To Whisper Her Name

by Tamera Alexander

  He wouldn’t be here too much longer, he knew. But try as he might, he couldn’t resist the challenge.

  Later that night, he picked his way in the darkness toward the servants’ cabins. Fourth cabin on the left was what Uncle Bob had said. Ridley found it easily and knocked on the door.

  Betsy answered, a child in her arms and one clinging to her skirt. The soft glow of lamplight haloed her form. “What you doin’ here, Mr. Cooper? Uncle Bob be needin’ somethin’?”

  “Evening, Betsy.” Ridley smiled and fingered his beard. “You once told me you can shave the fuzz off a ripe peach with nary a nick. Does that still hold true, ma’am?”

  A sassy sparkle lit her eyes. “I think you’s about to find out!”

  Minutes later, with her husband, Julius, and their four children seated at the table watching, Ridley straddled the straight back chair Betsy offered. “It’s not often I let a woman with scissors, much less a razor, this close to my throat.”

  Julius laughed. “Just be glad she ain’t mad at you, sir. Ain’t many things I’s scared of, but my wife with her dander up and somethin’ sharp in her grip …” He feigned a shiver. “Lawd, have mercy.”

  The children snickered, their dark eyes wide.

  Betsy threw them all looks. “You men hush up. And you young ‘uns stop that gigglin’.” She grabbed a handful of Ridley’s hair. “You gonna let me shape this mess up too?”

  Ridley grinned. “Do whatever you can to make me look presentable, Betsy.”

  Looking like she’d been handed keys to a candy shop, she stepped back and eyed him, then started clipping. His hair first and then his beard. She looked over at her family. “This man right here, I know he ain’t lookin’ like much right now.” She made a face. “But when I be done with him, he gonna be one handsome devil. You see soon enough.”

  Ridley timed his response between clips, trying to speak without moving his mouth. “I’ll just be grateful … to have some blood left … when you’re through.” He winked at the youngest girl, who started giggling again.

  Betsy put down the scissors, and Ridley ran a hand over his trimmed beard. He reached for the cracked hand mirror on the table, but Betsy swatted his arm.

  “You look when I be sayin’ you can look,” she huffed, mixing the shaving soap in a cup. “‘Til then, you just sit tight and do what I say.”

  “Mean as a snake, that woman,” Julius whispered from the other side of the table.

  Ridley shot him a close-mouthed smile as Betsy brushed the minty lather over his face and throat, working it in as she went. The woman knew what she was doing, that was for sure. She tilted his chin back and, after throwing the children a last desperate look, Ridley closed his eyes, enjoying their laughter.

  A while later, Betsy handed him a warm towel and he scrubbed his face and neck, the heat soothing against his skin. He ran a hand over his smooth jaw, hardly recognizing his own face. As promised, he’d felt not a single nick as she’d pulled that razor across his skin.

  He looked up at her. “I’ve never had a better shave, Betsy. Thank you, ma’am.”

  A slow smile, smooth as honey, spread across her face. “Mmm-hmm. I knew you had some good looks ‘neath there, Mr. Cooper, but you’s almost as good lookin’ a man as my Julius here.” She winked at her husband, then looked back at Ridley. “I ain’t gonna ask whether you got your sights set on a woman yet or not. But if you do …” She shook her head. “Heaven help her. I hope she gets a runnin’ start.” She pulled the mirror from behind her back and held it up. “But even then I ain’t sure she stands a chance.”

  Chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  Ridley glared at Seabird, summoning patience he didn’t have and doubted he ever would. He could live forty lifetimes and not have the patience of Uncle Bob. Which likely meant he’d never have the gift. Maybe it was something you were born with anyway. He didn’t know. He only knew time was running short.

  It was already June, and he felt no more equipped to work with horses the way Bob Green did than he had the first day he’d arrived. It wasn’t Uncle Bob’s fault, Ridley knew. But he was giving his best. What else could he do? It didn’t help that he hadn’t shared with Uncle Bob his plans to leave at the end of this month, but it felt wrong telling him. Like being invited to a fancy banquet in your honor and then informing the host to hurry because you had another appointment.

