To Whisper Her Name

by Tamera Alexander

  Uncle Bob tried again to touch Ridley’s head.

  “I said I’m fine.”

  But Uncle Bob’s persistence won out, and his fingers came away bloody. The man muttered something beneath his breath that Ridley couldn’t hear and didn’t need to.

  “How many times I done told you, sir? Don’t ever take your eyes off a stallion! ‘Specially not one like this. One kick to the head, and you’s gone. Time you know what hit you” — Uncle Bob snapped his fingers — “you already be checkin’ in upstairs, lookin’ up your name in the Book o’ Life!”

  Ridley laughed.

  “It ain’t funny!” Huffing, Uncle Bob gave him a dark look.

  Only then did Ridley realize how truly shaken the man was. “He grazed me, Uncle Bob. That’s all. My head’s a little fuzzy, but I’m all right.”

  Eyes fierce, Uncle Bob stared up at him, then slowly shook his head. “Ain’t even three o’clock yet, and I be needin’ a drink of cider. And I ain’t talkin’ that sweet stuff Susanna and them other women serve at church neither.” Releasing a breath, he removed his black derby and scrubbed a hand over his head. He gave Ridley a sideways look, the barest hint of a smile beginning to show. “Scared me so bad I ‘bout lost it in my britches.”

  Ridley laughed again, but paid for it when the right side of his head throbbed even harder.

  “This gonna be hard, Ridley, but you gotta get back in there right now and stand up to Jack. Else next time, all he gonna ‘member is how he won today. You feelin’ up to it, sir?”

  Ridley started to nod, then caught himself. “Just tell me what I should do.”

  Ridley listened, aware of stable hands who had apparently seen what happened and were staying to watch. Cresting the hill was General Harding astride his stallion. But it was seeing Olivia, standing by the stable, stone still and staring at him, that narrowed his focus. Maybe it was the kick to his head, but he felt a surge inside him. Every time they were together now, all he could think about was how she should be with somebody else. Yet the only man he could ever see her with … was him. He wanted her more than ever. But even more than that, he wanted what was best for her. What would make her happy in the long run. He wanted her to have the home and security she deserved and was far from convinced that he was the man who could give it to her. But that still hadn’t stopped him from accepting her invitation to go walking with her later tonight. Which told him he hadn’t given up entirely.

  “Ridley, you listenin’ to me? You get what I’m sayin’ to you?”

  Pulled back, Ridley nodded. “Yes, Uncle Bob. I do.”

  “It ain’t ‘bout physical strength, sir. You just gotta get him to heed you. Get him on your side by showin’ him what to do. And ‘member what I said … What’s the one thing a stallion wants more than any-thin’ else?”

  Ridley smiled, glancing back at Olivia. “A mare.”

  “And if you start fightin’ with a stallion, what’s he thinkin’ y’all is fightin’ over?”

  “A mare.”

  “And what’s the three times you stop payin’ attention to a stallion?”

  “Never, never … and never.”

  Uncle Bob patted him on the back. “All right then. Go get him.”

  Olivia moved to the fence for a better view, then almost wished she hadn’t. Ridley was approaching the stallion again, even after what she’d just witnessed. Had the man lost every shred of good sense God gave him?

  “Hey there, Missus Aberdeen.”

  Olivia looked up at the mountain of a man sauntering up beside her and nodded. “Ike.” She knew what everyone else called him, but — when speaking to him — she felt more comfortable using his given name. She looked back at Ridley. “Please tell me Mr. Cooper knows what he’s doing.”

  Big Ike’s slowness to respond didn’t instill comfort, neither did the blood she saw smeared on Ridley’s forehead.

  “Jack Malone’s ‘bout as spirited as they come, ma’am. And he’s mighty particular ‘bout who handles him. But Uncle Bob … There ain’t nobody better at teachin’ than him. And Mr. Cooper, he done good so far.”

  “But he’s bleeding …”

  “Yes, ma’am. But he still standin’, holdin’ his own. That’s mighty good after gettin’ kicked in the head by somethin’ like Jack. Most men go down like a stone. Don’t get up either.”

