She tried to imagine him as a boy of sixteen, and surprisingly, she could. Oddly enough, the image of Oak came to mind, and she realized with a start that Cullen McGrath was the same age Oak would have been, had he lived.
She glanced down at her grandmother’s ring on her left hand and could still picture it on her mother’s slender finger. Following the Linden family custom, this ring should’ve gone to Oak to give to his wife. It felt strange for it to end up being hers.
“I didn’t complete my studies.”
The flatness in his voice drew Maggie’s attention. The firm lines of his mouth told her he wasn’t proud of the fact, and she wondered why he’d told her.
“I told you I went to university, but . . . I don’t mean to give you the impression I finished. Because I didn’t.”
She looked at him for a moment. “What happened?”
He started to respond then glanced over. “I take it your father told you about my da?”
She frowned. “Your . . .”
“My father.”
The seriousness in his expression, coupled with his scrutiny, conspired to make her look away, especially when she remembered what she’d said about his family upbringing. But she didn’t.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “He did. He said your father was . . . a gambler, and . . .” She tried to remember Papa’s exact wording. “His overindulgence in the sport left a . . . bad mark on you.”
He laughed again, but it sounded different this time. “That’s an awfully pretty way to describe somethin’ so ugly, but I guess that about sums it up. He was partial to the bottle, too, which only made the gamblin’ worse. Or maybe it was the other way around. Hard to say, once things started careenin’ downhill as they did.”
Maggie opened her mouth to ask another question, then realized they were on the outskirts of town. Already carriages and pedestrians dotted the streets. So early. Her plan to escape the notice of acquaintances might prove more challenging than she thought.
Cullen brought the wagon to a stop outside the Tax and Title Office, and she wasted no time in climbing down of her own accord, acting as though she didn’t notice the irritated look he tossed her.
But when she reached for the handle to the front door, he beat her to it.
“Allow me,” he said softly, closer to her ear than etiquette allowed. Unless, of course, the man was her husband . . .
Wondering if the neatly scripted shingle above the door had caught his eye as it had hers, she preceded him inside. NO NIGGER OR IRISH NEED APPLY. She’d never liked those signs. And liked them even less now.
She hoped the entire office staff hadn’t arrived yet. There was one employee in particular she wished to avoid, and when she glanced at the manager’s office and discovered the curtains still drawn, she breathed a tentative sigh of relief.
The office brought to mind her father’s library—the distinct smell of dried ink on paper, perhaps, the collection of words aging with time.
“May I assist you?” The clerk, an older woman with silver sprinkled throughout her hair, rose from behind a desk, her spectacles resting half-mast and her smile doing much the same.
Maggie recalled having seen her before, but couldn’t remember her name.
Cullen stepped forward. “Aye, ma’am, you can. Thank you.”
The woman eyed him as he pulled a leather pouch from inside his shirt, her scrutiny accentuated by a furrowed brow.
Cullen produced a folded piece of paper from the pouch and presented it to her. “This explains our purpose here today.”
Maggie frowned as the woman accepted the document, wondering what it contained and more than a little bothered by Cullen’s use of our. More conscious of her mother’s ring on her left hand, she discreetly covered it with her right.
“Mmm hmm . . .” The woman pursed her lips as she read. She glanced up at Cullen before her gaze slid briefly to Maggie. “This addresses the Linden Downs property, Mr. . . .” She looked at the document again. “McGrath.”
“Aye, ma’am, it does.” Cullen nodded. “Mr. Gilbert Linden penned that in his own hand.”
Her father wrote it? It was all Maggie could do not to grab the piece of paper and read it for herself.
“And do you have the necessary funds with you, Mr. McGrath, to satisfy the outstanding debt? Because we don’t make loans to—”
“I do.” He touched the pouch. “So I won’t be requirin’ a loan.”
She looked from him back to the letter. “I’ll need to confirm that the amount listed is, indeed, the required sum. And that the signature for Mr. Linden agrees with the one on file.”
The woman’s gaze connected with Maggie’s again, and Maggie saw recognition this time. And something else.
“Miss Linden . . .” The woman nodded once. “Nice to see you again, miss. I trust your father is well?”
Certain she heard a question within a question, Maggie hesitated, intending to answer honestly, yet not wanting to say anything that might cross purposes with the reason for their visit. “Actually, my father’s constitution has weakened recently, which is why he’s not here himself today. He’d be the first to tell you he’s not as spry as he once was, as much as that annoys him.”
Compassion shadowed the clerk’s expression, followed by clarity. “A sentiment to which I can wholly relate, sad to say. Please give your father my best. Now if you’ll both wait here, I need to pull records from the back.”
As soon as the woman disappeared through the doorway, Maggie reached for the letter she’d left lying on the desk.
“Don’t trust me?” Cullen whispered.
“I never said that.”
“No . . . you didn’t. Say it, I mean.”
Determined not to take the bait this time, Maggie read the letter. Her father’s script, as familiar to her as her own, confirmed the missive’s authenticity. The message was brief and unequivocal.