  Ridley ran a hand over his smooth jaw, still getting accustomed to the beard being gone. And still waiting to run into Olivia Aberdeen again. Belle Meade was a big place, but he had a feeling she was going out of her way not to see him. Something he was determined to change.

  “Try it again, Ridley.” Uncle Bob’s voice, ever patient, held a touch of weariness.

  Ridley shook his head. “It’s no good. I think she’s past working with today. Let’s go get some dinner.”

  “She’s testin’ you. Try it again.”

  Ridley knew he wasn’t imagining this new thread of resistance in the mare. It was almost as if she were reading him at times, anticipating what he was going to do and counteracting him just for spite. “I’m just saying that I think she’s made up her mind to —”

  “And all I’s sayin’, sir, is to try it again. I gotta tell ya, Ridley … Gettin’ this mare to cozy up to you is just the start. If you think she’s givin’ you a time, you just wait ‘til you start handlin’ something like Jack Malone. Lawd, you ain’t met stubborn ‘til you’s workin’ with a stallion. This mare here, she was a good-tempered little girl some time back. But losin’ that foal, then the accident with the carriage, then gettin’ whipped by that fool of a ranch hand I fired …” Uncle Bob gave a disgusted grunt. “She’s just a little shy now, that’s all.”

  Just a little shy my — Ridley cut the thought short, knowing little good would come from it. He gripped the rope in his hand, weary of playing student. An ever-failing one at that. But thinking of the Colorado Territory and what awaited him — if he ever got there — buoyed him on. What a boon it would be if he could take this mare with him.

  Her leg was healing and she was moving better, though not running full out yet. But the skittish little thing still refused to let anybody come near, except Uncle Bob.

  Rolling his shoulders to loosen tight muscles, Ridley made a slow approach toward Seabird again, forcing a pleasantness to his expression he didn’t feel. The horse tossed its head, sidestepped a foot or two, and pawed the ground.

  “What is it you thinkin’ ‘bout right now, Ridley?”

  Ridley briefly narrowed his eyes, wanting to say, I’m thinkin’ about what a complete waste of time this is. But he didn’t. “I’m thinking I wish she wasn’t so stubborn.”

  Uncle Bob sighed. “How come it’s always her fault, sir? Why can’t it be your fault? Leastways some of the time.”

  “Because all I want to do is put this lead rope on her.” Concentrating again on Seabird, Ridley summoned his best Uncle Bob voice, as he thought of it. Low and smooth, gentle as a whisper. “I’m not going to hurt her. I’m not the one who hurt her. I have no intention of hurting her,” he continued, inching forward and choosing phrases Uncle Bob had used in instructing him in past weeks. “I’m tellin’ her right now, with my eyes, with my voice, just like you said, that she can trust me …”

  Seabird whinnied. Her flanks quivered. She took a step back.

  “… and that I only have her best in mind, and that I’ll take care of her.” Seabird’s ears pricked as his voice grew a shade firmer, and Ridley knew from experience what was coming next. “If she’ll only listen instead of running away!”

  The mare darted to the right, passing him in a flash, and didn’t stop until she reached the far side of the corral.

  Ridley heard a heavy sigh behind him but paid no attention. He’d heard the same thing a thousand times in recent weeks and had since chosen to ignore it.

  “You ever been with a woman, sir?”

  The unexpected question caught him off guard. “What did y
ou say?”

  “You heard me, sir. I’m askin’ if you ever been with a woman.” Ridley started to answer, then held back. “What does that have to do with this?”

  “‘Cause I’s just wonderin’ if that right there” — he motioned to where Seabird had been standing — “is how you treat a woman when you with her, that’s all.”

  Ridley stared, not knowing where Uncle Bob was going with this. And not sure he wanted to know.

  The older man laughed. “I ain’t never had me a wife. Hope to someday though.” He smiled. “But my guess is I already know more than you on this count.”

  Ridley laughed, not exactly feeling his masculinity being questioned so much as jokingly prodded. “And just how do you figure that, old man?”

  Uncle Bob grinned and gestured to the mare. “The right answer to my question, the one I was askin’ you before is, ‘I’s tryin’ to figure out what she’s thinkin’.’”

