Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry)

by Caroline Friday

  “What if it was?”

  Tom smiled extra big, revealing a set of pearly, white teeth which glowed against his dark skin. “I remember your pa, and your mama too. She was a good woman. You look like her in the eyes.”

  “Well, she’s dead now, sir.” A whoosh of anger crept up from the pit of Ben’s belly and spread out over his whole body.

  “I heard. And I’m sorry for your loss. I know she was done wrong before y’all left.”

  Ben nodded. “We were both done wrong. And I aim to make things right.”

  Tom stepped closer, almost too close for Ben’s comfort, and peered into his eyes. “You come here to cause trouble, boy?”

  “No, sir, not at all. Just wanna earn my keep and ride my horse. This here’s Mighty Wind.”

  “Huh,” Tom grunted again, turning his focus to the stallion. “Mighty fine’s what I say,” he murmured, eyeing the animal’s legs and haunches. “Mighty fine.”

  “I raised him myself, from a colt.”

  “You don’t say? Thinkin’ ’bout breedin’ him? Stud fees could bring you a pretty penny.”

  “We’ll see,” Ben said with a sly smile.

  “All right then, Ben Eagle-Smith. Your secret’s safe with me. For the time bein’,” Tom said with a wink, slapping him on the back. “Pay’s five dollars a week plus room and board, for you and the horse. That sound to your likin’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, come on, and I’ll show you ’round.”

  Ben tethered Mighty Wind to the hitching post and followed Tom toward the bunkhouse. “Supper’s at six sharp. And you don’t wanna be late. The missus has some kinda temper when her people’re late. ’Course you probably remember.”

  “I think I’ll be able to handle her.”

  “Careful,” Tom warned with a hard look Ben’s way. “She may be tough, but underneath it all, she’s as delicate as a flower, and I won’t have any of my men crushin’ her with a rebellious attitude. And that goes for you, too. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” After a moment, Tom’s expression softened to a smirk that worked its way across his face. “There’s gonna be some kinda fireworks when she sets eyes on you, that’s for sure. Some kinda,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, and she goes by Angelina now, but you better call her Miss Raeford. ’Course that’s ’bout to change. Gonna be Mrs. Millhouse soon.”

  “Millhouse—” Ben stopped in his tracks as a surge of heat coursed its way up to his throat. “As in Edward Millhouse?”

  “Yep. One and the same.”

  Angelina reached the barn and dismounted Eagle’s Wing. She removed the saddle and eased the bridle from the horse’s mouth, speaking softly. “Go on, boy. It’s such a beautiful evening. Go run free for a while. We’ll give you a good brush down after supper.” With a slap to the backside, the gelding trotted away into the open field, tossing its glossy mane.

  She returned the saddle and bridle to the tack room and made her way to the house, eager to wash up before sinking her teeth into a piece of Ella’s fried chicken. Her mind was already buttering a flakey, piping hot biscuit, when a creak from one of the porch rockers startled her as a tall, elegantly attired gentleman rose to his feet. “Angelina, darling.”

  “Edward!” she exclaimed, fighting the repulsion rising up from the pit of her stomach. “Why, you’re early.”

  “Never too early to see my angel,” he said in that slippery tone of his that made her cringe. He smiled, revealing a set of white, even teeth that seemed to disappear under his bushy moustache. Even though he looked strikingly handsome in his three-piece suit and shiny black boots, he reminded Angelina of the local undertaker preparing for a burial. That and his slicked-back sandy, brown hair made her forget all about Ella’s tasty fried chicken and biscuits.

  “I told you not to call me that name. I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Don’t I know,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist and breathing into her ear. “How was your ride?” He pulled her close, pressing his lean muscles against her side.

  “Edward,” she protested, trying to wiggle free.

  “What’s this? No proper greeting for your future husband?” He cupped her cheek in his palm and turned her face toward his. Angelina didn’t want to look at his sculpted features and smooth, tanned skin, but before she knew it, she was locked into the dead stare of his dark, brown eyes. His gaze flickered for a moment as a look of disapproval clouded his expression. “Darling—have you been crying?”

  “Of course not, it’s just the dust and flowers in the air.”

