To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  Maggie pulled on the fabric.

  Savannah frowned. “Is it too small? I followed your last measurements.”

  “No, it’s fine!” Maggie tugged. “I’ve simply gained a little weight, I think.”

  “Well, it’s about time. Marriage must be agreeing with you if that’s the—”

  Savannah stopped midsentence. She looked at Maggie, then at the skirt, then at Maggie again, her expression one of joy—and woundedness. “You’re with child,” she whispered.

  “I was going to tell you, Savannah. I promise. I simply—”

  “I’m so h-happy for you, Maggie.” Savannah bit her lower lip until Maggie feared she’d draw blood. “I truly am,” she said, choking back a sob.

  “Oh, Savannah . . .” Maggie reached out to her, but Savannah held out a hand.

  “Take off the skirt, and I’ll fix it. I can move the button over a little for today. Then I’ll make the alteration so you can wear it a while longer.” Her smile trembled. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  The door closed and Maggie dressed again in silence. A few minutes later, she returned to the central parlor with the ensemble to find Savannah waiting, needle and thread at the ready.

  She reached for the skirt, and Maggie handed it to her, then knelt beside her chair.

  Maggie took Savannah’s hand. “I don’t know why things worked out so differently for me. I do know”—her throat tightened—“that it’s not because I’m a better person than you, or more kindhearted, or anything more. Because you’re the most courageous and loving woman I’ve ever known. And you’re my dearest friend, Savannah Darby.”

  Tears traced Savannah’s cheeks. “And you are mine . . . Maggie McGrath.”

  Through the years, Cullen had witnessed hundreds of thoroughbred owners at this precise moment, seeing their horses for the last time before they would send them to the track.

  But never before had he struggled with his emotions as he did while watching his wife with Bourbon Belle.

  The thoroughbred—magnificent in beauty, over a thousand pounds of sleek muscle and bridled strength—stood stock still and stared intently at the diminutive young woman, whose features had taken on a look of reverence.

  “I love you, Belle,” Maggie whispered. “And I could not be more proud of you.”

  Maggie teared up, and Cullen realized why she’d wanted to do this here instead of at Burns Island.

  “So when you run later today, when you and Kizzy fly around that track, remember that. And know how grateful to God I am that he allowed us to belong to each other.”

  Maggie kissed the mare. Belle’s nostrils flared as the animal huffed a breath.

  Kizzy joined them a minute later, dressed in her silks—and enjoying them, judging by the way she strutted—and Cullen realized Odessia and Maggie were right. Dressed this way, the child really did look like a boy. No one would even have cause to question it.

  So why did he have this gnawing feeling in his gut? And where was Ethan? He’d promised to help today, to make certain Belle was protected and so was Kizzy. Yet he hadn’t shown hide nor hair of himself since yesterday afternoon.

  Ethan had taken to disappearing for spaces of time in recent weeks. Cullen wondered if his brother was privately seeking justice for what had happened at Linden Downs. He didn’t inquire after Ethan’s whereabouts, but every time he caught sight of Ennis hobbling around on crutches, and saw the deep scar on the man’s neck, Cullen couldn’t help hoping that was what his brother was up to.

  Yet considering what was happening today, and how Ethan had given him his word he would be here . . .

  Cullen hoped his brother wouldn’t let him down—again.

  Maggie hugged the girl tight. “Your mother and I will follow shortly.”

  “Why you cryin’, ma’am? This ain’t a sad day.”

  Maggie tapped Kizzy’s nose. “Remember everything Uncle Bob and I taught you.”

  “Done told you I would.” Kizzy scampered up onto the bench seat beside Cletus, who seemed as excited as the little girl.

  Minutes later, with Belle secured in the trailer, Cullen kissed Maggie good-bye and climbed up to sit beside Kizzy, still trying to shake off the nervous edge. He nodded to the four workers accompanying them on horseback to take the lead.

  Up ahead a throng of people walked up the road from the cabins, and when they looked in the direction of the trailer, and Kizzy waved, they sent up a cheer.