  Ridley waited, knowing this man well enough to know more was coming.

  “That’s part of the secret of learnin’ all this, Ridley.” Uncle Bob’s smile faded. “You gotta stop thinkin’ ‘bout yourself so much, and start thinkin’ ‘bout them. Try to see things how they see ‘em. What do you think they see when they look at you and me?”

  Ridley shrugged. “In your case, someone a lot smaller than they are.”

  Smiling only a little, Uncle Bob shook his head. “No, sir … That’s just it. They see someone who can do ‘em harm. Someone who’s after ‘em. They is the prey, sir. Not us. Which, when you think ‘bout how things work, makes no sense at all. They got the power to trample our bones to dust.” Uncle Bob’s expression went soft, like his voice. “And here they give us the right — the honor, sir — of ridin’ ‘em. Of sharin’ their strength. Of harnessin’ it. Of havin’ a better life with them helpin’ us than we’d ever have left to our lonesome.”

  Uncle Bob grew quiet and looked out across the meadow. Ridley felt he should say something, but everything he thought of saying seemed to pale by comparison. So he left the silence alone.

  Later that night, after dinner, the two of them sat out on the porch in the dark. Uncle Bob smoked his pipe, the rich aroma reminding Ridley of his grandfather. Powerful, how scent could pull you back across a lifetime of living in scarcely a blink.

  “A lot of folks’ll tell you,” Uncle Bob said, speaking around the pipe, “about training a horse.”

  Ridley had to smile, hearing him pick up the conversation where they’d left it earlier. Reminded him of some old married couples. But there was something comforting in knowing someone well enough where you could do that.

  “They say you gotta show ‘em who the master is and who it ain’t. That you got to be stern. Rope ‘em and beat ‘em, show ‘em how it’s done.” Uncle Bob took a long pull from his pipe, the tobacco crackling and popping as it burned. “But the truth of it is, sir, if a man gotta have a stick or a whip in his hand to make him feel strong, or if he gotta beat somethin’ to make it do his biddin’ …” He shook his head, the creak of his rocker keeping odd time with the crickets’ chirruping. “He ain’t no master. And he ain’t got no strength either. Not the strength that counts. Not with blood horses,” he added softly. “And not with any other livin’ creature on God’s green earth.”

  Ridley searched the vast array of stars dotting the night sky, letting the truth of Uncle Bob’s wisdom settle into the blanket of darkness around them, burrowing deep within. And for the first time since realizing he wanted to come to Belle Meade to find Bob Green, he got a sense that maybe he was here to learn about more than just horses.

  But the truth went deeper than he’d thought, because memories best left untouched began to stir. Images he’d hoped would fade with years returned with the clarity of yesterday. He was nine years old again, standing at his father’s side, watching a young Negro boy not much older than himself being bid on by men who wouldn’t even look the boy in the eye. But it was the auction he’d seen four years later — the baby boy being ripped from his mother’s arms, the young woman being stripped naked and poked and prodded like livestock, ogled by every white man in the crowd — that had sickened him so he’d barely been able to reach the alleyway before his stomach had emptied itself. He’d been so ashamed to be there. To be white. The world had looked different to him ever since.

  Ridley straightened, then took a deep breath, filling his lungs, not so much pushing the memories aside as willing them to be at rest. He looked toward the main house, and his thoughts — as they always seemed to do these days when given wing — took a favorable turn and landed on one person. He found himself thinking about her at the oddest times, day and night. And his imagination needed little prompting where she was concerned.

  But the question at the forefront of his mind right now, spurred on by Betsy’s reaction when she’d shaved his beard a week ago …

  If circumstances forced him to forego heading west this summer, and he had to winter here until the next, was there an inkling of a chance that a spunky little blue-eyed, prim and proper, spitfire of a young Southern woman would ever consider giving a man like him a second glance?

  “Which one do you think would be best for the front parlor, Livvy?” Elizabeth fingered swatches of drapery fabric, holding them at various angles. “I can’t seem to decide.”

