Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry)

by Caroline Friday

  But we must, something inside of him said. We must.

  The barn door creaked open and Tom barked a few orders as Billy returned Miss Majestic to her stall. “How’s the patient?” he asked, leaning over the railing and smiling down at Ben.

  “Much better,” Angelina stammered, wiping her cheeks with her hands and quickly grabbing her shovel.

  Tom smiled and gave Ben a wink. “Nothin’ like a woman’s touch.”

  “Tom, really,” she scolded, her face flushing, “stop talking nonsense. Ben needs his rest, and we’ve got a lot of work to do. You said you were gonna help me with that fence, remember?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.” He winked at Ben again, and then the two of them were gone.

  The barn was silent once more, except for the chewing of hay and the occasional neigh and stomp of a horse hoof. For a moment, Ben forgot about the pain in his ribs, leg, and heart. For the first time since the accident, hope rose up within him, giving him strength and courage. He would have his father’s land—and Angelina. Somehow, they would both be his. I’ll never give up, he thought, imagining losing himself in the soft hollow of her throat. Never.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Careful, careful,” Tom said as Ben tried to hoist himself onto the back of Midnight Storm. It had been two weeks since the attack, and he was finally ready to ride on his own again, despite what the doctor said.

  Angelina held her breath and silently prayed that Mitchell and Billy would keep a firm hold on the stallion while Tom gave instruction. Keeping a careful distance on Eagle’s Wing, she gently fingered the diamond ring that was buried deep in her skirt pocket. She didn’t dare leave it in her bedroom, since Ella’s watchful eyes would surely find it in no time. No one knew about Edward’s offer, and she aimed to keep it that way. Of course, she had no intention of accepting him, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt matters at all. It gave her time to figure out how she could get her hands on Ben’s land—and keep it away from Isabella. She had approached Isaac several times, hoping he would agree to sell her the Smith Farm if he purchased it from Edward, but he refused. He wouldn’t even acknowledge his arrangement with Edward, but intimated that if he did buy the land, he was set on keeping it for his own purposes. Angelina didn’t like the way he had spoken to her with his sly smile and clandestine words. For the first time ever, Angelina had a bad taste in her mouth for Isaac Richardson.

  After a few failed attempts, Ben successfully swung his wounded leg over Midnight Storm’s back and eased into the seat. Angelina let out a deep exhale and clapped her hands, congratulating him. He grimaced only once that she could tell, but she knew he was putting up a good front. Even though his leg was healing nicely, it was still swollen and sore and had to be treated with care.

  A light breeze blew across the field and stirred the leaves in the surrounding trees, reminding Angelina of their old oak tree. A strand of hair swept across her lips, and her mind whisked her back to the cool, mossy ground where Ben had whispered in her ear and kissed her face and hair. Since that day in the barn, they had spent every afternoon together, either under the tree, with the horses, riding into town in the buggy, or having a meal at the Blue Ridge Hotel. Isaac come to call several times, and Isabella dropped in for a few flirtatious moments, but Ben never once mentioned an offer to work at Middleton, his daddy’s farm, or the Carolina Challenge. And there was no talk of Edward. Her head told her Ben had decided to stay on at Fairington and abandon the idea of pursuing his family home, but her heart told her something different.

  Angelina shoved the ring further down into the folds of her pocket, trying to figure out what Ben was thinking. Many times, she wanted to ask, but the fear of what he might say stopped her. For all she knew, he was planning to race in the Challenge after all—he hadn’t withdrawn his entry, and he hadn’t said a word to Edward about bowing out of their wager. Even though it seemed impossible for him to compete, there was a look in his eye on occasion that betrayed his thoughts. It was the same look she had seen the night he confronted Edward at the engagement party. She didn’t know what she would do if he decided to race after all. Edward would beat him for sure, and Ben would have to leave Laurel Grove forever. Angelina chewed on her lip, chasing the thought away. That can never happen, Lord, she said to herself.

  Mitchell and Billy stepped away from Midnight Storm as Ben settled into the saddle. “Go real easy, now,” Tom said. “Nice and gentle.”

  “Feels good,” Ben replied.