  “Don’t be too long,” Cullen said, looking down at Maggie.

  “We won’t. There’s just one more thing I need to do.”

  Chapter

  FORTY-SIX

  The noon hour, and Burns Island Track was already abuzz with activity. Cullen briefly reined in to let a wagon pass, and he sensed Kizzy taking everything in. The little girl had talked continually since they left Linden Downs, but now she was all eyes.

  Tents crowded both sides of the road leading to the track, vendors vying for space to hawk their wares, while inside the gates, men worked feverishly to prepare the stands and the dirt track. And all of this for the most important two minutes of thoroughbred racing in Nashville for the year.

  Even now a cool breeze blew across the field. Perfect conditions. But still, Cullen felt a gnawing in his gut.

  Then he realized . . .

  This was his first time back inside a track since London. Though he’d once relished this part of his life, he’d thought it forever behind him.

  But he knew he had no reason to worry. Ethan had paid the debt for his crime back in London. His brother’s slate was clean. As was his own.

  Now if only Ethan would follow through as he’d said he would.

  After maneuvering the trailer into the stable area and getting Belle unloaded and into a stall to rest and get oriented, Cullen left Kizzy and the mare in the care of Cletus and the other workers and turned to go check in.

  “Mr. McGrath!”

  Cullen turned to see General Harding a few stalls down and went to greet him. “Good afternoon, General.”

  The older man’s firm grip defied his age.

  “Good to see you, McGrath.” Harding nodded past him. “Uncle Bob told me you’d decided to run Belle today. I must say I’m glad.” He leveled a stare, his eyes sharp. “To me, racing isn’t so much about winning as it is about making a stronger, better thoroughbred. Bourbon Belle has Vandal’s blood coursing through her veins. And Fortune here”—Harding gestured to the stall beside him with the pretty bay mare—“is in Epsilon’s lineage, another of my champion stallions. So regardless of who wins today, I learn something that helps me in the long run.”

  “So you won’t be mindin’ then, if Belle takes home the purse?”

  Harding’s long, thinning beard trembled when he laughed, and Cullen judged it had grown another half inch since he’d last seen the man.

  “I never said that, Mr. McGrath. I like to win as much as the next man. But still . . . I wish you luck.”

  Cullen shook his hand a second time. “One more thing, sir . . . I thank you again for the loan of the wagons during harvest. What the hail didn’t get, I was able to get to market because of your generosity.”

  Harding shook his head. “I pay my debts, Mr. McGrath. And I still owe you a sizable one for what you did for Bonnie Scotland. I won’t forget it.”

  “Consider the debt paid in full, General.”

  The look Harding gave him clearly said the man didn’t. “Have you learned anything more about the men who burned the cabins that night? Or about who poisoned Belle?”

  Wishing he had firm evidence instead of simply a gut hunch and the aroma of a sweet-smelling cigar, Cullen shook his head.

  “While I do not agree with what’s been done to my beloved South, I abhor violence of this nature, Mr. McGrath. It is our right—and duty—to protect those who work for us, as well as to protect our property and our land.” Harding extended his hand again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend. Best of luck to you t
oday, McGrath.”

  “You as well, General Harding.”

  Feeling both confirmed and slightly admonished, Cullen took the stairs to the second floor, which housed offices for the Thoroughbred Society. He withdrew the registration documents from his shirt pocket.

  A bespectacled young man peered up from behind the counter. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Aye. Name’s Cullen McGrath. I’m here with Bourbon Belle. She’s in the stable.” He slid the papers toward him.

  The clerk looked down at his ledger. “Ah yes, Mr. McGrath, I see your name right—” He paused and looked back at Cullen, then unfolded the documents. The young man nudged his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose as he read, then he peered up again. “You say you’re here with Bourbon Belle.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And . . . you’re the legal owner of the thoroughbred.”

  “Aye,” Cullen said more slowly, hearing a question in the youth’s tone. “I am.”

