Just Kin (Texas Romance Book 6)

by Caryl McAdoo

  The protest formed on his tongue, but remained unspoken. “Is there something there I could do for you to pay my way, ma’am?”

  She smiled. “Plenty.” The grandfather clock in the hall struck the hour. Freddie stood. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Have another drink if you wish while Cook finishes up.”

  He stood and extended his hand. She shook nowhere near like a man, but firmer than any other woman he’d grasped hands with.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it, but Aunt May maintains a brownstone somewhere in New York. I’d be happy to help you out at the farm if you need, but if I could find out where –”

  “Nonsense. There’s no need to be alone, and this way, we’ll be able to stay in closer touch.”

  “But I don’t want to be –”

  “Charley, dear, it’s all settled. Now I must take my leave. I’ll see you at breakfast, seven sharp. The cook has the coffee on by five.”

  The two days passed without any word of Longstreet, and as promised, Freddie took Charley on the train to Danbury then on to the farm in the waiting carriage.

  How much money did printing books make?

  Then, to his surprise, instead of rows of cotton or corn, on that farm, horses were the only crop. Dozens of them, big-bellied broodmares in the front pastures. Yearlings in the next, some with their necks over the fence’s top rail whinnying and watching the carriage roll by.

  Freddie patted his arm. “All of them are thoroughbreds, each a descendant of Diomed. He won the English Derby Stakes in 1780; came to America in ’88. We have one of his great-grandsons out of Lexington. Marah named him Sir Lexington. She’s mad about the animals. They consume her life.”

  Charley turned away from the colts and faced Freddie. “I’ve heard of thoroughbreds, but never seen one before. They’re magnificent-looking animals, born to run, right?”

  “Yes, they are. Magnificent and very fast.”

  The house at the end of the lane—modest compared to the mansion across from the park, but still very comfortable—sat in front of a large red barn.

  The whole property, one hundred and fifty acres Freddie bragged, was divided into meadows by white wooden fences that looked to be freshly painted.

  What a sight. Each of the smaller fields, three or four acres at most, had at least one tree. Some of the bigger pastures had several, and thick woods ringed the whole perimeter.

  “I love it. My kind of farm.” Charley jumped out and extended his hand.

  She took it. “Thank you. It’s been in the family since before the Revolutionary War.” She turned then nodded toward the house. “Come on. I’ll show you around and introduce to everyone. You’ve already meet Wilhelm.”

  The front door opened.

  A hatless young lady strode out with raven black hair put up in a bun that seemed about to burst out of its bindings with little tuffs going everywhere, like she’d been working or riding. She wore a rumpled, split skirt and what looked to be a man’s work shirt with sweat stains under her arms.

  Boots, brown ones in need of polish, encased her small feet. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking rather put out. “Mother, you came after all. Who’s your friend?”

  “Charley Nightingale.”

  “Mother, are you telling me this man is May Meriwether’s nephew?”

  The next morning, a hundred and sixty miles north, Lacey wasn’t thinking about Charley as she stood sideways in front of the big mirror in her room.

  After several full turns, she decided she best change. The lavender dress just seemed too colorful for a widow, but then what difference did that make?

  Finding one modest enough in her closet, appropriate for church, reminded her a little of the hours she’s spent looking for a four-leaf clover.

  Well, what else could she do? Nate being a deacon in the Methodist church and all. How long would it be proper to wait anyway? That was if he even wanted to marry her.

  Handsome, well mannered, he’d be a good catch. Somewhat full of himself though, or maybe that was just confidence. Either way, the man’s talents impressed her.

  Besides being chosen for the Convention, he could hold a crowd with his oration. And, she loved the sound of his voice.

  Part of her wanted to pack up and get back to Texas, but if the war truly only lasted until next year that just didn’t make sense. Especially if the lawyers couldn’t work it all out. She certainly did not want to come back…except Glenn Falls was growing on her.

  And if the summers proved as pleasant as everyone claimed, perhaps she could winter in Texas and come north during the heat.

  A light tap proceeded Mother Humphries’ voice through the door. “Miss Lacey? Mister says we need to leave, dear. Are you ready?”

  That settled it, she didn’t have time to change. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be right there.”

  The service turned out barely tolerable, as Nate didn’t speak. Instead, the old preacher took the pulpit for the second Sunday in a row. What was wrong with the man? Didn’t he know everyone wanted to hear from the deacon?

  The old elder did let Nate close with a prayer. Then instead of the café, the ladies of the congregation served dinner on the grounds. Put her in mind again of the best Sundays back home, and it appeared the same held true in Glenn Falls.

  Like he just happened to find his seat, Nate sat across from her.

  How sweet when he stayed there with her during the sack races. He’d asked, no she wasn’t interested in being his partner, except she was, just not in any demeaning dash. Then the talk of the coming Convention heated up, and they pulled him away.

  Could he prefer politics more than keeping her company?

  Once the Humphries began loading the carriage with their empty jars and pan, he did tear himself away long enough to help her up. She liked his firm, yet tender, touch.

  “I’m going to New York tomorrow but will be back midweek. Perhaps you and the Humphries could meet for dinner. Say Friday at one?”