  “There you are,” Jessie scolded, opening the porch door in time for Angelina to nudge away from his grasp. “You should’ve told us you were gonna be gone so long,” she said, cutting a look Edward’s way.

  “Oh, Jessie, stop making such a fuss. Edward doesn’t mind, do you?” Angelina cozied up to him and batted her eyelashes, as if her previous indifference had been a misunderstanding. “Edward, dear, I don’t really feel up to supper tonight. This pollen has put me all in a frazzle.” She walked her fingers up the bottom of his waistcoat to his jacket lapel. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go lie down for a while.”

  “Well,” he said with that strange look in his eye that made her blush, “if you must—”

  “What?” Jessie chimed in. “Ella and I’ve been cookin’ all day!”

  “But I’m sure Jessie’ll be glad to dine with you, isn’t that right, Jessie?” Angelina asked, flashing a dimpled smile.

  Jessie’s dark eyes narrowed and her cheeks reddened to a deep rose. “No, I’m sure Edward would rather have his betrothed at the table—”

  “Well, fine then! I’ll see you two after a while.” Angelina planted a quick peck on Edward’s cheek and winked at Jessie before scooting into the house. “Have a pleasant supper.”

  Bounding up the staircase, Angelina scurried into her bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock. She held her breath and listened for Jessie’s footsteps, but there was no sound other than Ella rattling pots in the kitchen. “Thank goodness,” she mumbled, breathing a sigh of relief. Lord, how am I gonna stomach being married to that man?

  She checked her reflection in the mirror and gasped at what stared back at her. “Oh,” she fussed, inspecting her red, puffy eyes and the flushed cheeks stained with salty tear tracks. With a quick scrub with lavender soap and fresh water, she washed her face and neck and patted them dry. Next, she replaced her riding shirt with a freshly pressed cotton blouse adorned with lace and tiny pearl buttons and tucked it tightly into her riding skirt. “There,” she said, running a brush through her curls and pinching her cheeks for color. Much better.

  Angelina opened the bedroom door and stuck her head outside the corridor, hearing Edward’s low murmur mingle with Jessie’s girlish chatter. She crept down the back stairwell toward the kitchen, being careful to avoid the bottom step that squeaked like a frightened mouse caught in a trap. Just as she was about to slip outside to safety, Ella looked up from her hot skillet of fried chicken and frowned. Angelina slammed a forefinger to her lips, but Ella refused to play along. Shaking her head, she shoved a hand on her hip and said, “Child—you are too much. Just too much.”

  As if on cue, Edward’s ridiculous, bellowing laugh filtered into the kitchen, accompanying the sound of popping grease and sizzling meat. Angelina covered her mouth to stifle any remnants of a giggle, giving Ella an “I told you so” look, but Ella would have none of it tonight. With a snap of her fingers and a point to the door, she shooed Angelina out of the kitchen like she was exiling a stray dog.

  Angelina scurried to the bunkhouse where a bout of raw, male laughter filled the night air, so different from the raucous sound coming from Edward’s mouth. Tom and his trainers and riders—six of them in total—would be eating chicken and mashed potatoes with green beans and field peas. And no telling what Ella baked for dessert. A banana pudding, or maybe a peach cobbler, she thought.

 
The bunkhouse door opened with a prominent squeak as she entered the dimly lit room. Two rows of bunk beds bordered the opposite walls, and a large, rectangular table sat in the center of the room, anchored by eight wooden stools. At once, the laughter came to a halt as the men set their forks to their plates with loud clinks and rose to their feet. “Evening, gentlemen.”

  “Evening, Miss Raeford,” Tom said. “You wanna take a seat?” He pulled an empty stool from the head of the table and nudged it toward her with the toe of his boot.

  “Thank you, Tom. Don’t mind if I do.” She nestled into her seat and they did likewise, but without a word. “There’s no reason to go all quiet because of me,” Angelina said, taking a look around the crude, wooden table. Wade and Stevie, two of the older trainers, sat across from Mitchell and Billy, the younger men who groomed the horses and kept them tacked and ready to train. And then there was the new man who sat at the end of the table—a native Indian with his head bent over his plate. Angelina eyed him a moment, trying to get a good look at his face. “Tom, Wade, you boys can go on and finish eating while it’s hot. No sense in you letting Ella’s good cooking go cold on account of me.” She chuckled, but no one else laughed. “Y’all save me a piece of chicken?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wade replied. “A drumstick. Just what you like.”