  She glanced beside her to see if Big Ike was smiling. He wasn’t.

  Three times, Ridley approached the stallion. Three times, the stallion reared. And three times, her heart nearly stopped. Ridley reacted quickly, but she sensed his reflexes were impaired. What was it about these animals that made him want to work with them like this? That instilled such determination — at cost of physical injury or death — to learn what Bob Green was teaching him? But one thing was certain, though she loathed the certainty with which the realization came: Ridley Cooper was made for the wilds of a place like the Colorado Territory, and it for him.

  Uncle Bob called something out to Ridley, but Olivia couldn’t make out what he’d said. But apparently Ridley had. Because he nodded. Then he stopped.

  “What’s he doing?” she whispered, glancing at Big Ike.

  Big Ike leaned forward on the fence. “I ain’t altogether sure, ma’am.”

  Then Olivia heard it. Ridley was whistling. And not the way you would to call a dog. He was whistling a tune. A song. Gradually, hearing it, she smiled. It was one they sang in the Negro church. One she especially liked.

  With measured steps, Ridley moved off to the side and approached the stallion from that direction. Jack Malone followed Ridley’s progress as he drew closer.

  Twenty feet, fifteen …

  Without warning, the stallion charged him.

  It all happened so fast, the scream was still working its way up Olivia’s chest when the stallion skidded to a halt just feet from Ridley, who looked tense and ready to react. Yet he was still whistling the tune, low and sweet.

  This happened again and again. Like some sort of terrifying dance. Each time, the stallion came closer than before, as though testing Ridley’s courage. And each time, Ridley looked poised to act. Until finally, the thoroughbred seemed to weary of the sport. Then Olivia watched — nerves raw and throat aching — as Ridley took patient, purposeful steps toward the horse. No, Ridley, don’t …

  Not the least hesitant, Ridley closed the distance, continuing the low, sweet whistle.

  And the stallion let him come.

  He grasped the thoroughbred’s harness, and for a moment, man and beast simply stared. Olivia had never seen anything like it. Glancing around at the stable hands’ expressions, she judged they felt the same. A swell of pride and admiration rose within her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if what Ridley felt in that moment was anything like what she felt when she saw Jimmy and Jolene learning how to read and write and work their sums.

  Thinking of Jimmy and Jolene made her think of Mr. Pagette. Mid-November now, and still no word from him or that trusted third party. She told herself to accept it and move on. But part of her still wouldn’t let go. A faint flicker of hope kept burning.

  “He done good,” Big Ike said beside her. “Didn’t he, ma’am?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And … if you don’t mind me sayin’ it, Missus Aberdeen,” he said softly. “You doin’ good too, ma’am. With lil’ Jimmy and Jolene.”

  Olivia turned and looked at the hulk of a man beside her and felt the flicker of hope burn brighter. Perhaps he was in contact with Mr. Pagette.

  “My wife speaks real high about you, ma’am.”

  “That’s very kind of her. I think very highly of Susanna too.”

  He smiled, and Olivia waited, wondering if he would say something about the freedmen’s school outright. Or maybe speak of it in a secret way.

  “Well, I best be gettin’ back to the stable. Good to talk to you, ma’am.”

  Olivia’s hope deflated.

  “Fascinating creatures, these stallions. Aren�
�t they, Mrs. Aberdeen?”

  Not recognizing the voice behind her, she turned. And blinked. “Colonel Burcham?”

  The Colonel’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she knew her tone hadn’t communicated a pleasant surprise on her part.

  “What are you doing here? I-I mean … in town? You said in your last letter that —”

  “I know. I said December. But I’ve long held that — just as in battle — the element of surprise can be a valuable one.” His gaze moved beyond her. “That stable hand there … What’s his name again?”

  She followed his line of sight. And bristled. “That’s Ridley Cooper. And he’s one of General Harding’s foremen here at Belle Meade. Not a stable hand.”