  Without consulting either, she answered for the old couple. “We could do that. Friday it is.”

  “Good.” He backed away a step, but didn’t take his eyes off hers. “Until Friday.”

  She matched his stare. The carriage eased into a roll. He grinned and waved but stood his ground. The carriage turned, and though she couldn’t see him anymore, she didn’t turn for a last look.

  As much as she might want to, it just wouldn’t be proper to seem too forward. One thing she’d learned with Harold—and even Jack to a point—was that she liked being pursued.

  Never again would she make the same mistake she had with Charley.

  Hmm. Why had she thought of him?

  That almost ruined the ride home. She needed to put him out of her thoughts. He was only God knew where. She hoped not dead on a bloody battlefield.

  Tears popped up to blur her vision. She widened her eyes to keep them from falling. Half of the men dead, Mister Humphries had said. But he couldn’t be gone from the earth. Could he?

  Wouldn’t she know? She wallowed in the pain of his absence for a mile or more then straightened her back and cleared her throat.

  Fact of the matter remained that Nate was right there, wanting to share a meal with her and… Oh no. What if he only wanted donations, her help in defraying his cost of going to the Convention?

  That Sunday afternoon, Freddie announced she needed to catch the train back to the city. Hopefully, she’d discover the next May Meriwether. Charley rode with her.

  Not only the gentlemanly thing to do, but he wanted a chance to talk. Then on the short buggy ride, he couldn’t quite find the right words.

  As the driver weaved his way through Danbury, he finally spit it out.

  “Ma’am, Miss Marah…uh… We’ll…uh… Well, other than the cook and her husband. I mean at night…we’ll be…uh –”

  “Unchaperoned, dear? Is that the word you’re hunting?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His cheeks warmed, surely they’d reddened.
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br />   “Dear Charley, so quaint and sweet you are.” Freddie patted his hand, before tilting her chin toward him. “My daughter is her own woman.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be beholden to you if you’ll help her as much as she’ll let you, but don’t be concerned. You may be exactly what she needs.”

  He wanted the woman to say more, explain what she meant, but the station came into view. The train already waited, and folks were boarding.

  The carriage stopped, and he jumped out to help her down, then walked with her to the first class car. She extended her hand. “You needn’t worry about the draft here. Connecticut doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Good to know. Send word if you hear anything about Longstreet.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  The steam whistle sounded, and the conductor called for all to board, then she was gone.

  Exactly what her daughter needed? What was that supposed to mean?

  The next morning surprised him. Marah beat the sun, but not him or the cook.

  She entered the kitchen dressed in a slightly different version of what he guessed resembled her work garb, except that her hair, still wild and thick and hanging over and around her shoulders almost covered her back to the waist.

  He fought the desire to run his fingers through her tresses. Wallace’s ‘bad form, old boy’ echoed through his soul.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  “Was I? Sorry.” He lifted his near shoulder. “Private joke.”

  While Marah sipped her coffee, the cook—an older woman of color—worked on taming the wild mane. Shortly she had most of it pinned. “Miss Marah, we best work it over this evening. How about we cut on it some? Sure would make it easier.”

  “Auntie, you say the same thing every day. I’ll never cut it, and you know it.”

  “Yes’sum. I s’pose I do, but you can’t blame me for trying, can you now?” She glanced at Charley. “What do you think, Mister Nightingale?”

  “Her hair is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. My first father would have traded many ponies.” He kept himself from smiling, but on the inside, strange goings on, indeed.

  For some reason an urge to say something of her beauty in the People’s tongue rose as well, but he refrained from that, too.

  “You’re talking about Bold Eagle, aren’t you? Were you really raised by the Indians?”

  Nodding, he changed his mind and let loose. Told her how beautiful she was in Comanche.

  “What was that?”

  “The People’s language.”

  “Translate it.”

  He shook his head. “Another time maybe. What’s in store for today?”

  “Same as every day. Sixty-two hungry and thirsty horses.”

  “How can I help?”

  She chuckled. “You ride?”

  “Some, why?”

  “Care to take on Sir Lexington?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Charley smelled a ringer. Her smirk confirmed it. “How rank is he?”

  She smiled. “He’ll eat out of my hand, but…” She wiped back a stray tuft that had fallen over one eye. “He’s sixteen, but never been broke. If I can’t ride him, I’ll have to sell him.”

  “Why? Explain yourself.”

  The cook snickered.

  Marah’s eyes flashed, and she glared until the fire cooled. “He’s sired most of my fillies. Last year when I linebred him, I had to put down over half his foals. The others never amounted to much either, certainly nothing special…except for one colt.”

  One shoulder elevated ever so slightly, and her face seized a moment’s sadness.

  Then as fast, like the action fanned her embers, she glared anew. “Why am I explaining myself to you?”

  “Because you like the old boy and want to keep him as a pet. Do you already have another stallion?”

  “I do. Another grandson of Boston, but I imported his dam from England. And Concord—that’s my next stallion’s name—was bred for speed. It’s what everyone wants now. Sir Lexington throws big-hearted sons that can run forever and jump and fence.” She turned and held out her cup. “Another cup, Cookie?”