All back taxes and loans owed by the property of Linden Downs will be paid in full by Cullen Michael McGrath. Therefore, with any and all outstanding debts satisfied, the property of Linden Downs as legally described below—including all livestock and horses—will be forthwith removed from scheduled auction and will, in turn, be assigned to its rightful possessor.
Carefully worded, the final sentence. It avoided stating outright who the owner would be, and Maggie wondered if her father had chosen that wording with intent. To delay the news from spreading around town, perhaps. She would remember to thank him.
The front door opened behind them and Maggie turned, bracing herself.
A man entered, about her age, and Maggie let out her breath. He nodded briefly in their direction as he shut the door behind him, and then walked to a desk in a far corner. Only then did she realize her stomach was in knots. The sooner this transaction was completed, the better.
“Here we are,” the woman said, returning. She smoothed a folded document out on the desk before them. “The amount listed here is what is due. So if you’ll present the full payment, Mr. McGrath, we’ll sign the papers and the debt will be satisfied.”
Cullen handed the woman a stack of bills, and she, in turn, counted them. Even though Maggie had never known a hungry day in her life, she’d never seen so much money in one place before. How did a man like Cullen McGrath have access to that amount of cash? She wished she’d thought to ask.
On second thought, she probably didn’t want to know.
“I’ll need to keep Mr. Linden’s letter and place it in the file. If you’ll sign here, Mr. McGrath”—the woman pointed—“and here, then we’ll be done.”
Feeling even more finality in the moment than she’d anticipated, Maggie sensed her world shift as Cullen signed the papers. She stared at the man beside her. A stranger. And yet . . . her husband.
For so long she’d tried to live right, to do as a God-fearing person should. And look where that had gotten her. Did God even see her anymore? Did he see her standing here now? Was this some kind of discipline, perhaps
, for her pushing her father, as she had, to pay the stud fee to breed their best mare with Vandal, a Belle Meade champion? Then to let her race Bourbon Belle?
Despite her mother’s adamant opinion to the contrary, Papa had told her she seemed born for riding. And for training horses. Granted, he’d added about the latter, Born a little before your time, perhaps.
Cullen McGrath chose that moment to look over at her, and she was certain she read triumph in his eyes. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
If he thought paying her family’s debt and signing that piece of paper gave him the right not only to own Linden Downs but to dictate her future, she knew a certain Irishman who was going to be very disappointed.
Because she would race Bourbon Belle in the Peyton Stakes come fall. And she would win. She just didn’t yet know quite how.
Chapter
ELEVEN
Once outside, Mr. McGrath assisted her into the wagon again, more delicately this time. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted toward them from the open door of a nearby bakery, making breakfast feel more distant than it actually was.
Aware of people watching them, and certain it wasn’t her imagination, Maggie spotted the sign for Miss Hattie’s Dress and Drapery Shop and again imagined crossing paths with Savannah while in Cullen McGrath’s company. Her body flushing hot, then cold, she attempted a casual tone.
“Where do you need to go in town this morning, Mr. McGrath?”
He released the wheel brake and urged the Percheron down the street. “To the saddlery, then to a feed store. I’d also like to stop by a bank, if the other errands don’t take too long.”
“I’m certain we can get it all done,” she said with more brightness than the moment called for.
The sideways look he gave her said he noticed it too.
From an alleyway, a freight wagon cut into their path, and Cullen reined in sharply, sending Maggie pitching forward. He stretched an arm out in front of her, catching her across the chest and pinning her back. Though the wagon bench had already felt crowded, Maggie learned a new meaning of closeness.
“Are you all right?” he asked after a few seconds.
She nodded, keeping her focus ahead, keenly aware of his touch. “Yes, I’m fine.”
He removed his arm and, once the traffic cleared, urged the horse onward. He’d meant nothing by the act, Maggie knew that. But her body was still reliving the moment.
Needing space between them, and trying to avoid the stares from passersby on the street, she saw the opportunity she’d been waiting for. “If you’ll stop up ahead, I’ll get out there.”
He glanced over. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll do my shopping and then meet you back here. That way I won’t slow you down, and we’ll finish faster.”
He shook his head. “I’m in no hurry, Miss Linden. And Mulholland’s Mercantile isn’t that far from the saddlery, which is where I need to—”
“It’s no bother. Really.” She gathered her skirt and climbed down before he’d even brought the wagon to a full stop. Growing up with four older brothers had allowed her to hone her agility. She smiled up, her face feeling tight. “I’ll meet you back here in . . . two hours?”
He said nothing, only stared at her, and she sensed he knew exactly what she was doing. His gaze went dull, then dark. A stab of guilt made the moment even more uncomfortable. But what did he expect her to do? Just arrive in town on an Irishman’s arm and wave to all of her friends? And she the daughter of one of the founding families of Nashville?
What she’d been through in recent years had beaten her down. More than she’d realized. First, losing her family, save her father. Then the slow decline of Linden Downs. Losing one’s place in society, one’s station in life, was hard enough. But to do it with everyone watching . . .
Then came Bourbon Belle, and the dream of keeping their home had been given new life. Only to be snuffed out before it even had a—
He snapped the reins. “I’ll see you in two hours.”
