To Whisper Her Name

by Tamera Alexander

  At least she could say she’d conquered the lattice!

  Even with moonlight, the mansion grounds were darker than she remembered on the walk with Ridley, and she looked around for the man on night patrol. She didn’t see anyone. Still, it was comforting to know she wasn’t out here alone. When she reached the stretch of meadow leading to the cabin, however, she grew nervous again and decided she’d rather not risk surprising any animal that might not want to be surprised. So she stomped through the field grass, making as much noise as she could.

  The light in the cabin window still shone in the distance, and as she drew closer, she caught the scent of pipe tobacco mingled with cherry and something else familiar. On the other end of the pipe was Bob Green.

  He rose from his chair on the porch. “Missus Aberdeen?” he whispered. He took a couple of steps. “That you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Uncle Bob. It’s me.” Olivia kept her voice soft, like his, in case Ridley was asleep. She climbed the steps to the porch.

  Uncle Bob glanced beyond her. “Everythin’ all right at the big house?”

  “Oh yes. Everything’s fine. I just came to check on Mr. Cooper. To see how he’s doing.”

  Uncle Bob didn’t answer immediately, and the trickling melody of the creek behind the cabin filled the pause. “You come all this way?” he whispered. “In the dark? By your lonesome?”

  She grinned, proud of herself. “Yes, sir. I did. All by my lonesome.”

  He smiled big, and so did she. She’d left out the part about climbing out the window but had a feeling he’d be impressed with that too, if he knew.

  “Well, come on then. He’s inside. Still awake, last time I checked.”

  She’d walked by the old Harding cabin countless times but had never been this close. The porch opened to a dogtrot that split the dwelling right down the middle, and she followed Uncle Bob into the left side of the cabin. A single oil lamp gave light to the room, and Ridley lay on a bunk by the stone hearth, his eyes closed. She might have thought him asleep, if not for the seashell he fingered in his right hand.

  The lyrics of the creek were even more pronounced in here than on the front porch, and when she saw a back window open, she realized why. Her gaze returned to Ridley and to the thin straw-stuffed mattress and rolled-up blanket beneath his head. She thought of her own bedding in the Hardings’ home — same as that of her childhood and the home she’d shared with Charles — filled with goose down and fluffed daily by servants. She’d never given it a second thought.

  Until now.

  “Ridley, you got company, sir.”

  Ridley smiled, eyes still closed. “Sure I do. Is it Jack Malone … here to finish the job?”

  “Not exactly,” Olivia said. “But I’m guessing that with a head as hard as yours, you’d be fine even if it was.”

  Ridley’s eyes came open. “Olivia?” He tried to sit up. Then paused, holding his head.

  “Please don’t get up, Ridley.” She came alongside the bed. “I won’t stay but for a minute or two.” She directed the comment to Uncle Bob as well. “I just came to see how you’re doing after that … display of yours this afternoon. Which nearly scared me to death.”

  Ridley smiled. “You were frightened?”

  She nodded. “For the horse.”

  Uncle Bob snickered behind her.

  Ridley lay back down, his dark look unconvincing. “You’re one heartless woman. Coming down here to try to rile me up. And with my head already about to explode.”

  She warmed at the comment, knowing it was his way of thanking her. Hearing the shuffle of steps, she turned to see Uncle Bob standing just outside the door. He nodded once, then left, the door still slightly open.

  She took in her surroundings. Rustic described the cabin well and might have even been a little generous. The walls were paneled wood, as was the floor, and a small table with three mismatched chairs sat off to the left by the window. A clock adorned the wall above it, and a wash basin hung unceremoniously on a nearby hook. Maybe it was the stark contrast of having lived in the mansion for months now, but the cabin felt so small. And she couldn’t stop thinking …

  This was where General William Giles Harding had been born?

  “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  “It’s very nice,” she said a little too quickly, and could tell by his expression he’d already read her thoughts. Yet he didn’t seem the least put off.

  He gradually turned onto his side. “The general and Mrs. Harding must be sleeping soundly tonight if you were able to sneak down the stairs.”

  “Who said I used the stairs?”

  Slowly, his easy smile faded to doubt, then disbelief. He rose on one elbow. “Olivia Aberdeen, please tell me you did not climb out that window by yourself.”

  “All right. I won’t tell you.” She grinned, scrunching her shoulders.

  “But I did!”

  He exhaled. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could have —”

  “Ridley Cooper!” She huffed. “I expected you to be proud of me!”

  “Proud of you for risking your neck just to —”

  “What happened to ‘Climbing’s just like walking, except you’re going up or down’?”

  “That’s different, Olivia. That was when I was with you to make sure —”

  “And what about ‘I want you to know you can do this’? Or did that mean something different then too?”

  He stared at her, pressing his left temple. “You’re the most headstrong woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

  He didn’t intend it as a compliment, yet she couldn’t help but smile. “And that’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  A hint of humor shone in his expression before he groaned and lay back down. “You’re going to be the death of me, woman.”

