The gathering responded with more applause.
Cullen’s gaze swept the crowd, looking for someone specific—and snagged on Ethan, standing off to the side. His brother signaled, indicating he wanted to speak with him, and Cullen nodded. His frustration with Ethan had greatly lessened in light of the win. But it lingered nonetheless.
“And finally, last but certainly not least . . .” General Harding smiled and tucked his notes into the breast pocket of his coat. “The winning purse of thirty-five thousand dollars”—his voice took on added gusto—“the largest purse to date in Nashville racing history, is being held in guarantee for you at the First Bank of Nashville.”
Cheers rose, and someone toward the back—from the Irish contingent, Cullen felt certain—yelled, “Hip hip!” to which people responded in unison, “Hooray!”
“Hip hip!”
“Hooray!”
“Hip hip!”
“Hooray!”
A crush of race day well-wishers—many of whom had begun celebrating early, judging by the whiff of ale he caught on their breath, which didn’t smell half bad—pressed in for a chance to get a better look at the silver cup. But to Cullen’s relief, the throng on the field quickly thinned.
He hugged Maggie again, still sharing the weight of the trophy between them.
“Can you believe it?” he whispered.
“Aye,” she said with an Irish accent that was almost convincing—“that I can, Mr. McGrath.”
He smiled, and heard Kizzy and Odessia laugh behind them.
“Mrs. McGrath . . .”
They turned to see General Harding approaching with his daughter, Mary.
“General.” Maggie offered a curtsey, then accepted a hug from her friend.
“Mrs. McGrath, I wish to offer my personal congratulations to you as well. Your husband here informed the board members of the Thoroughbred Society today at our meeting that you, in fact, are responsible for training this magnificent horse.” Harding motioned to Bourbon Belle. “Well done, my dear.”
Surprise lit Maggie’s expression. “Why . . . thank you, General. That’s most kind of you.”
Cullen caught the look of appreciation she sneaked his way.
“Actually, it’s not ‘kind’ at all.” Mary linked her arm briefly through Maggie’s. “It’s simply true. I’m so proud of you, Maggie!”
The general turned to Cullen. “McGrath . . . remember when I said I still owed you a debt for what you did for Bonnie Scotland?”
Cullen nodded. “Aye, sir. I do.”
Harding looked pointedly at the silver cup, a glint in his eyes. Then looked back at Cullen. “Consider my debt paid in full, son.”
Cullen laughed, then spotted Ethan striding toward him, looking as though he had something he wanted to discuss. Which, having an idea of what Ethan had been doing lately, Cullen preferred to do in private.
Cullen cocked his head, indicating he’d meet his brother in the stable.
Maggie put a hand on his arm. “You attended the Thoroughbred Society’s board meeting today?”
Cullen nodded, then handed her the trophy, pretending to almost drop it. She gave a gasp, then smacked him on the arm when she realized he was jesting.
“I’ll tell you all about it later, I promise.” He smiled, then glanced toward the stable, sobering. “But right now I need to speak with Ethan.”
She looked in that direction, her expression telling. “He finally showed up, I see.”
Hearing the distrust in her voice bothered him. Although he knew she had reason for it, she also didn’t know everything about his brother.
He kissed her cheek. “Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”
He met Ethan just inside the stable, and his brother promptly wrapped him in a bear hug.
“Hello, little brother. Or should I say, my rich little brother.” Ethan slapped him on the back. “I’m proud of you, Cullen!”
“Did you see the race?”
“Aye.” Ethan pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “And all the speech-makin’ right after. You and General Harding seem to be thick as thieves.”
“He’s a good man, despite bein’ rich.” Cullen glanced at the paper in his brother’s hand.
Ethan held it out. “Consider this my gift to you, brother. My way of sayin’ thanks for what you done for me back in London. And for any pain my actions caused you.”
Hearing the sincerity in his voice, Cullen unfolded the paper then looked up. “A list of names?”
