by S. B. Moores
“Are you lost?” he asked. “We’re not often favored by the presence of a Whitfield on the modest Sterling farm.”
“No,” she said, as if she were considering the notion. “It seemed like a fine day for a walk, and this way seemed as good as any other.”
Justin had a fleeting image of Abigail as a farmer’s wife, his wife perhaps, delivering lunch. But she looked a bit out of place in the middle of the field. “Are you on a mission of mercy this morning?” he asked, gesturing at her basket.
“Yes, I guess I am,” she said. “How clever of you to notice.” She paused, as if in thought, then said, “Justin, I was wondering if you were intending to race this year.”
Since she had changed the subject, he realized she hadn’t brought the basket for him, but he understood that she was asking about the county fair horse race. He was rightfully proud of his family’s breeding operation, which won the annual contest on occasion, besting horses from far richer farms.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.
“I hear your friend Toby is going to enter this year, too,” she said seriously. “And I understand the Johnsons have a mare who’s never lost a race.”
Justin had heard this before, and he was more than a little irritated at all of the talk swirling around Toby’s unbeatable mount. Since the Johnsons had taken the horse to more profitable races in Tennessee and Kentucky, Justin had never competed with the storied animal.
“I thank you for the warning,” he said. “I guess we’ll see about Mr. Johnson’s mighty steed in a couple of months or so, eh?”
“It will be an interesting competition,” she said.
To his annoyance, he couldn’t tell who she’d favored, him or Toby, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the basket. “Is that why you came all the way out here?” he said. “To talk about the race? Aren’t you saving a poor field hand from dying of hunger?”
“Why yes. I am indeed.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Abigail Whitfield.” He almost reached for the basket.
“Yes, I suppose so, but it’s the least I could do for those poor men slaving away in my father’s fields. They work so hard.”
She had set him up for a joke. Justin’s smile vanished and he rolled his eyes.
“And I should be getting on to them,” she said. “It must be nearly noontime, and they’re liable to rise up and beat the foremen senseless if I don’t get this dinner to them quickly.”
“Oh, I understand. All too well.” He gave her a wry smile, conceding that she’d successfully kidded him.
“It’s been nice to see you, Justin Sterling. Good day.”
Justin’s mind reeled. What kind of woman would go so far out of her way to pull such a prank? He wiped his grimy face and gawked at Abby as she started walking away.
She took two steps and stopped.
“Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot.” She set the basket down, opened it, and withdrew a covered glass jar. It dripped wet and cooling with condensation. “I’ve had this quart of lemonade setting in the creek for an hour or so.” She walked back to him, took his hand, and placed it around the jar. Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I hope you like it.” She turned around, picked up her basket and walked away.
Justin stood there with the cold jar in his hand and shook his head in bewilderment as he watched her go. First she plays a cruel trick on him, then she kisses him. It was only a peck on the cheek, but he would like to have kissed her back if he wasn’t covered with dust and sweat. Still, that hadn’t stopped her. Maybe she’d planned the whole episode, knowing he was helpless to take advantage of her kiss. He marveled at her boldness. She was a mystery and a challenge at the same time, and everything about her drove him wild.
Then he looked at the jar in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He ripped off the cover and drank the cool, sweet liquid in a series of long quick gulps, not caring that some of it spilled onto his face and chest. When it was empty he tossed the jar aside and took one last look at Abigail. He turned and snatched up the reins of the oxen team. Raising them high, he slapped the animal’s backs and bellowed “Whaahoo!” at the top of his lungs.
Abigail smiled without turning around.
CHAPTER SEVEN
August 1833
Every young man a certain age in Ridgetop looked forward to competing in the annual county fair horse races. It was a chance to show the young, single ladies, not to mention the male competition, what kind of man you were. For Justin it was no different, although he wished to catch the eye of only one young lady, whom he was certain would be in the viewing stands, near the start and finish line. He hadn’t forgotten Abby’s love of horses, or her dream of raising them.
