To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  And she determined again not to let that happen to Linden Downs.

  Movement from beyond the open barn doorway caught her attention, and Maggie looked up. A sigh of relief escaped. “Finally . . .”

  It was Willie, still some distance away. And bless the boy’s heart, he was running full out. He probably felt bad about being late and was—

  Maggie stilled, squinting, certain that what she thought she saw couldn’t be.

  But as Willie came closer, the tears streaking his face came into focus, as did the blood soaking his shirt and trousers.

  Chapter

  THREE

  Willie!” Maggie called, running to meet him, her father following with Bucket at his heels. “What happened? Are you all right?” She knelt by the corral and touched the boy’s head then inspected his face, neck, chest. His breath came staggered. No cuts, no injuries that she could see. Yet blood stained his shirt and pants.

  Her father knelt beside them, his breath almost as labored as the boy’s.

  “They kilt—” Willie hiccuped a sob, fear in his eyes. “They kilt him, Miss Maggie. Strung him up.” He bit his lower lip, but a cry still slipped past. “Right there . . . in front of the shanties.”

  “Who, Willie?” Maggie’s voice came out firm, steeled with fear over how the boy might respond. “Who was killed?”

  “M-Mister Rawl . . . Man who lived next door to us.” Willie shuddered. “They beat my pa, too, when he tried to stop ’em. Beat him bad.”

  Maggie’s father slipped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Who did this, Willie? Do you know?”

  The boy shook his head. “Ain’t got no names. Their heads, they was covered up like ghosts. Mama say Missus Rawl kept screamin’.” He closed his eyes as though trying to block out the memory. “Her husband was just hangin’ there. Swingin’ back and forth.”

  Maggie cradled his cheek in her palm, and Willie’s thin shoulders shook.

  “When did this happen?” her father asked, the quiet of his voice belying the anger in his expression.

  “Early this mornin’, sir. I weren’t there. I’s gone to the store.” Willie drew back, his lips trembling. “To spend the pay you give me last night, Miss Maggie. I’s buyin’ the things from Mama’s list. But then when I get home I saw—” His face crumpled again.

  “Come on into the house,” Maggie urged, rising. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

  Willie resisted. “No, Miss Maggie. I can’t. Mama says I got to get right back.” He looked first at her father then back at her. “We’s leavin’ here, ma’am.”

  The blow of his statement landed square in Maggie’s midsection. “What?” she whispered. “Leaving town?”

  “I’s sorry, ma’am. I am. But my mama says we done had enough of this. Papa said it too. Them men that did it—” Willie sniffed. “They said they’s comin’ back. They say this town don’t want us niggers livin’ here no more, Miss Maggie.”

  He looked up at her with eyes so full of innocence, yet tarnished by evil.

  Forcing herself to think of the boy and his family instead of her own situation and the fate of Linden Downs, Maggie felt a jab of shame that it took some effort. “When are you leaving, Willie?”

  He bowed his head. When he finally looked up, she saw the answer to her question.

  “If Papa’s able, they say we goin’ first thing come mornin’,” he whispered, as if saying it softly might ease the blow. “We headin’ north, ma’am. To some place called Chicago. Other families, they goin’ with us. I’s sorry, Miss Maggie.” He grimaced. “I don’t want to, but—”

  “Shhhh . . .” Seeing his renewed tears, she patted his back then let out a gasp as his thin arms came tight around her waist. She stared down, not knowing what to do. In the past year of working with Willie day in and day out, never once had she touched him. Nor he her. Not like this. And it felt . . . awkward, to say the least.

  Yet, hearing his sobs . . .

  Maggie gently cradled his head. “You have to do what’s right for your family, Willie,” she heard herself say. “Do what keeps you all safe.”

  Based on recent events—the burning of freedmen’s schools, the midnight raids on shanties huddled at the edge of town—keeping safe was becoming next to impossible. But this . . . in broad daylight. These acts of violence were growing bolder.