  “Mmm.” She grabbed the end of the chicken leg and bit into the meat, letting the flavors coat the inside of her mouth as she chewed. “I’d say Ella out did herself tonight. Whadda y’all think?” Again, silence prevailed, which gave Angelina pause. She noticed Tom and Wade cut their eyes over to the end of the table where the Indian sat. “What’s the matter with y’all? Cat got your tongue because of a new boy come to work for us?”

  “I’m not a boy, ma’am,” the Indian man said calmly, refusing to look her way.

  “Excuse me?” Angelina asked, her face flushing. “I call all my workers boys, don’t I, Tom? Always have. You’re my boys while you work for Fairington. I take care of my own. And if you have a problem with that—”

  “Ma’am?” Tom said gently, patting the top of her hand with his palm. “Miss Raeford? It’s his first night.”

  She hesitated, reading Tom’s expression, but she wasn’t in the mood to be dictated to. “Yes, well—perhaps we need to be properly introduced so he can learn how we do things around here, hmm?” Tom gave her a strange look she didn’t like one bit, but she chose to ignore him, focusing her attention on the Indian man. “Sir? You there—yes, what is your name? Tell us so we can all hear.”

  The Indian man set his fork down on his plate and stared straight ahead a moment before answering. “Name’s Ben, ma’am.”

  “Ben?” Panic prickled Angelina’s cheeks and swooped down the length of both arms, making her gulp hard. “Ben what?” she asked, noting the shrillness that crept into her voice. Silence reigned again, prompting her to abruptly stand so that her stool scraped against the wooden floor. “Won’t you look at me when you speak?”

  “Miss Raeford,” Tom pleaded.

  She shoved Tom’s hand away and approached the Indian man, noticing the strength in his back and shoulders and the sinews in his arms that protruded below his shirt sleeves. He was young, about her age, and his skin was a dark, golden brown, but not quite as brown as Tom’s. He stared at his plate with his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists. Angelina got a good look at his profile and noticed the planes of his cheeks and the beads of sweat that sprang up on his brow. As she drew nearer, her heart beat wildly in her chest, making her light-headed. His hair was long and black, as shiny as raven feathers, and was pulled back into a loose ponytail. She remembered that hair, she did—and its silky feel. Without realizing it, her fingers reached out to touch it, slowly and gently, when the sound of rumbling echoed in the distance, followed by the ping of raindrops hitting the roof.

  “Oh!” Angelina jerked her head toward Tom, her eyes wide with panic. “Eagle’s Wing—I left him out in the field.”

  “I’ll get right to it, ma’am,” Tom said, slamming his hat on his head and bolting out the door.

  In a few moments, the pings turned to loud, torrential splats of rain, making Angelina forget all about the Indian man. “Eagle’s Wing!” she yelled, hurrying outside into the wind and flashes of lightning. In the distance, she could see Tom wandering further into the pasture, calling for the gelding. A neighing sound echoed in the night, sending fear up into her throat. “Tom! It’s Eagle’s Wing!” She raced to where Tom stood and clutched his arm while the sky drenched them with cold rain. “Tom, do something!”

  “It’ll be all right, Miss Raeford!” he yelled back. “Trust me. He’s gonna be fine.”

  Suddenly, a stallion and its rider erupted out of the barn and galloped into the open field, disappearing into storm. Lightning struck again, illuminating the sky and the ground below. “I can’t wait here any longer!” she said, running through the field after the rider. After a few paces, she stopped and peered into the distance, seeing the outline of the Indian man on the stallion pulling Eagle’s Wing behind.

  As he approached, his dark, shiny eyes stared at her, and she gasped, feeling her soul drawn into his gaze. “Here’s your horse, ma’am,” he said, handing her the lead. When he leaned forward in the saddle, heat rushed through her heart, as if lightning had struck again. She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.