“Not just names.” Ethan lowered his voice. “Names of the men who visited Linden Downs that night.”
Cullen looked at the list again, and his eyes narrowed. “How did you come by this?”
“I was civil, I give you my word.”
“How did you come by this list, Ethan?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I get along with people quite well. ’Specially the freedmen. And there are those among ’em who know what’s goin’ on. Some of ’em still work for the men on that list. What’s more . . . I know who poisoned Belle. I found some snakeroot in the man’s bunk at Belle Meade.”
“Grady Matthews,” Cullen said quietly, and his brother nodded. Movement at the far end of the stable drew Cullen’s attention. The person he’d been looking for. “Excuse me, brother.” He returned the list. “There are a few things I need to tend to.”
Cullen strode past him and went directly to Stephen Drake.
“What do you want, McGrath? Just because you win a race, you think you’re—”
Cullen punched him hard in the gut, and Drake doubled over.
“That’s for poisonin’ my horse. And this—” Cullen drew the man up by the shirt, then landed another blow in his side. Drake went down in the dirt. “That’s for hangin’ Ennis.”
Gasping, Drake cursed him and called him names Cullen hadn’t heard since he’d left England.
“And this last one”—Cullen dragged him up again, easily deflecting the man’s blows—“is for the little girl.” A crunch of cartilage beneath his fist, and Drake cried out, holding his nose.
“McGrath!”
Cullen turned to see General Harding standing behind his brother.
Harding’s expression was fierce. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doin’, General.” Leaving Drake writhing on the ground, Cullen walked back to them. “I’m makin’ sure this man remembers poisonin’ my horse. And hangin’ my foreman in front of his wife before he set my cabins ablaze. And I hope to God he remembers this the next time he even thinks of takin’ a whip to a little girl.” Cullen’s breath came hard. He grabbed the piece of paper from Ethan and held it up with a bruised fist. “Some men only understand this kind of language, General. Like the men on this list.”
Cullen handed him the paper.
Harding’s gaze moved over the page. After a long moment, he looked up. “These are the men who visited Linden Downs that night?” he said quietly.
“Aye,” Cullen answered. “It took some doin’, but my brother here scouted them out.”
Harding looked over at Ethan.
“Some of these men were sittin’ right around your table this afternoon, General,” Cullen continued.
Harding winced. He took the piece of paper and folded it carefully. “Do you trust me, Mr. McGrath?”
Cullen stared.
“I said, do you trust me . . . Mr. McGrath.”
“Aye,” Cullen finally whispered. “I do.”
“Then let me take care of this in my own way.”
“But, sir, I—”
“If you mete out justice as you’ve done here now, you’ll only be making it harder for your own people, McGrath. And your workers. Don’t hear me saying that what you did here wasn’t deserved.” Harding glanced past him. “But we have other ways of dealing with things like this. Let me do that for you. Please.”
Cullen shook the sting off his fist, aware of Ethan’s close attention and of Harding’s l
engthening patience. Slowly, he nodded.
Harding offered his hand, and Cullen shook it, wincing, his own still tender.
“Thank you, Mr. McGrath. And may I say . . . I knew Gilbert Linden all my life. He was a fine man, and I believe he chose very wisely. I hope we’ll be neighbors for many years to come.”
“As do I, sir.” Cullen sighed. “As do I.”
Harding turned.
“One last thing, General.”
The man looked back.
“Understandin’ how most people in this town feel about the Irish, I’m wonderin’ . . . Why is it you’re different? That you’ve been so decent to me. Don’t be gettin’ me wrong, I’m grateful. I’m just . . . curious.”
Looking away, Harding took a moment to answer, and when he did, his expression was tender. “My late wife was a McGavock, Mr. McGrath. Scotch-Irish blood flowed through her veins, and her grandfather had a brogue as thick as the mist on the heathlands.”