  Willie looked up. “Papa says we wouldn’t even have money to go if not for you payin’ me like you do, Miss Maggie.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on her. “Your parents want what’s best for you and your sisters.” She met her father’s gaze. “That’s what Mr. Linden and I want too.”

  Willie’s focus shifted from her to the stable then back again. Understanding his silent request, Maggie nodded, the scene he’d described still crowding her mind. The violence, the hatred.

  So much blood had already been spilled over this issue, and yet it only seemed to get worse. Brutality escalating to a degree that made her want to run at the merest mention of it, even as something deep inside her, something she couldn’t begin to understand, much less explain, demanded that she not.

  She looked over at her father to find him kneeling beside Bucket, staring out across the land as though taking it in for the very last time.

  Which, she guessed, was close to the truth.

  Passing the entrance to the farm, the last on his list, Cullen glanced at the modest wooden shingle that at one time had likely borne the name of the estate. The rocks from the limestone walls that had once bordered the property, so common in this countryside, lay in ruins in the dirt, weeds long since having made their home in the cracks and crevices.

  On a whim he nudged the Percheron off the main road, deciding he wanted to see the land before the house or anything else. Although he doubted this meeting would prove any more successful than the two he’d just come from.

  As it turned out, the properties he’d visited earlier—properties listed as being for sale in that very morning’s paper—were apparently not available after all. He gave a sharp exhale, knowing what each owner had meant when they’d told him, “I’ve decided not to sell.”

  They just wouldn’t sell to him.

  Wondering if he would have to move on after all, to find land in another area, he continued across the grassy meadow until he happened upon a well-worn path tucked alongside a creek. It seemed to beckon, and he nudged the Percheron to follow.

  The fine animal needed a name. Goliath was out of the running, to be sure, not only because of what had happened in town earlier but because Cullen knew the fate of one certain giant who’d borne that moniker. Defeated by a mere lad, and with a slingshot and stone, no less.

  No, this kingly beast deserved a nobler name.

  The beauty of the woods—the canopies of oak and pine stretching overhead, the sunlight sneaking past poplars and maples, the trickle of water over smooth rock—was intoxicating and formed a perfect accompaniment to the quiet of late afternoon.

  I have read of a place called Tennessee, Cullen. In the New World. They say its hills are as green as those of home.

  Cullen’s grip tightened on the reins. It had been Moira’s dream to come here, not his. She’d spoken of it oft enough. But he’d told her time and again they could make a life together in England, despite the lack of welcome.

  When she finally stopped bringing it up in conversation, she began praying about it, which had worried him far more. Because once Moira McGrath began seeking the Father’s face on something, it was pretty much determined. In the end God had listened to his wife, and rightly so. For a godlier woman no man would find. Why she’d loved him, Cullen didn’t know. And hadn’t questioned. He’d just been grateful.

  But when the scandal had broken and Ethan fled, leaving him alone to give answer, Cullen finally listened to her, and they left.

  But he wondered . . .

  If he’d heeded her advice earlier, if they’d left England before all that happened, would she and Katie still be alive? Would God have st
ill exacted such a price?

  Up ahead the woods opened in welcome to another meadow, and through the filtered light Cullen spotted something. A man standing—nay, kneeling—beneath an ancient oak, a dog close beside.

  Cullen slowed the Percheron’s gait. Surprised to find someone out here, he squinted in the dappled sunlight, and that’s when he saw the graves.

  Seven in all, lined neatly in a row, rough-hewn wooden markers silently, boldly staking their victory.

  He reined in, no more than twenty feet away, watching.

  The man, his head bowed, shoulders stooped, never turned as he stood, moved a couple of steps, then knelt again, going from one grave to the next. The dog followed suit.

  Something about the man’s posture felt uncannily familiar, recalling the tang of salt in the air, the lap of angry waves against the hull of the ship, the heaviness in his own chest. Shaking off the memory, Cullen held the reins taut, not wanting to intrude on the moment but unable to continue on.

  Finally the man rose then went perfectly still, his gaze warily fixed in Cullen’s direction.

  Cullen urged the horse forward then dismounted. “Good day to you, sir,” he said, taking a slow approach.