  Looked like she enjoyed being waited on. “So you like jumping fences?”

  Facing him with a you-are-dumber-than-a-barn-cat’s-whisker expression, she huffed. “I breed my thoroughbreds to hunt, so yes. And Mister Nightingale, I do not have pets. I desire to chase after the hounds on Lexi. Now, are you up to riding my horse or not?”

  ‘Forgive me for breathing’ skipped over his tongue, but he swallowed it. No reason to antagonize the spoiled highness. “Do you have a small corral?”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “On the backside of the barn.”

  “What about running water? Say, chest deep?”

  “Yes, a creek that runs through the east pasture. Why?”

  “I’m not stupid. Do you want me to break him? Or talk the horse into letting you ride him?”

  Working her lips from one side to the other, she squinted. “What’s the difference?”

  His spread into a smile. He liked this one—sort of. Smart, strong willed, high strung, but practical with about the prettiest mane he’d ever seen, horse or human. “You’ll see. What do we need to do first?”

  “Eat breakfast, then we feed and water them. After that, you can ride Sir Lexington.”

  On cue, Cookie came and set a steaming bowl of oats in front of Marah then him. Next came a jar of maple syrup and a pitcher of milk, then a plate piled high with buttered toast.

  “You needs yourself a glass of that milk, Mister Charley?”

  “Yes, please, but you don’t need to mister me. Charley will do fine.”

  The cheerful lady smiled and gave him a little nod. “I’m Cookie.”

  At the barn, stalled animals got breakfast next. With that bunch chomping happily, he helped Marah hook the team up, load the wagon with oats and hay, then tend her charges without much comment, carrying out her barked orders.

  If her mother had as much money as it appeared, the morning chores could be cut in half with not too much invested. Her herd proved impressive, and her excellent care obvious.

  The closer they got to being through, the more he wanted to see if his touch with horses came east with him.

  Finally, she reined the mules to a stop next to the barn then jumped down before he could get around to offer his hand. Without a word, he went to unharnessing the off mule, while she worked on the other.

  Just before high noon, he stood across the aisle from Sir Lexington’s stall.

  While Marah fed him carrots and cooed to him like he was her newborn, Charley studied the stallion. She gave him the last one and backed up before turning. “He bites, be careful.”

  “Put him in the corral, and I need a soft rope if you have one.”

  She nodded toward the front double doors. “Stand over there, and I’ll let him out.” Opening the gate, she kept behind it as the stallion charged out, snorting and throwing his mane.

  He looked right at Charley, pawed the ground then bowed his neck.

  “Ho, now.” Charley waved his arms and stepped forward. Sir Lexington snorted again, threw his head one way then the other, and whinnied to the ceiling.

  Looking again at Charley, his nostrils flared, then the magnificent animal turned and trotted to the corral, high stepping the whole way, his long mane and tail flying.

  Marah left the stall opened and followed the stallion to the paddock. After closing the animal’s stall gate, she faced Charley, grinning like she and her horse had just won something. “Soft rope you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Longest you’ve got.”

  Marah returned with the rope then caught up with the Texan at the barn’s end. “Be careful, now. He’ll hurt you.” No need to mention how many men she’d hired to break the horse. What a lie. This man—if he was from Texas—hadn’t spent a day with the Comanche, much less his first four years.

  He too
k the rope. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ma’am me, I’m not that much older than you.”

  He only grinned. She kept her smirk on purpose and held his eyes until he turned toward Lexi. She liked it that he didn’t talk a lot. And he worked hard, but he wasn’t fooling her.

  This guy was most certainly not May Meriwether’s nephew. He might pull the wool over her mother, but fictional characters were just that. They didn’t live and breathe, no matter how well the author made it seem so.

  He walked to the center of the corral, gathering the rope in loops then threw it at Lexi, keeping hold of his end. The stallion jumped then trotted along the fence, keeping an eye on Charley.

  Round and round he went with the man making tight circles in the center, always facing the horse.

  After each toss, the Texan gathered the rope again, turning slowly, keeping his shoulders square to the horse. Twenty or thirty minutes he ran poor Lexi. Then abruptly, the cowboy stopped and turned his back on the stallion.

  Lexi stopped as well.

  To her amazement, her big brat walked right up to the man. If the idiot couldn’t heed her warning, he deserved to get bit. But instead of taking a hunk out of his backside, Lexi nudged Charley with his nose.

  She’d never seen anything like it.

  The man backed up and laid the rope over the horse’s neck. He didn’t bolt or anything, just stood there watching the fellow. Then as though Lexi was some plow horse, he looped the rope over his nose, tying it into a halter.

  How in the blue blazes?

  He led Lexi over to where she stood on the other side of the fence. “Now we have two choices.”

  She waited, but he didn’t finish. The guy certainly knew how to get her goat. “Well? What are they?”

  “I ride him here, or we take him to the creek…and you ride him.”

  “Why the creek?”

  “He can’t buck chest deep in water, and there’s not much chance of him hurting himself or you.”