Racing at the county fair required a certain degree of riding skill, of course, but often much more than that. The signature competition of the fair was a free-for-all, point-to-point event that ran across fields and forest, over fences and around or through whatever obstacles might lie in the path of horse and rider. The distance of the race varied each year between two and four miles.
Because of the rough condition of the course, those who truly wanted to win needed a kind of determination and fearlessness not usually found in the casual rider. Indeed, the county officials who organized the race sometimes deliberately left a downed tree in the path of the riders, or routed the racecourse over a stream, which, depending on the amount of recent rain, might force riders to swim their horses.
Horse racing in Ridgetop County was more than a casual sport. It was a chance for the spectators to see what sort of stock the various farms in the region had to offer. Breeders would come from other parts of the state and from as far away as Kentucky to evaluate Ridgetop County stock. The area was known for above-average horses, and Justin understood this well. The Sterling farm wasn’t as well-known as others in the county and, for Justin, winning the race was a means of getting the recognition he thought his family’s stock deserved. It was the one way he could think of that might lift his family’s fortunes and provide them with a more comfortable living.
Justin dearly wanted to win the race to impress Abigail Whit-field, too. More than that, he wanted Henry Whitfield to take notice, so that someday he might give Justin a chance at winning Abby’s hand. It was just a dream but, when Justin considered it, he set his jaw and redoubled his race preparations.
It was not uncommon for neighbors to wager a friendly silver dollar or two on their horses as a matter of pride. But sometimes other, less reputable, characters attended the fair, hoping to make a more substantial investment in the outcome of the race. And so it was that Justin noticed two strangers as he cinched up his saddle. One man wore a brocade vest, visible beneath his top coat, and a high top hat. None of the local men, even those with means, would dress in so ostentatious a fashion. More likely the man came from Nashville or from as far away as Louisville.
Justin might have paid the man no more attention, but for the fact that he was talking to Tobias Johnson. The two of them stood at the edge of the barn with a third man, who also didn’t appear to be a local. The second stranger dressed more like a teamster or a longshoreman, and he wasn’t doing much talking. His tri-corner hat was worn at the edges and out of fashion. His simple woolen overalls had not recently been cleaned. His nose had been broken more than once, and one ear had cauliflowered like that of a man who’d spent time in the boxing ring, but hadn’t bettered his opponents. Justin wouldn’t have played cards with either man for more than matchsticks.
The three men were deep in discussion and, since they were at the far side of the barn, it looked as though they did not wish to be interrupted or even overheard. Justin went about his preparations, but Toby glanced in his direction once, apparently pointing him out to the other two men. Why he would do that, Justin had no idea.
Toby left the men after slapping the back of the man in the top hat. He walked past Justin toward his own horse.
“Making new friends?” Justin ask
ed, nodding in the direction of the strangers.
Toby glanced that way. “More like business acquaintances. They have an interest in racehorses and, as you know, the Johnson farm breeds the best.”
“I guess we’ll learn more about that today.” Justin checked his rigging one more time.
“That we will,” Toby said. “And good luck out there. You’ll need it.”
“You’ll need more luck than I if you don’t step lively. They call the next race in ten minutes.”
“Blast!” Toby whipped off his hat and ran to his horse’s stall.
Justin chuckled. He took his reins and walked the bay stallion out of the barn and into the bright noonday sun. His path took him past the two men who’d been talking to Toby moments earlier. The man in the top hat paid Justin little or no mind. His attention seemed fixed on Justin’s horse. The other man had no eye for horses. He saw only Justin, and his eyes narrowed when Justin met his gaze.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Justin said without breaking stride.
“Oh. Good day to you, too,” the man in the top hat said. He put two fingers on his hat’s brim in greeting. The other man kept his arms crossed and looked at Justin as if he’d insulted his mother. But he said nothing.