Epilogue
May 13, 1870
Still half asleep, Maggie turned onto her back in the bed, the endless warble of a mockingbird outside the window far too chipper for so early an hour. Dawn’s first light cast the bedroom in a silvery mist, but the night seemed reluctant to renounce its hold. So she snuggled deeper beneath the covers and hugged her pillow, drifting on a wave somewhere between wakefulness and slumber.
The distant mewling of a kitten—so soft, so sweet—tugged at her heart, and she reached beside her for Cullen to—
The space was empty. But lingering warmth told her he hadn’t been gone long. She yawned and stretched, the fog of sleep slowly clearing. Then she smiled, realizing she’d been dreaming.
She smoothed a hand over her all but flat stomach, then raised up in bed to see Cullen standing over the cradle. The same cradle her grandparents and parents had used through the years.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Watchin’ him sleep,” he said softly.
She lay back down, the fullness in her breasts telling her it wouldn’t be long until their son was awake again. As though the thought summoned him, little Gilbert let out a whimper. That sounded much like a kitten . . .
She sighed, smiling. “You intentionally woke him.”
“Nay, I did not.”
But Cullen’s soft laughter hinted otherwise. He cradled their son against his bare chest and returned to bed, leaning down to kiss her before tucking the babe between them.
Cullen brushed a finger over Gilbert’s tiny, perfect hand and the baby immediately grabbed hold. “Strong little fella.”
Maggie smiled and kissed the crown of her son’s head, breathing in the scent of him, fresh from heaven.
Bucket rose from his place by the hearth, shook the sleep off, then trotted to Cullen’s side of the bed.
“Mornin’, boy.” Cullen rubbed the collie between the ears, and the dog peered up—alert and inquisitive—before promptly lying back down again.
Maggie laughed softly. “So much for being interested.”
Nestled there in a warm cocoon with her men, as she thought of them, she counted her blessings again. Too many to name. Too many not to try.
The past winter had been one of the coldest anyone could remember, but awakening to snow blanketing the fields, sparkling like crushed diamonds in the morning light, had inspired an appreciation within her for the seasons—and for Linden Downs—she’d not had before.
How could you live somewhere your entire life and not see it for the blessing it was? But realizing that instilled a sense of anticipation at what God would reveal in coming months and years, and of his orchestration through it all. Oh Lord, open my eyes to all you’ve given me, and to all you are. You alone are my shelter, my strong tower . . .
Cullen had read a passage from her father’s Bible a few Sundays ago that had held that nugget of a truth, and it had been with her ever since. They’d begun attending church together, too, at a newly formed Irish and freedman congregation on the outskirts of town. Each service was an adventure.
Long before winter’s chill set in, new cabins were built to replace the ones that burned, and Cullen saw to it that all the cabins—both old and new—were, as he put it, “Worthy of keepin’ out the cold and keepin’ in the warm.” Hence, every cabin had a wood-burning stove and plenty of blankets on the beds.
Under Cullen’s direction, the men had enlarged the stable, and already work was underway on a new barn. Despite the winning purse, Cullen was spending wisely, frugally. Papa would have been so proud. So much for which to be thankful, so much to look forward to. And yet . . .
A sadness mingled with her joy, and she dreaded what the coming week would bring.
Gilbert wriggled, issuing a hungry cry, and Maggie unbuttoned her gown and pulled her son close. The sweet sounds he made as he nursed, his little mouth working, entwined her heart to his in a way she’d never imagined possible.
“You’re both so beautiful,” Cullen whispered, trailing a finger along their son’s cheek. He met her gaze. “How’re you feelin’, love?” he asked softly.
In the days following Gilbert’s long and difficult birth, exhaustion had been a close companion. But in the past six weeks, Maggie’s strength had slowly returned.
Cullen never left her side during her labor. The sweetest image she carried from those seemingly endless hours, besides the moment she’d first laid eyes on their son, was when she’d looked over to see Cullen on his knees beside the bed, head bowed, hands clasped.