  The colonel smiled. “A foreman who works with horses. In a stable.” He looked at her as though his point were made.

  Olivia’s dislike of the man doubled a hundredfold.

  “Everythin’ all right, Missus Aberdeen?”

  She turned to see Big Ike still there. He was eying the colonel, whose stony expression said he didn’t welcome the interruption.

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” she whispered, remembering the distasteful opinions the colonel had expressed at dinner earlier that summer and how the man had treated Susanna. She wondered — seeing Big Ike stare at the man — whether Susanna had shared the colonel’s comments from that evening with her mountain of a husband.

  “Go on now.” The colonel stepped closer, gesturing to Big Ike. “Get back to work. I’ll take care of the lady.”

  Wincing at the condescension in the man’s tone — and ashamed for the colonel, even if he wasn’t — Olivia looked at Big Ike and tried to communicate an apology with a glance. Then she spotted General Harding astride his stallion, watching from the hill, and knew without a shred of doubt that the colonel’s visit hadn’t been a surprise to him.

  The colonel held out his arm and Olivia — stomach curdling, but not wanting to cause a scene — accepted.

  It was no use. Olivia pushed back the covers. She couldn’t sleep. Not with the general and colonel sitting on the porch just below her bedroom window, outside the general’s office, smoking cigars and swapping war stories. But mostly sleep wouldn’t come because of wondering about Ridley and how he was doing. Earlier that evening, she’d learned Uncle Bob had called for Rachel to suture Ridley’s head. The wound had been far worse than Ridley had let on that afternoon.

  Silly, foolish man.

  At dinner, General Harding had taken great pleasure in recounting the event with flourish, much like he had the story about Davy Crockett. But Olivia hadn’t enjoyed this tale in the least.

  “Mark my words,” he said, lifting his glass. “People will come for miles around to see ‘the man who got kicked in the head by Jack Malone … and lived to tell about it.’ I’ve asked Mr. Cooper to head up the yearling sale come June. And what’s more … we’ll make certain he’s the one to lead Belle Meade’s prized stud out to center ring, so they can both take a bow.”

  The comments — not rudely meant, Olivia knew — had drawn laughter. But what the general said next had inspired her to hope Ridley might consider staying at Belle Meade after all, if given the proper motivation.

  “Ridley Cooper is turning out to be a fine foreman. The other men respect him and respond to him well. Who knows but what he might have a future here at Belle Meade.”

  Colonel Burcham, seated beside her at the table, had leaned close to her. “Hmmm … That may be, but helping with a yearling sale, leading a horse around … still sounds like a stable hand to me.”

  Anger rippled through her again just thinking about it. Colonel Bryant Burcham was so much like Charles. To anyone looking on, he was dashing and charming, obviously a man of means. A man worth pursuing. But every time he touched her … The small of her back as she preceded him through an entryway; his elbow brushing hers at dinner; the way he always, always offered his arm, then drew her close — so close her breast brushed his arm. She shivered and felt Charles touching her all over again.

  She kicked the covers back and rose from bed, her nightgown sticking to her body. November had brought cooler temperatures. But today, as often happened this time of year, summer seemed to be rearing its head again, and the air in her room felt stagnant and constricting. Standing at the side window, the one that allowed the view of the old Harding cabin, she breathed in the night air, flouncing her gown, as her mother used to call it. Billowing the fabric to force air up inside, she enjoyed the few fleeting seconds of blissful, heavenly cool.

  It had to be well after midnight by now, and the cabin was mostly dark, except for a window at the front where a warm glow dispelled the night. She wondered if Ridley was still awake. Most likely not. Rachel would have given him something to help him sleep. Still, she wished she could check on him herself. She was growing far too accustomed to their time together and missed him when she didn’t see him.

  Like now.

  She glanced behind her at the window on the adjacent wall, hearing Colonel Burcham’s voice and wishing he and the general had stayed in the library for their little military tête-à-tête. If not for them, Olivia was certain she could have sneaked down the stairs and back up without being discovered. Especially since Elizabeth, fatigued from the day’s events, had retired early. But the staircase emptied directly onto the porch outside the general’s office where the men were reliving their glory days.