At the starting line, Justin mounted his bay. Other horses sidled back and forth, as nervous as their riders. A crowd had gathered, filling the small viewing stand and spilling along the first part of the course. Most people were there to cheer on one rider or another and talked up their chances. At the nearby fairgrounds a small brass band played “Blue Eye’d Mary,” and everyone was in high spirits. The competitors formed themselves in a crude row, side-by-side behind a rope stretched out on either side of the course, which acted as a starting line. But, at the appointed time, nothing happened. The starter, a man named Hawkins, looked from his watch to the county barn. Justin couldn’t tell what the trouble was until Toby rode up and took a position next to him.
“Good, I’ve made it,” Toby said.
“Not a moment to spare.” Rank had its privileges, Justin thought. Hawkins had waited for Toby to get ready.
The starting gun sounded and the rope dropped. Spectators cheered and the horses sprinted away with thundering hooves in a cloud of dust. Justin leaned forward, urging on his bay, but it seemed as though the sudden crack of the starter’s pistol had silenced every other sound and caused time to slow down nearly to a standstill. With his horse in mid-stride, he glanced over at the viewing stand. He hadn’t been able to pick out Abby’s face from the crowd earlier, but in that still, quiet moment he clearly saw her crimson hair, fair skin, and those green eyes, lustrous as a June bug’s wings, watching him. With her hands raised, her lips parted as she cheered. All the other faces in the sea of onlookers remained a blur. He smiled and looked ahead at the racecourse. Time sped up and the race resumed its chaotic, breakneck pace.
Riders whipped their mounts like they were chased by a tornado. In the confusion, men’s arms flailed, some slapping at the competitor next to them, accidentally or not. Not to be outdone, Tobias, too, laid on the whip. This year’s course was all of twenty furlongs, and Justin made no immediate attempt to take the lead. He intended to let the other riders confront the obstacles ahead of them first and tire their horses more quickly. Then, as the knot of contestants thinned out, they would be easier to pass.
Galloping steadily, Justin kept his gaze fixed on the flapping coattails of Tobias’s tweed riding jacket. Its distinctive checkered pattern stood out from the brown and gray leather outfits of the other competitors. In the long run, Toby was the one rider Justin needed to beat.
And Toby rode with abandon. He whipped his horse with more desperation than Justin thought necessary. Still, his Thoroughbred took the beating in stride, and its long legs inevitably pulled Toby toward the front of the jostling, colliding pack of riders. A great, gnarled oak tree marked the first half mile of the racecourse, and by the time the riders had reached it they’d become an uneven line, led by a small pack of contestants who traded off the lead. Toby rode near the front, Justin four lengths behind.
At the oak, the racecourse took a sharp right-hand turn. Such was the enthusiasm, confusion, and aggression of the lead riders that a number of them collided at the turn. Riders on the outside of the pack were pushed farther out, away from the best line. Several horses lost their stride completely and careened away into a fallow field. Cursing, their riders whipped them all the harder to regain their momentum and catch up. Toby’s horse was bumped by a rider on his right as he made the turn. His horse took a sideways leap, nearly throwing Toby off balance, but horse and rider quickly regained their composure and lost little time racing away from the turn.
Dodging sod thrown into the air by the horses’ hooves, Justin easily passed two slower riders and rounded the oak tree without incident. He’d brought himself one length closer to the group of front-runners, none of whom seemed capable of claiming the lead for very long. Several horses blocked Toby’s way on either side, preventing him from riding cleanly. Justin hoped to stay out of that melee until more horses tired and dropped back. The bay was cruising now, and so far Justin’s strategy appeared to be working.
At a mile and a half the riders were forced to jump a low, split-rail fence onto Jacob Russell’s property and then follow along the side of a creek. The first two riders cleared the fence together without trouble. The horse of the third rider balked, coming up short and failing to jump. The rider intended to backtrack and take another run at the fence, but he turned into Toby’s path and surprised Toby’s horse. The Thoroughbred was already in jumping stride when the head of the other rider’s horse struck it on the shoulder.