  The clerk hesitated, then shuffled through the papers a second time before sliding them back toward Cullen. “By chance, do you have proof of your ownership, sir?”

  “Proof?” Cullen felt the unease he’d dismissed earlier returning, but this time with anger in tow. “I presented proof a month ago when I registered the mare for the race. I brought in my deed to Linden Downs and showed it to the clerk here at the time.”

  The young man nodded. “Yes, sir. But in a race with a purse this size, the Nashville Thoroughbred Society mandates that ownership of each thoroughbred entered to run be verified. A request was sent to verify your ownership of Linden Downs, and a response was promptly received. However, it’s noted here that no official papers were submitted for the thoroughbred.” The clerk pointed to the ledger, leaning back a little as he did. “And in reviewing the official deed to Linden Downs, the deed contains no mention of the blood horse either. Only the land itself.”

  The heat in Cullen’s chest rose to his throat, and he worked to keep his voice even. “And where exactly did you send this request?”

  “To the Tax and Title Office, sir. They always work hand in hand with the Thoroughbred Society on this issue.”

  “And no one thought to contact me directly about the matter?”

  “W-why yes, sir, of course we did. A letter was sent to you as well. It was posted on”—the clerk trailed a finger across a line of the ledger—“September thirteenth.”

  Wishing again that he’d put his fist through Stephen Drake’s face when he’d had the chance, Cullen took a deep breath, the situation quickly coming into focus. He’d never thought to ask Gilbert Linden for Bourbon Belle’s official papers. With good reason—he hadn’t known what the horse was worth until after Linden’s passing. And by then, everything at Linden Downs was his. If not on paper, then in effect.

  Yet he knew Gilbert Linden had listed everything in detail—including livestock and horses—in the deed. They’d both reviewed the document to make certain that—

  No. His memory peeled back another layer.

  The information hadn’t been included in the deed. Mr. Linden had included it in the letter he’d written. The letter the woman in the office had included in the file that day.

  Cullen refolded the papers and stuck them in his pocket. “Give me half an hour, and I’ll be back with the proof you need.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, but—”

  Cullen turned back, and the clerk’s face paled.

  “Even if you could provide proof . . . which I’m certain you can,” the young man added quickly, “I’m afraid the date for submitting additional documentation has passed.” He winced. “I’m truly sorry, sir, but your mare isn’t permitted to race in the Peyton Stakes.”

  “It’s coming true, Papa,” Maggie whispered, looking down at his grave. Bucket sat a few feet away, watching her. “Belle is running today in the Peyton Stakes. Just like we dreamed.”

  Her gaze trailed the line of wooden markers. Her family, all resting at her feet. But not really. They weren’t there, she knew. That thought always brought both hope—and loneliness.

  “I wish you could see the race, Papa,” she whispered. “And be here with me, cheering Belle on. You worked so hard for this.”

  As she turned to leave, she paused and studied her mother’s name on the grave—Laurel Agnes Linden—and wondered if her mother’s perspective about her infatuation with racing, and with horses, would have changed, even the slightest bit, if she could have seen Belle race—and win.

  Not that it mattered now, Maggie told herself as she walked back to the house. And yet . . . it did.

  “Bourbon Belle will be runnin’ in the race today, sir.” Anger made the words come out harsher than Cullen had intended. “So you best tell me how we can work together to make that happen.”

  The clerk stared, eyes wide. “I’m s-sorry, Mr. McGrath, but I’ve got rules to follow. I can’t just go changing them for one person and not the next.”

  Understanding the man’s situation, Cullen also understood his own. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Thomas.” The clerk audibly swallowed. “Thomas Fulton.”

  “Mr. Fulton.” Cullen felt his eyes narrow. “I’m tellin’ you, I never got that letter. And I’m not leavin’ here ’til you tell me how we’re goin’ to fix this.”

  “I reckon that the only way to fix it, sir”—Fulton swallowed audibly—“would be for you to request a meeting with the Thoroughbred Society.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “You . . . file a written request, Mr. McGrath. With the appropriate documentation. To be presented at their next meeting.”