  Sighing, she turned back. Her gaze dropped to the wisteria whose blooms had long since vanished, then to the lattice. And slowly, stealthily, an idea began to form. An idea that almost felt as if it had been lingering nearby, merely waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. Hearing the thought plainly now, Olivia pushed back from the window.

  No … She couldn’t. Ridley wouldn’t be here to catch her if she fell.

  But — an internal voice countered — you didn’t fall last time. You made it fine.

  But last time, she’d had Ridley there to help her, which had bolstered her confidence. This time she had no one. And if she were to fall, she could lie there on the ground all night. No.

  She looked back at the door again. That wasn’t true. The general and colonel would surely hear the ruckus and come running. At which time — if she weren’t dead — she would be in a world of trouble.

  Which simply meant one thing …

  She couldn’t fall.

  She never would have entertained the thought of sneaking out like this before coming to Belle Meade. Before meeting Ridley Cooper. Just the thought of him cinched it for her.

  She couldn’t get dressed fast enough.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-NINE

  Olivia tucked the back hem of her skirt in the front of her waistband, just as Ridley had taught her, then gripped the windowsill, her hands sticky from nerves. Snatches from the general and colonel’s conversation drifted toward her from around the corner on the porch below, and she caught an occasional whiff of their cigars. Pipe smoke, she’d never minded. But the smell of cigars turned her stomach.

  She leaned her face out the window and took deep breaths, trying to work up the courage she lacked. She sent up a quick prayer, fashioning it after prayers she’d heard Bob Green offer in church. She didn’t know Uncle Bob well, but she knew him well enough to know he knew the Almighty better than most. And he spoke to God more honestly than anyone she’d ever heard.

  She eased her leg out the window — the rhythm of her heart kicking up several notches — and could hear Ridley’s voice in the back of her head. Don’t look down. Just concentrate on where you’re going to put your other foot.

  Holding on for life and limb, she finally managed to locate a foothold. Then, hearing Ridley’s silent counsel, she put her weight on it to make certain it was the lattice and not the vine. She got a firm grip on the lattice with her left hand and took a steadying breath. It was much cooler outside than in her room, and she welcomed the breeze — on the half of her that could feel it. She licked h
er lips and tasted fear. Then squeezed her eyes tight.

  She could do this. She’d done it before.

  Going against instincts she trusted, she maneuvered her other leg out the window, wishing for the first time in her life that women could wear trousers. At least while scaling the walls of —

  Her right hand lost grip on the window, and she slipped.

  Her body arched wide, giving her a sickening weightlessness that sent her stomach to her throat. It only lasted a second or two, but it felt like an eternity. And it gave her a glimpse of the ground far below she never wished to see again. Momentum propelled her back toward the house, and she knew she’d only have one chance.

  She hit the lattice hard and clawed for a grip.

  Branches tore at her right palm. She grappled for hold and something sharp pierced the soft inside of her hand. But she held on, struggling to find purchase with her right boot. Finally she did, and — body shaking — she pressed her forehead into the vine, clinging to it. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she breathed out, hearing it the way Uncle Bob said it and doubting her heart would ever regain a normal rhythm.

  She clung there, willing her body to calm, to stop trembling — while watching for General Harding and Colonel Burcham to round the corner of the house and find her. She couldn’t hear them talking anymore, but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar in her ears. So she waited. But with every slowing beat of her heart, her hands lost strength. She either had to climb back in the window or climb down. She couldn’t stay here.

  Finally, she heard laughter. From which decorated Confederate officer, she didn’t know. But she decided she wasn’t about to climb back in the window after coming this far and risking this much. The rest of the way down was more her body knowing what to do rather than her telling her body what to do. When she reached the bottom — legs shaking, fingers aching — she untucked her skirt and looked up, not exactly eager to retrace her path but knowing she could do it. Her right palm burned and was sticky with sap from the vine. But she’d have to see to that later.