  “Let’s take a little walk ’round the ring and see how he does.” Tom and the other men moved to the railing and waited to see how the stallion would react. To Angelina’s surprise, it remained calm and compliant, with its head hung low, not acting the least bit feisty or rebellious. Ben clicked his tongue, and they took off at a nice, brisk walk. After one lap around the ring, Tom asked, “How’s the leg feel?”

  “Sore, but all right.”

  As he walked past the men again, Angelina heard Billy say, “beauty” and Mitchell murmur “fine lookin’.” She smiled in agreement. The horse was gorgeous, with its sleek, dark coat and four white socks. No one really knew what it was able to do in the field, since it was so strong-willed, but Angelina was convinced Ben would soon discover its true talent.

  Tom shoved his hat to the back of his head and squinted into the sun. “Wanna give a little squeeze, see what he’ll do?”

  As soon as these words left Tom’s lips, Ben and Midnight Storm slid into a slow trot. “Easy now,” Tom called through the cloud of dust that billowed around them.

  A lump rose in Angelina’s throat as the stallion’s pace quickened even more. Eagle’s Wing snorted and tossed its head, sensing something was about to happen.

  “Ben,” Tom warned.

  But the look on Ben’s face said he wasn’t listening. Suddenly, he kicked Midnight Storm in the sides and dug into the saddle, cantering around and around the ring, until he turned the stallion and headed straight for the fence railing. “Oh, God, no,” Angelina whispered to herself. With a loud yelp, Ben sailed over the fence, taking off into the open fields. She let out a long breath, feeling the adrenaline rush down into her fingers and toes.

  “That boy—” Tom jerked his hat off his head and smacked it against his leg. “You get back here!” he yelled. “BEN!”

  Angelina couldn’t help but giggle at Tom’s frustration. He should’ve known Ben would try something like this. They all should have. “I’ll go!” she called, trying not to laugh at Billy’s bewildered expression. “And don’t worry, I’ll have him back by sundown!” Then clicking her tongue, she signaled Eagle’s Wing, and they galloped away after Midnight Storm.

  Ben tried to relax his leg and move with the motion of the stallion, but the pain was still in his hip and side. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself as a young boy, riding bareback with arms spread wide and swaying in rhythm to the horse’s long strides. He breathed deeply, ignoring the stab in his ribs, and took in the fresh wind that whipped across his face and neck, slinging his long, dark hair across his chest and shoulders. It was moments like these that made him proud of his heritage, proud of the mighty men who were his Cherokee ancestors—his forefathers of old who rode wild horses without saddle or restraint. Men who weren’t afraid of anything.

  The sun warmed his body, despite the wind, causing the sweat to trickle down the middle of his back and evaporate into the waist of his trousers. Summer was approaching and the days were long and hot. A fleeting image of his Uncle Bear Claw came to mind, of him riding bare-chested even into his old age, with long, gray hair trailing down his back, not caring what anyone thought. Ben smiled and grabbed the opening in his shirt where the buttons were missing and yanked, ripping the shirt into two pieces. He let out a Cherokee yell and the pieces flew up into the air, fluttering away like two doves on their way to Heaven. Immediately, the pain in his side subsided, and he felt like his old self again—strong and free.

  He thought he heard a voice behind him, but he didn�
�t turn around. He wasn’t ready to hear a reprimand from Tom or Angelina. Instead, he gave Midnight Storm a squeeze with his good leg and raced even faster through the forest trail, which led toward Palmetto Ridge. Fear played tricks with his mind, as he imagined dark, lurking figures leaping out of the shadows to bite and attack. His right hand drifted down to his thigh where he kept his flint blade tucked away. He had already decided—if he ever saw that mountain lion again, he was going to kill it.

  As Midnight Storm barreled through the thick trees, the Old McNair Cemetery came into view from the edge of the woods. It belonged to Angelina’s family and had just a few graves under a row of live oaks, Angelina’s mama and daddy included. Ben remembered seeing her praying there for hours with her face to the ground, and on occasion, Tom, kneeling in the dirt with his head bowed. Under an oak tree nearby was a small, white wooden cross surrounded by a mound of freshly dug earth. A wave of peace welled up inside of Ben at the sight of a pair of red cardinals flitting through the cemetery and then flying past the cross before disappearing into the sky. Despite the cruelty of death, God’s nature was still living, moving, and breathing all around him.