  Scarcely able to tell a difference in the swatches, Olivia leaned closer. She didn’t want to hurt Elizabeth’s feelings, but her heart simply wasn’t in this. All morning long they’d been sorting through sample after sample of drapery and wallpaper swatches.

  Yet all she could think about was the teaching position Mr. Cooper had told her about the other day and how thoroughly she’d berated him for it. Justifiably so, in one sense. The man had no right to offer her advice on personal matters. Especially when his opinion in the matter was unsought. And yet …

  Having had time to reflect on their exchange, she knew she’d overreacted. But the last thing she wanted was to have to offer Ridley Cooper another apology.

  She cringed, knowing it was probably the right thing to —

  Don’t you ever find that exhausting, Mrs. Aberdeen? Always having to say the right thing. Do the right thing …

  Recalling his forwardness, Olivia squashed the emerging apology before it had time to form. And did so gladly. Rudeness such as that didn’t deserve common courtesy. But she had given a lot of thought to that advertisement. Even if she did apply for the position, the answer would be a swift and emphatic no. Because she’d been the wife of Charles Winthrop Aberdeen, and everyone in Nashville knew it.

  Just this morning, Elizabeth had received an invitation from the Nashville Ladies Auxiliary for a special tea to welcome new members. The invitation had included Selene and Mary and even Lizzie Hoover. But not her. Regardless of the fact that she’d been a member of the club for the past four years — before Charles’s true nature had been made public — Olivia knew there would be no invitation forthcoming for Mrs. Charles Winthrop Aberdeen.

  And the question that had begun to plague her was if there would ever come a time when people’s memories would fade. When they would allow her to have a future again. Or would she always be atoning for her late husband’s sins?

  “Or perhaps you think I should simply string up some old feed sacks. I hear they’re all the rage in Paris.”

  Olivia blinked, her aunt’s words finally registering with her. She’d allowed her mind to wander. “Oh, Aunt Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I … My mind is simply elsewhere today.” She reached for the swatches but her aunt set them aside.

  “Livvy.” Smiling, Elizabeth reached over and squeezed her hand. “You know I’m simply having fun with you. But I can tell something is bothering you. Whatever it is, dear, you can share it with me. And if it’s the invitation from the auxiliary, then let me repeat … I have no intention of going. And neither will Selene or Mary or Lizzie.”

  “I admit …” Olivia sighed. “The invitation does have something to do wi
th how I’m feeling. But I don’t want to keep you all from going.” She looked up, insistent. “Honestly, I don’t want you — or the others — to be penalized because of me.”

  Elizabeth gave her a look that said they would discuss it later, followed by one that urged her to continue.

  “There is something I’d like to ask you, Aunt Elizabeth.” She bowed her head. “But I’m afraid there’s no way to say this without appearing ungrateful to you and the general.”

  Elizabeth gently lifted Olivia’s chin. “In a thousand lifetimes, Livvy, I could never consider you ungrateful.”

  Olivia tried to smile, but a weight bore down in her chest that made it impossible. “Do you think … there will ever come a time when …” The heaviness moved into her throat. “… when people will forget about what Charles did? Or, more rightly, that … they’ll forget he was my husband?”

  The shadow eclipsing Elizabeth’s expression answered first, and Olivia lowered her head.

  “Livvy,” Elizabeth whispered, covering her hand, “look at me.”

  With effort, Olivia did as asked.

  Elizabeth’s voice, while tender, held the distinctive clarity of truth. “I do believe in time some people will begin to accept you again. Others, I fear, will likely never do so.”

  Olivia searched her gaze. “Others,” she repeated softly, understanding who Elizabeth meant. “The families who lost sons and husbands to the war, then lost their homes and fortunes as well. Everything,” she whispered, feeling a familiar ache inside. “Aided by the hand of my late husband.”

  “None of which was your fault, Livvy. Remember that.” Elizabeth cradled Olivia’s cheek. “They say time heals all wounds, which may be true. But it doesn’t take away the scars. Some of those, we must learn to live with.”

  Staving off tears, Olivia nodded and instinctively covered her left arm. “If it were within my power, Aunt Elizabeth, I would return every last guilty cent that Charles stole. I would make it right. With all of them.”