  The older gentleman—well into his sixties, Cullen guessed—gave the dog a pat on the head and whispered something to it, then gave the Percheron a thorough going-over before focusing on Cullen again. “For a moment there, I thought I was seeing Alexander the Great astride his magnificent Bucephalus.”

  The subtle humor in the man’s voice, combined with his deep Southern drawl, coaxed a smile from Cullen. “Not even close to the truth, sir. Just an Irishman enjoying your lovely woods.”

  “They are most certainly that.” The man peered up, his expression absent of judgment. “As my father always told anyone who would listen, that’s why he and my mother chose this land. And if you think this is pretty, you should see the meadows by the house. Or the bluff overlooking the river.” His humor faded. “In my estimation, it’s the finest acreage in all of Tennessee.”

  Cullen nodded, allowing for bias in the man’s opinion while also agreeing with his assessment. “It’s fine land, to be sure.”

  Gauging how to proceed, Cullen’s gaze fell upon the assembly of graves tucked beyond the seven he’d already seen, hidden from his earlier vantage point. The family cemetery. Beautiful setting, and neatly tended. Exactly what he would have chosen for Moira and Katie, if God had allowed him a choice.

  Feeling the man’s attention, he extended a hand. “Cullen McGrath is the name, sir.”

  The man’s grip was firm but lacked the strength Cullen suspected it once had.

  “Gilbert Linden, Mr. McGrath. Good to make your acquaintance.”

  “Fine to meet you, Mr. Linden. I’m sorry if I gave you a start just now.”

  The man shook his head. “That’s what I get for reading the classics before retiring. I see them in my dreams. Both sleeping and waking, apparently.”

  An educated man, Cullen noted, yet he tried not to attach too much hope to that fact.

  Mr. Linden gestured to the collie at his side. “This fine companion of mine is Bucket.”

  Bucket? Wondering at the name, Cullen leaned down, extended a closed hand, and let the dog sniff him. The collie’s brown eyes warmed, and the animal licked his hand. Mr. Linden chuckled, obviously pleased.

  Cullen took it as a good sign.

  “So tell me, Mr. McGrath . . . What is an Irishman such as yourself doing wandering my lovely woods?”

  No accusation weighted the question, only curiosity. “I was on my way to pay the owner of this farm a visit. Which, as it turns out . . .” He gestured then let the sentence fall away.

  Gilbert Linden said nothing, holding his gaze and proving himself a patient man, if not a bit intimidating, despite his standing a head shorter. Reminded Cullen of the way his grandfather used to look at him when the man knew he’d done something wrong.

  Quickly remembering how he’d found Mr. Linden, Cullen gestured to the graves, able now to read the names and dates carved into the various wooden markers. The marker farthest left bore the name Laurel Agnes Linden and the inscription Heart of my own heart carved beneath. Looking to the right, Cullen read six names, one after the other, all male, and all with various dates of birth.

  But four claimed the same month and year of passing. December 1864. “I’m so sorry for your losses, Mr. Linden.”

  Linden’s gaze trailed the grave sites. “Are you well acquainted with grief, Mr. McGrath?” he asked without looking back.

  So blunt a question, and intimate, from someone he didn’t know. Yet Cullen found himself responding. “Aye, sir, I am. Though . . . not as well as you.”

  Linden took in a breath, held it, then slowly exhaled, and Cullen would’ve sworn the woods around them did the same.

  “You’ve lost a child then?” Linden said softly.

  “Aye,” Cullen whispered.

  “A son?”

  The memory of Katie’s birth resurfaced, as did the first time she’d ever called him da, and it took Cullen a moment to find his voice. He shook his head. “My daughter was three. She died with her ma.”

  Seconds passed before the older man reached over and placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder.

  “I used to think the heart could be broken only once, Mr. McGrath, and that after that it would somehow be easier to bear life’s pains. But in truth, losing those you love is a little like falling on the same bruise over and over and over again.” Linden swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet. “The pain goes deeper each time. Deeper than you thought it could, and than you ever thought you could bear. And yet”—a flicker of light slipped in behind the sadness—“you can, and you do. And although life is never the same again, you find happiness again too. With the Lord’s mercy, of course.”