  She laughed, not knowing exactly what he meant but liking that he cared enough to think his life hinged on her actions. She spotted a thatched-seat rocker by the hearth. The chair sagged with the weight of time and use but looked sturdy enough. She pulled it a little closer to the bed and sat carefully, wincing at a pain in her right hand. She glanced down at her palm, then almost wished she hadn’t. An ugly gash, not quite an inch long, was caked with dried blood. The vine … Apparently, the stickiness she’d felt earlier hadn’t been sap. So much for conquering the lattice. She buried her hand in her lap, not wanting him to see.

  “I hope you had dinner,” she said, wishing now she could have brought something. Or had at least thought about it before coming.

  “I did. Betsy brought something over for Uncle Bob and me.” He gestured. “She made those biscuits you like. We have some left. Help yourself, if you want.”

  Olivia spotted a cloth-covered plate on the table. “Are you sure?”

  He looked over at her, smiling. “Very. But only after you help me sit up.”

  “You’re making me work for my biscuit?”

  “You bet I am. Those are good biscuits.”

  Careful of her injury and of him seeing it, she helped him to a sitting position, then rolled up a thin blanket and stuffed it behind him for support.

  “Thank you.” He leaned back. “Feels good to sit up.”

  “Where are the sutures?”

  He pointed toward the right side of his head. “It only took nine or ten.”

  “Only nine or ten?” She helped herself to a biscuit, using her left hand, and eased back into the rocker.

  The quiet settled around them.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Olivia. Despite how you did it.” She gave him a smart look.

  “It’s actually quite scandalous on your part, you know. Visiting the private quarters of an unmarried man.”

  The way he said it made her smile. But she realized, with no small surprise, that he was right. She looked around. She’d never been in the private quarters of an unmarried man before. It felt a little rebellious and definitely beyond the bounds of propriety. But what she found most te
lling was how she hadn’t even given it a thought. Until now. She was a different woman when she was with Ridley Cooper. And she rather liked who she was becoming because of him. But she didn’t like seeing him hurt like this.

  “You could have been killed today,” she said softly.

  He looked at her. “But I wasn’t.”

  “But you could have been.”

  “But … I wasn’t.”

  Though his tone was serious, the look in his eyes said he understood her concern. And appreciated it. And that was enough. For now.

  She finished her biscuit and brushed the crumbs from her lap, her right hand aching. “I understand from General Harding that you’re in charge of the yearling sale. The way he spoke about you at dinner tonight, I’d say he thinks very highly of you.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s nice to hear. And while I’m grateful for the opportunity …” He sighed, half smiling. “I’m under no illusion that I’ll be in charge. We both know who’s always in charge around here.”

  She nodded, conceding the fact.

  “What he’s put me ‘in charge of’ is coming up with a way to sell the yearlings that will result in the highest sales.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ve got some ideas, but I’m glad I’ve got some time to think about it.”

  “Who knows? Your ideas might be so good he’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.” She tried for a casual tone, as though this next thought had just occurred to her. “Either that or … you may end up liking it so well here that, come June, you won’t want to leave.”

  He held her gaze, his own deepening with an intensity born only from truth.

  “Come June, Olivia …” He swallowed, the sound pronounced in the quiet. “Regardless of what happens with the yearling sale, I will be leaving. I hope I’ve never given you cause to think otherwise.”

  The quiet of his voice and the honesty in his face made it impossible to maintain his gaze, so she lowered hers. Then saw, again, what was in his hand.

  She gestured, grateful for the distraction. “I’ve wondered if you still had that.”

  He held up the seashell. “‘Course I do. I’ll never part with it. At least not willingly.”

  He looked at the shell then back at her. She nodded, and he held it out.

  It was just as pretty as she remembered. The inside smooth against her thumb and pinkish like the dawn. With her thumbnail, she counted the outside ridges. One, two, three …

  “Twenty-eight,” he said. “There are twenty-eight ridges.”

  He leaned forward to adjust the padding behind his back. She paused from counting to help, but he held up a hand.

  She went back to counting. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven … twenty-eight! You’re right!”

  “Which obviously is a fact you doubted, Olivia.” He wasn’t smiling, but she heard the teasing in his voice.

  “No … I just wanted to be sure.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Ignoring his comment, she studied the shell. “You said you found it along the beach near your home.”

  “That’s right.” He carefully leaned his head against the headboard, closing his eyes. The clock on the wall behind her ticked off the seconds. “The day before I left to join the army … I went for one last walk along my favorite stretch of beach. It was late afternoon, high tide was coming in. The sun lay so pretty on the water. And I looked down, and there it was. Been carrying it with me ever since.”

  Fatigue edged his voice, sadness too. And she realized she’d overstayed her welcome.

  She rose. “I’m sorry. I’ve stayed too long. I’ll let you rest.”

  She held out the shell and he took it, but he reached for her right hand as he did and wove his fingers through.

  “Olivia, I —”

  She sucked in a breath and pulled her hand back.

  He looked up at her. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, trying not to grimace. “Nothing.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m fine, Ridley, I just …” He reached for her hand again, but she slipped it behind her back.

  He sat straighter in the bed. His gaze lowered. “Let me see your hand.”