The collision was minor, but enough to cause Toby’s Thoroughbred to hesitate. It jumped short and struck the fence with both cannons. Toby came out of the saddle as horse and rider tumbled headfirst over the fence and collapsed on the far side. Seeing this, Justin stood in his stirrups and raised one hand overhead to warn the other riders. He reined the bay to a stop in front of the fence, opposite where Toby had fallen, and waved the other riders around. The other competitors had seen Toby fall or took Justin’s warning and jumped the fence away from the accident. The rider who initially failed to jump the fence cleared it on the second try and kept going. Toby lay still, facedown on the ground. The Thoroughbred whinnied in pain, clearly unable to rise. When all the riders had passed, Justin dismounted and leaped over the fence.
Toby had no visible injuries, except that his right leg was bent at an unnatural angle below the knee. His head was turned to one side. Justin placed his hand near Toby’s mouth. His friend was breathing but unconscious. Gingerly, Justin took Toby by the shoulders and turned him over on his left side, careful to keep any weight off the injured right leg. Toby had blood around his nose and a split lip. Except for that and the fact that Toby’s tweed jacket was covered with dust, his friend could have been napping.
“That was quite a tumble young Master Johnson took.” A farmer named Jenkins appeared at Justin’s shoulder. “How is he?”
“His leg is broken and his head may have concussed. I don’t know.”
“Aye, it’s not a compound fracture, but a bad break anyway.”
It would have to be set, but by the time a doctor arrived, Toby might be awake. Given the likely pain involved, Justin knew Toby would much prefer to be unconscious when the leg was manipulated. Justin had seen the procedure many times. He decided to do it then.
“Hold him by the shoulders,” Justin said. “I’ll set the leg.”
Jenkins sat down and cradled Toby’s head and shoulders in his lap. Once he had a strong grip, Justin slowly but firmly pulled Toby’s right leg and turned it back into line.
A deep moan escaped Toby’s lips.
“Better he should have a few bad dreams than feel that when he’s awake,” Jenkins said.
“Stay here. I’ll find something for a splint.”
Jenkins nodded. Justin ran to the creek a few yards aw
ay, where a stand of straight willows grew. He found two that looked the right size and snapped them off. Then he broke them again until he had two pieces almost two feet long. He laid the lengths of willow on either side of Toby’s leg. They were long enough to immobilize the leg as much as could be expected, and long enough to keep Toby from bending his knee.
Justin was removing his shirt and tearing it into strips he would use to tie the splint whenToby’s father, Thomas Johnson, arrived on horseback, along with Abby, Henry Whitfield, and several other men.
“Oh, it’s Toby!” Abby leaped from her horse and knelt by his still body. “Is he all right?” She put the palm of her hand on his cheek, and Justin felt vaguely jealous of her attention.
“I think he’s okay,” he said. “But for a busted leg. We won’t know more until he’s awake.”
“Yes. And thankfully I can see you’re not injured.” She allowed one short glance at his bare chest and looked back down at Toby. Justin’s skin tightened around his nipples. He felt fairly naked, kneeling next to Abigail with his shirt off.
“What’s happened?” Thomas demanded. “What have you done?”
Justin started to glare at Thomas but checked himself. The man assumed someone else was at fault, anyone but his fair-haired son. He ripped another strip of wool from his shirt and kept tying the willow strips to Toby’s leg.
“Tobias’s horse failed to clear the fence,” Jenkins said, getting to his feet.
“Impossible,” Thomas said. “It’s the finest horse in the county.”
“I saw it with my own eyes.” Jenkins looked at Thomas like he expected to be challenged.
“And you?” Thomas said to Justin. “What part did you play in this?”
“I’m playing the part of a doctor,” Justin said, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Someone should look to the horse.”