  As Ben approached the little cross, he pulled Midnight Storm to a halt and carefully dismounted. The ground was mossy and green, and the air was cool under the shade of the oaks. He slowly approached the grave and swallowed the rising lump in his throat. The memories of that day were overwhelming, and it took every ounce of his strength to push past them and kneel before the Lord. He rested his weight on his good knee, ignoring the pain that throbbed in his wounded leg. The cross was simple and crude, made of two pieces of wood nailed together and painted with whitewash. Carved in the middle was the name Mighty Wind, in neat lettering. Ben was sure Angelina had done the carving.

  Tears flowed down his cheeks as the emotions took over, shaking his body to the core. He remembered a dark, gangly colt born to his Uncle Bear Claw’s favorite mare, Calla Lily, and the late-night feedings and bareback rides through the woods, for hours it seemed. Ben felt his heart breaking. “Father,” he cried, “heal this—take this pain from me.” He pounded his chest with his fist and fell to the ground, smelling the rich soil that covered the mound of dirt heaped before him. “Help me, Father. I want to do things your way.” He closed his eyes and another image filtered through his mind like a waft of dark smoke—his mother screaming and then the face of Edward Millhouse. “No!” Ben cried, clawing the dirt. He promised her and the Lord he would never retaliate for what was done, but he couldn’t let it go—the memories wouldn’t leave him, despite his efforts to forget.

  The familiar taste of anger was in his mouth, hungering to take revenge. Every fiber in his being wanted to rise up and kill, urging him to reach for his flint knife and plunge it into the earth. “I won’t,” he moaned, as his hand moved to his side and his fingers ran along the smooth, wooden handle. “I won’t, Lord.” His fingers tightened into a fist and groped at the earth again. Suddenly, a peace washed over him, halting the tears and clearing his mind. He heard that same voice in his mind, the voice that had comforted him so many times before. It was still and small, almost a whisper. Those that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. Wait upon the Lord, wait upon the Lord . . .

  “Ben?” Angelina’s call resonated from somewhere behind him, silencing the voice. Slowly, he rose to his feet and brushed the dirt off his trousers and palms, not wanting to explain what had just happened. He limped over to Midnight Storm, ignoring Angelina as she stood at a distance by Eagle’s Wing, watching. Shoving his boot into the stirrup, he heaved himself into the saddle. “Stop,” she said, eyeing his wounded leg, “you’re doing too much.”

  The worry and concern in her eyes made Ben’s heart swell with longing. He looked away, not wanting his feelings for her to interfere with what he had to do. “That farm’s mine,” he said, focusing his gaze toward Palmetto Ridge. “And I’m going to get it back.” Then kicking Midnight Storm in the sides, he rode away toward home.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ben rode Midnight Storm along Palmetto Ridge toward the oak tree and guided the stallion down to the old farm house. Its crumbling appearance wasn’t as heart-wrenching as the first time he had seen it. The roof and porch needed serious repair, the entire exterior needed painting, and the gardens and grounds required weeding and replanting, not to mention the fences. In no time, I’ll have it back to full, working order, he thought. It was the interior that he hadn’t considered. Until now, he had shuddered to imagine what happened to all of his mother’s things. But today, he couldn’t avoid the truth. He had to see.

  Clicking his tongue, he steered Midnight Storm to the front porch where the new For Sale sign was posted on the door. The crude, black lettering resembled slithering serpents coiled and ready to strike. Instantly, the throbbing in Ben’s leg returned, warning him to proceed with caution. With a deep breath, he swung his good leg over the horse’s head and sat on the saddle for a moment, waiting for the pain to subside. He then slid down and stood on the parched ground, wincing in pain.