And any lingering question about what kept him at Linden Downs—whether his promise to her father or his love for her—had been silenced for good.
“I’m feeling much better,” she whispered, smoothing a hand over his chest. She’d missed intimacy with him in recent weeks. She read another, unvoiced, question in his eyes and felt a tightening in her throat. “But I dread saying good-bye to Ennis and Odessia. And Kizzy and her brothers.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “It’s provin’ harder for me to accept too.”
It comforted her to know he felt the same about Ennis and his family leaving later that week.
Along with paying Kizzy the regular amount a jockey earned for riding in a race, Cullen had included a generous bonus to Ennis and Odessia that secured the opportunity for the family to go west, as Ennis wanted. Thanks to Uncle Bob, the couple already had a contact in Colorado, a Mr. Cooper and his wife who had a ranch some distance from Denver.
Cullen had arranged for a wagon and horses for Ennis and Odessia as well. And in addition to enough lemon cookies to see the family clear to Colorado, there was a special surprise awaiting Kizzy on the morning of their departure . . . Spunky, a pretty little buckskin mare, whose name fit the girl to a T.
How quickly people once strangers to you could become like family. Especially when they really were family. Maggie thought of Ethan . . .
It was a wonder how a baby could melt the heart of even the roughest man. And Uncle Ethan was a puddle when it came to Master Gilbert Cullen McGrath.
“He’s a little bruiser, this one,” Ethan had said earlier that week. “Got the McGrath chin for sure. And look at that fist, would ya? No one’ll be messin’ with him.”
The past few months had brought a truce—then peace—between her and Cullen’s older brother. Then that peace had somehow unfurled into a warmth of affection she never expected to feel for him.
Learning what he’d done for her last fall had certainly helped. All the nights he’d been gone or had come in late, he’d been keeping watch—over Bourbon Belle, Kizzy, the workers—before the race, and then long after.
And the list of men—all of whom were being held accountable for what they’d done—was due to Ethan, Cullen told her. But she knew the credit was properly shared between the two men. Because Cullen had never given up on his brother, and what Ethan had done for her was in response to that love.
She’d lost four brothers to the war, but God in his mercy—and humor—
had seen fit to give her another. One she’d not expected, but would cherish.
The baby finished nursing, and she sat up in bed, held him to her chest, and patted his back until a gentle gurgle of air worked its way up and out. Then she pushed back the covers.
“I’ll take him.” Cullen returned Gilbert to the cradle, smiling as he stood there, rocking it gently back and forth. Then he reached for his shirt. “It’s still early. You sleep on. I’ll wake you later, when Onnie has breakfast ready.”
“But . . . what if I’m not sleepy?”
Cullen stopped, one arm in a shirt sleeve, the other not, and looked at her. She let her smile come slowly.
His gaze moved leisurely over her body before finally seeking her eyes again, and the darkening in his own fanned a flame inside her. He slipped off his shirt and lay back down. Her gown, still open, drew his focus, and even before he touched her she felt the heat of his desire.
His kiss was hungry and deep and she wrapped her arms around him, disappointed when, a moment later, he drew back.
“Patience, love,” he whispered, then unbuttoned her gown the rest of the way, kissing her as he did. He covered her body with his.
Later, as the sun rose and light gradually seeped into the room, Maggie lay in the crook of his arm, her pulse slowly finding its rhythm again, and she realized—no, knew—that no matter who came and went in her life, this man, this child God had given her . . . they were her home.
And always would be.
A Note from the Author
Dear Readers,
Thanks for taking yet another journey with me.
The inspiration for To Win Her Favor had its start in a question: How does prejudice influence our lives and choices? In the nineteenth century many Americans harbored animosity toward foreigners, and though I wanted to give an accurate historical perspective on the issue (specifically about the Irish in Nashville), I didn’t want to only give a historical perspective on prejudice. Because heaven knows, its insidious nature is alive and well.
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