  Linden gave his shoulder a fatherly squeeze, but Cullen looked away.

  “You don’t believe in his mercy?”

  “I believe if he were as merciful as people said, he would answer a man’s humble question when asked.”

  Linden nodded slowly, regarding him. “He’s disappointed me on that count, too, son. Many a time.”

  Cullen looked back.

  “Don’t hear me saying the deficiency is with him, Mr. McGrath. But I do understand what it’s like to lay a petition before him only to have it ignored . . . time and again.” He looked back at the graves.

  The lamenting coo of a mourning dove floated toward them from deep within the dense woods.

  “And yet . . . you still choose to trust, sir.”

  The older man smiled. “Let’s just say that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that there’s always a conversation going on. It’s just me who’s sometimes stubborn of hearing.” His gaze lowered. “Either that or I simply don’t like the direction the conversation has taken.”

  With a somewhat sadder smile, Linden moved away.

  Cullen’s mind awash in memory, he looked again at the graves and felt a kinship with this man. But not of anything having to do with the Lord’s mercy.

  Eventually he lifted his face and saw Mr. Linden leaving, Bucket in tow. Then the man paused and looked back. Reading invitation in the gesture, Cullen followed, leading the horse behind him.

  He caught up easily and fell into step with the older man. “Mr. Linden, I have a question I’d like to—”

  “You’re here about the land.” Linden didn’t look at him when he spoke.

  “Aye, sir. I am.”

  “You read about the auction in the newspaper and figured you might come and offer me a deal beforehand. Hoping to get it at a greatly discounted price, would be my guess.”

  Cullen caught the first hint of displeasure in the man’s demeanor and felt the door of opportunity closing. “No, Mr. Linden, that’s not true at all. But I would appreciate the chance to talk with you about—”

  The crack of a whip followed by a primal scream tore Cullen’s focus from the man beside him, raisi
ng the hair on the back of his neck.

  On a road that ran alongside the meadow, two men flanked an enclosed wagon, yelling at each other and at whatever was inside. One of them brandished a whip. A ramp extended from the back of the conveyance, and Cullen had a good idea what the wagon held. Especially seeing the rectangular windows cut out along the top.

  The man with the whip cracked it again, and a second scream rent the air. The mares pulling the wagon tried to bolt, but the wheel brake canceled the effort.

  “Those foolish, ignorant—” Gilbert Linden firmed his mouth.

  But Cullen was already astride the Percheron.

  Chapter

  FOUR

  The Percheron ate up the distance like Leviathan slicing through the ocean waves. Cullen reined in at the road and dismounted, the horse’s massive hooves sending rocks and dust flying.

  The man wielding the whip raised it a third time, but Cullen plowed into him and sent him sprawling.

  The fellow looked up, his face going red. “What in the—”

  Cullen dragged him up by the collar and squeezed the man’s fist until he cried out and dropped the whip. Then Cullen brought him close. “Never use anythin’ on a horse you wouldn’t want used on yourself.”

  Cullen shoved him back hard then bent to retrieve the whip, sending the other man a look of warning. Apparently somewhat brighter than his partner, the second man backed away, hands raised in truce.

  “We was only tryin’ to get him out, mister. Somethin’ spooked him, and he keeps kickin’ the wall. General’s gonna have our hides if that horse is all cut up.”

  “If that horse is injured . . .” Out of breath, Gilbert Linden joined them, his face drained of color, and the collie, ever loyal, sticking close. “I’ll make certain he knows who’s at fault.”

  Cullen hesitated, concerned by the older man’s pallor. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Linden waved him off. “I’m fine. Just . . . a little winded, that’s all.”

  Not fully convinced, Cullen handed him the whip then moved around to the back of the wagon, careful to keep a safe distance from the ramp. One look inside told him he’d guessed correctly, but also told him the situation was worse than he’d thought.