  “It’s nothing. I just scraped it when I —”

  “Olivia,” he whispered. “Please.”

  Dreading the look of I-told-you-so in his eyes — a look she’d seen so many times from Charles — she reluctantly did as he asked.

  He turned her palm up. “Oh, Olivia …”

  She tried to make a fist, but he prevented it.

  “Did you do this climbing down?”

  “Yes, I did.” She sighed. “Go ahead. Tell me I shouldn’t have done it. Tell me how foolish I am and that —”

  He eased his legs over the side of the bed.

  She stilled. “What are you doing?”

  “Sit down.” He gestured to the rocker, then moved slowly to a side table, poured water from a pitcher into a basin, then brought the basin and some cloths back with him.

  Reading his intention, she shook her head. “No, Ridley. Get back in bed.”

  “Sit down.” He eyed the rocker, then her, and smiled. “Before I fall down.”

  She sank back down in the chair.

  He knelt beside her, took her hand, and began washing it, his movements tender, caring. But still, it hurt. Tears rose to her eyes, more due to his gentleness than the pain.

  “I wish the water was warm,” he said softly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered.

  “I don’t think it needs suturing, but if Rachel thinks it does …” He looked up. “Just take a swig or two of her cider.” He winked. “You won’t feel a thing.”

  Olivia laughed, tasting her tears.

  The wound, once clean, started bleeding afresh, and he gently applied pressure until it stopped, then rubbed a salve on her palm. She recognized a smell similar to the concoction Rachel had given her for her feet. He wrapped her hand in a fresh cloth and gently tied it off. “There. That’ll keep it until morning.”

  He set aside the soiled rags and the basin of rust-colored water, then stood slowly, closing his eyes for a minute before helping Olivia stand. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she slipped her arms around him. It seemed so natural a response, and when his arms came around her, she’d never felt so safe. So … loved.

  He walked her outside. The front porch was empty, Uncle Bob apparently having retired.

  “I’ll see you home.”

  Olivia put a hand to his arm. “No, you won’t. You’ll get halfway there and collapse. And then what will we do?”

  “I can’t let you walk all that way by yourself. Or climb back up that lattice with your hand hurt. I’ve got to know you’re safe.”

  “You will. I’ll take the stairs back up, then I’ll wave my lamp in the window so you’ll know I’m all right.”

  She started down the porch steps.

  “Olivia?”

  She paused.

  “I’m proud of you for climbing down. I could wring your pretty little neck for doing it. But I’m proud of you.”

  It was dark, but she could hear his smile. “Climbing out was the hardest part.”

  “Taking that first step always is.”

  Olivia fairly floated back over the meadow to the mansion where everything was quiet and dark. She slipped up the back staircase, walking as lightly as she could and cringing when the creaking planks snitched on her a time or two.

  Once in her room, she lit the lamp, as promised, and waved it — once, twice — in front of her window. Then watched Ridley do the same from the front porch of the old Harding cabin.

  Careful of her hand, she changed into her nightgown and snuggled into bed, thinking again of the thin straw-filled mattress Ridley slept on. She prayed he’d rest well and heal quickly. Closing her eyes, she relived what it felt like to be in his arms. To feel so safe
and so —

  Her eyes came open.

  The darkness around her seemed less so than when she’d turned down the lamp a moment or so earlier, and a thought she wished had never come refused to leave. She had two men pursuing her hand in marriage and didn’t have the least bit of interest in either of them. While another who held more of her heart than she’d ever entrusted to anyone hadn’t indicated a formal pursuit of any kind. Though he’d had plenty of time and opportunity — and encouragement — Ridley hadn’t asked for her hand in marriage. He hadn’t asked to court her. He hadn’t asked for anything at all. Quite the contrary.

  His words replayed again in her mind: Come June, regardless of what happens with the yearling sale, I will be leaving.

  The silent, obvious question hovered at her bedside. Why, if he cared for her like she knew he did, had he not formally acted on his feelings for her?

  She turned onto her back, the goose down molding to her form, cool where her body hadn’t been yet. Was it because of what Charles had done and her lack of standing in the community? As quickly as the thought came, she dismissed it. No one cared less about others’ opinions than Ridley. He was his own man. He acted on personal conviction, no matter what others thought.

  Was it because of his … misgivings about the South? She knew the war had taken a toll on him, as it had every man, woman, and child. But his disappointment, his unrest, ran so deep. She’d seen it in him again tonight as he’d fingered that seashell. But the South was changing. Maybe not as quickly as he’d like. But change was happening. Didn’t the freedmen schools show that? And Jimmy and Jolene learning to read and write like they were? Ridley was part of that change too. What about the increase in pay he’d gotten for the Negro men? Susanna had told Olivia all about that.

  The flurry of thoughts kept sleep at bay until she ruled out every possible answer to her question save one … Ridley didn’t want to stay in the South, yet he knew she would never follow him to the Colorado Territory. And he was right. This was where she was meant to be, for so many reasons. But she knew something he didn’t. This was where he was meant to be too. The South was his home. Or would be again. She simply needed to prove it to him.