  “We thank you!” Tom said, grabbing Eagle’s Wing. “Come on, boys, let’s get the horses inside before they catch their death! And that goes for you too, Miss Raeford!” Angelina nodded, still staring into those dark eyes. Ben tipped his drenched hat toward her and followed the other men to the barn. She stood in the wind and mud, watching him ride his stallion through the sheets of driving rain—hoping he would turn around and look at her, just once. But he didn’t.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ben lay on his bunk, staring at the wooden ceiling and listening to the rain pound the roof of the bunkhouse. His tan chambray shirt was strewn across the end of the bed, drying by the heat of the fire, while his hair and trousers remained soaking wet, sending an occasional chill over his body. But he didn’t care. He had seen her again, after all these years, and she was lovelier than he imagined. Closing his eyes, he tried to drift off to sleep, but his mind was haunted by the image of a pair of blue eyes, thick blonde curls, and a porcelain white neck drenched in rainwater that extended down into the hollow of a graceful throat.

  A litany of snores from the other men filled the room, ruining Ben’s image of Angelina. He sighed and kicked at the covers. There was no point trying to sleep now. He was up, regardless of the hour. I’ll see what Mighty Wind’s doing.

  The rain had turned to a drizzle, but the ground was covered in mud puddles that surrounded the bunkhouse like a cluster of tiny lakes. Ben splashed through a deep pool, dousing his boots as he made his way to the barn. A chill rippled through him as the distant scream of a mountain lion blended with the creak of the door, prompting several neighs from a brown filly named Miss Majestic and a gray mare named Full Moon.

  Quietly, he made his way to the back of the barn where Mighty Wind was kept away from the other thoroughbreds. The stallion was a tough horse to handle, as most stallions were, but not when Ben was in control. For some reason, Mighty Wind settled down and became as gentle as a lamb in his presence. The Cherokee called it a gift from the Creator, but Ben knew it was something more. Somehow God would use his knowledge and ability with horses to glorify Himself. Ben didn’t know how, but he knew it to be true.

  Ben approached Mighty Wind’s stall, and the horse responded by shifting on its hooves and nuzzling its nose against his palm. “Hey there, fella,” he whispered. “Can’t sleep, either, huh? Exciting night, saving that gelding from a storm. You’re a real hero, you know that? Not afraid of nothing are you?” Mighty Wind tossed its head and snorted, looking for a treat. Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out two sugar cubes which disappeared into the stallion’s mouth. “You think y
ou can get used to living around here, huh? You gotta be friendly. There’s a pretty little mare down at the end, a spunky one, the way you like ’em. Yeah.” The horse nuzzled his chest and face, looking for another treat. Ben laughed as he dug into his pocket and pulled out two more sugar cubes. “That’s all I’ve got. Gonna have to wait till morning.”

  The barn door creaked open, and a light appeared in the darkness from a low swinging lantern. Instinct kicked in, and Ben leapt over the stall, hunkering down into the hay by Mighty Wind. The horse stamped its hooves and swished its long tail, smacking him in the face. Grimacing, he turned away as the tail rose toward the ceiling and something smelly plopped near his feet. He held his breath, trying not to inhale the stench, and listened to the whispers coming from across the barn.

  “Yes, sweet darling. Were you scared being out in that storm? Oh, yes, I know you were, Sweetie. You were, yes. Ahh, but Mama’s here now and everything’s gonna be fine. Shhh. Yes, Mama’s sorry. Yes. Mama is sorry.”

  Ben snickered, dodging another powerful swish of Mighty Wind’s tail. The whispering stopped and Angelina called out, “Who’s there?” Ben bit his lip and waited, hearing the cock of a shotgun. “You better show yourself. I mean it, I’ve got a gun and it’s loaded,” she said, speaking in a stern but shaky voice. “And I’m not afraid to use it.” A snap near Mighty Wind’s stall sent a shiver up Ben’s spine. Knowing Angelina, she’d shoot first and ask questions later.

  As the barrel of the shotgun slid across the door of the stall, Ben called out, “It’s me. Ben.”

  “Ben?” Angelina’s face appeared above the barrel of the shotgun. “What are you doing creeping around in the middle of the night?”

  “Probably the same reason as you. Can’t sleep. Got a lot on my mind,” he replied. “You gonna shoot me or you gonna put that gun away?”