jessup.” The proprietor sighed. “That’s still the best string I got.”
Jessup grinned, his eyes nearly lost in the wrinkles. “Well, good to know. Still, think I might look around a little more first.”
Blake turned back to Cullen and, as if hearing the thread of Cullen’s thoughts, he shook his head. “Fortysome-odd years,” he whispered, “Jessup Collum’s been the caretaker over at City Cemetery. Rumor has it he ties strings about the wrists of dead folks before he buries them . . . just in case one of them wakes up.” He gave Cullen a look. “People say he’s a bit touched in the head, but he’s harmless enough.” He refocused his attention on the paper in his hand. “This constitutes a sizable purchase.”
“Aye, sir, it does. We had some trouble at Linden Downs the other night. Cabins were burned, along with wagons loaded with supplies I need for harvest.”
Blake glanced away. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.” Hearing the man’s sincerity, Cullen also sensed by his lack of curiosity and hesitance to meet his gaze that the news wasn’t new to him. And he didn’t like the feeling that accompanied the discovery. “So, as I said, I’m here for these items. I’ve got cash to cover part of it.” He hesitated. “A small part. So I’ll need to purchase the rest on credit. But I’ll pay my debt—with interest, of course—as soon as I’ve harvested. Should be no more than two to three weeks before you get your money.”
Blake fingered the list in his hand, a faint smile struggling to take hold, and failing. “I thought you were a cash-only patron.”
“I usually am.” Cullen eyed him. “But I failed to set aside money for the cost of men comin’ onto my land, burnin’ my workers’ cabins, and settin’ my wagons ablaze.”
To Win Her Favor Page 31