The wagon pulled away and she watched Cullen go, his broad shoulders rigid. Standing there in the aftermath, she felt smaller somehow. Which only encouraged her to stand straighter. He simply didn’t understand. How could he? They were from different worlds.
She removed her mother’s ring and slipped it into her skirt pocket, determined to get her shopping done, then bide her time somewhere inconspicuous until he returned. She waited until he maneuvered the wagon around the corner before continuing down the street. But she needn’t have bothered, because he never looked back.
She was so different from Moira.
Moira had been closer to his age; Margaret Linden was considerably younger. Moira had been gentle, loving, and wise; Miss Linden was sharp, antagonistic, and impatient. Even as the comparisons fought their way to the forefront of his thoughts, Cullen attempted to subdue them, knowing they wouldn’t help his present situation.
Still, Miss Linden’s opinion of him was undeniable: the woman barely tolerated him. When instinct kicked in moments earlier and he reached out to assure her safety . . . Well, her displeasure had been nearly as palpable as had been his instinctive gesture. Aye, the woman was petite, no doubt about it. But she was still woman through and through. However, best he not dwell on that for the moment. He was far from winning her over, as her father had kindly challenged, but he was still determined to do so.
After all, she didn’t know him well enough yet to know she didn’t like him. That would take at least a month. Maybe two.
For some reason, that thought made him smile.
Two hours later, after accomplishing everything he’d intended—with plenty of the backlash he’d incurred before from proprietors—he arrived back at the spot where Miss Linden had all but leapt from the wagon. Yet he saw no sign of her. The image of her climbing down filled his mind’s eye again. That the woman had been raised with four older brothers was obvious. But to accomplish the feat with such finesse in a skirt!
He might have been impressed if he hadn’t been so frustrated with her.
The streets were busy, and he waited for a carriage and freight wagon to pass before managing to pull the wagon off to the side and set the brake. That’s when he saw her standing down the street, past the Tax and Title Office and near the corner in front of some boarded-up shops. He wasn’t blind. He knew she didn’t want to be seen with him. But as he climbed down to go fetch her, that was the least of his concerns.
He knew the moment she spotted him because she glanced about, presumably to see if anyone she knew was around. Which only made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to the wagon. Not a bad idea altogether, nor an unpleasant one. But he doubted it would help his cause.
“Miss Linden.” He resisted the urge to offer her his arm. “Are you ready?”
She peered past him. “Where’s the wagon?”
“I left it up the street a ways. Where you . . . liberated yourself from the wagon earlier and instructed me to pick you up.”
Her lips firmed. “I simply decided to walk, and I ended up here.”
He nodded, not buying it. Seeing two parcels at her feet, he bent to retrieve them.
“I can carry them.” She managed to grasp one before he did, then reached out to take the other.
He pulled it back. “I don’t mind helpin’ you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. McGrath. But I don’t require your help.”
The syrupy sweetness of her tone curdled beneath his skin. “You’re doin’ it again.”
She peered up.
“That polite meanness you’re so good at.”
Her eyes darkened. “Well, if you would simply obey my wishes and let me carry my own—”
He let the parcel drop. It landed with a thud in the dirt. “Be my guest.”
Her mouth slipped open then just as quickly clamped shut again. “If you only knew what—”
“Is this man bothering you, Miss Linden?”
Cullen hea
rd warning in the voice behind him, but it was the utter embarrassment on Margaret Linden’s face that knifed clean through him.
“M-Mr. Drake . . .” Miss Linden blinked, then smoothed her hair with a trembling hand.
It took a second for the name to register, but when Cullen turned he realized he’d guessed correctly. A telling glimmer sharpened the man’s gaze, and Drake looked overlong at Margaret Linden, then back again at Cullen, a challenge in his eyes.
“We meet again so soon, Mr. McGrath.” Drake bent to retrieve the package in the dirt and handed it to Miss Linden, moving closer to her as he did. “And here I thought we had an understanding that you were moving on.”
“No. No understandin’ that I recall.” Cullen noted the men standing to the side. Only two this time. And no gun, that he could see. “But from what I hear there’s plenty of land east, if you’re interested. The Carolinas, perhaps. Or south on to Georgia.” He smiled, enjoying the downward turn of Drake’s expression as he repeated the man’s own words back to him.
Clearly confused, Miss Linden stared between them, her expression anxious. “I’m fine, Mr. Drake,” she offered, inching away from him as though sensing Cullen’s displeasure. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“No need for you to go anywhere, Miss Linden.” Drake tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and it was all Cullen could do not to plow straight into him.
“McGrath, if you need directions out of town”—Drake gestured—“my men here will be obliged to help.”
The two fellows stepped forward, and Cullen grew aware of the space suddenly open around them. A handful of people had paused to watch, but most folks hurried past, giving them a wide berth and not looking back. Knowing how he would have handled this if Miss Linden weren’t present, Cullen took a deep breath then caught a glint of indignation in her eyes. But he didn’t think it was directed toward him.
“No need for that, Drake. I know the way . . . should I decide to leave.”
“Which I trust will be soon. Because remember what we discussed could happen if you don’t.”
To Win Her Favor Page 12