  Midnight Storm neighed and stomped its hoof. “Shh. Wait here,” Ben said, patting the stallion on its nose and tethering the reins to the porch railing. Isaac Richardson’s voice rang out loud and clear in his mind as he proceeded up the steps to the front door. “I’ll buy it for you, son, then you come work for me. We’ll work out a deal and you can buy it back, a little at a time.” Ben had thanked him for his generosity, but didn’t want to labor for another man to receive what was rightfully his. And besides, he knew what Isabella would expect from him.

  He reached for the door knob, feeling its coolness in his palm. A memory came flooding back of him disregarding his mother’s scolding while he ran inside the house with an empty bird’s nest he had discovered while playing in the woods. Closing his eyes, he turned the knob, but it held firm. He jiggled it and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. Peering through a clean patch on the front window, he saw his father’s faded wingback chair by the fireplace and his mother’s wooden settee on the opposite side. One of her patchwork pillows was slouched along one arm, as if she had been sitting there and had left the room for a moment. Ben noticed a square of faded blue floral material from one of her summer dresses and a patch of red gingham from his old bedroom curtains.

  The urge to get inside overpowered him, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking the window and climbing through. The still, small voice returned, warning him to wait. “I can’t, Lord,” he whispered. Gritting his teeth, he stared down the front door as though it was a formidable foe—as if it were Edward Millhouse himself. Then rushing forward, he kicked the For Sale sign with the heel of his boot, smashing the heads of those dark, slippery serpents. He forgot all about his wounded leg—for some reason, it felt as if it had been miraculously healed.

  Angelina shuddered to think what Edward would do at seeing Ben crash through the front door of the farmhouse. He can’t find out, she thought, wincing at the crack of wood and the pop of the front door slamming against the back wall. For weeks, she had succeeded at keeping Edward and Ben as far away from each other as possible and was intent on things staying that way.

  Nudging Eagle’s Wing forward, she trotted down the ridge toward the house, securing the gelding to a tree in the yard. She then made her way to the front porch, stroking Midnight Storm’s neck as she passed. The stallion snorted and swished its tail in response, which eased her nerves for a moment. Lord, help us, was all she could think to pray. The house was sure to be a mess after so many years of neglect.

  The front door was open, and she could hear Ben rummaging around inside. She had no idea of the reaction he was experiencing at seeing his old home, but she knew it must be emotional. It was obvious he was hurting, both physically and mentally, and she didn’t want to see him suffer any more. Why can’t he let all of this go? she wondered. Why can’t he let the past be? And yet there was a part of her that knew his pain. She couldn’t imagine seeing Fairington in such a
state.

  Setting her jaw, Angelina climbed the creaky, wooden porch steps and stepped through the doorway into the dark house. The air was musty and stale and there was a pale, gray coating of dust over all of the furnishings and the wooden floor. Cobwebs hung from every corner and a pile of dark rodent droppings blocked the doorway into the kitchen.

  “Ben?” she called. She waited for an answer, but there was only an eerie silence, followed by a scratching sound coming from upstairs. Angelina looked around, grieved at the sad state of the Smith home. She remembered how bright and cheery it had been when she was a girl, with his mother’s bold fabrics at the windows and on the chairs and tables. Angelina recalled a brightly painted bowl in the kitchen that always held a wide selection of apples from the garden outside, the smells of fresh vegetables cooking on the stove, and the dried flowers arranged in ceramic jugs and formed into pretty wreaths that adorned the walls. Angelina ran her finger along the edge of the pine dining room table, reliving a time the Smiths had invited her to dinner—it was stewed chicken and carrots with a wonderful spice that brought out the rich flavors of the meat. She had hoped to get the recipe from Ben’s mother one day.

  Angelina looked at her fingers, which were black with dirt. A face came to her memory, one that was dark and radiant with long, black hair like Ben’s. Falling Leaves. That was her name. She was lovely and sweet and often kissed Ben’s father on the mouth when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Angelina couldn’t recall the last time she had seen her parents touch in that way. Smiling, she remembered Mr. Smith and how he could tell the funniest jokes that would have everyone in stitches. Had Daddy ever made Mama laugh like that? Angelina wondered. She couldn’t remember, but recalled how Tom always had a way of making her mama chuckle.