  Cullen exhaled through clenched teeth, imagining having to tell Maggie that Bourbon Belle wasn’t going to race.

  “But if you want,” Fulton said hurriedly. “I can interrupt their meeting to see if—”

  “Their meetin’,” Cullen repeated.

  The clerk nodded. “Yes, sir.” He stood. “If you’ll stay here, I’ll—”

  “Take me to that meetin’, Mr. Fulton.”

  Cullen followed the young man down the hallway to a set of double doors, where Fulton reached for the knob.

  “I believe I can take it from here,” Cullen said.

  “But sir, it’s a closed meeting, and—”

  Cullen stared.

  Fulton nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Hearing the hasty retreat of steps behind him, Cullen gathered his shredded patience and opened the door.

  Chapter

  FORTY-SEVEN

  All eyes in the room turned to Cullen. But it was the smug triumph Cullen read on Stephen Drake’s face that ignited his anger. Cullen strode down the side of the table to where the man was seated.

  “Mr. McGrath!”

  General Harding’s commanding tone sliced through Cullen’s determination and stopped him where he was. Cullen scanned the faces of the men around the table—thirteen at a glance—and found Harding seated at the head, a haze of cigar smoke in the air.

  But not a trace of sweetness.

  The general’s expression held both curiosity and censure. “How may we help you, Mr. McGrath?”

  Still seeing red—and feeling Drake’s arrogant conceit—he focused his thoughts on Maggie and reached for calm beyond his nature. “I have an issue, sir. To bring before the board.”

  Drake glanced back, his expression taunting. “This is a closed meeting, McGrath. You’ll have to wait until next month to—”

  Cullen reached for him, wanting to—

  “Mr. Drake!”

  Cullen froze, and Stephen Drake looked to the head of the table.

  “I am addressing our guest, Mr. Drake.” General Harding tilted his head. “If I require your assistance, sir, I’ll not be hesitant to ask for it.”

  Drake said nothing, but Harding’s subtle reprimand helped ease Cullen’s temper.

  “Now, Mr. McGrath,” Harding continued, chastisement still edging his tone. “I assume by your manner of e
ntrance that your issue with us is of an urgent nature.”

  Cullen nodded. “Most urgent, sir. I was told just now by Mr. Fulton that my mare, Bourbon Belle, won’t be allowed to participate in the race today due to lack of proper documentation.” Cullen summarized the situation, taking the opportunity to familiarize himself with his audience.

  A few of the men’s faces he recognized—business owners in town—but the rest were new to him. And none overly sympathetic, judging by their scowls.

  “So,” Harding continued, “you never received the letter, Mr. McGrath.”

  “Nay, I did not. If I had, I would’ve provided what was needed.”

  Harding nodded. “Which I find most believable, considering what is at stake today.” Harding’s attention returned to the left side of the table. “Mr. Drake, these issues are handled through your office, are they not?”

  “Yes, General Harding,” Drake answered, sitting taller. “Just as this one was. I wrote the letter myself and sent it via courier to Linden Downs.”

  “Via courier?” Harding asked, his hands steepled beneath his chin. “Is that the usual manner such documentation is delivered?”

  Drake cut a look at two men sitting across the table from him. “I was simply making sure it was handled correctly. And in a timely manner.”

  “Which I believe it was,” the man seated opposite Drake offered.

  “As do I,” another offered. “The rules clearly state, Harding, that all entrants must—”

  “I am well aware of the rules, Mr. Sadler.” Harding’s expression held warning. “My father, John Harding, established this organization, after all. And he did so on integrity . . . and honor.”

  Cullen felt a shift in the room, a silent challenge. And a reckoning of loyalties.

  Harding leaned forward. “Your horse is running in the race today, Mr. Drake. Is he not?”

  Drake stiffened. “Yes . . . as you already know, General Harding.”

  Harding nodded again. “I believe our regulations state that the owner of a thoroughbred denied permission to race must be given opportunity to provide the required proof.”