Cullen held his tongue, clearly seeing Miss Linden’s embarrassment. But each time he looked at her hand on Drake’s arm, his anger only burned hotter.
“Good, then.” Drake’s smile dripped with arrogance. “I’m glad we finally see eye to eye. Now . . .” He gestured. “Leave. And don’t be bothering Miss Linden again.”
Cullen smiled. “Botherin’ her?”
Drake stiffened. “That’s exactly what I said. Or do you have trouble hearing as well as speaking?”
Miss Linden’s gaze met his, and Cullen had never seen eyes so expressive. She didn’t approve of Drake’s actions, that was clear. Still, he could all but hear her pleading with him not to make more of a scene than was already made. But if she thought he was going to tuck tail and run because of a man like this—
“I’ll leave. As soon as you unhand Miss Linden.”
Drake laughed. “Unhand her? The Lindens and I are old family friends. It’s you, McGrath, who aren’t welcome here. I think the lady has made that quite plain.”
“Is that so?” Cullen waited, watching her, seeing the struggle in her eyes and yet knowing what a moment like this meant, even if she didn’t. Life was full of them. Little turning points, is what his grandfather had called them.
A moment when a life was defined. Given direction. And once that direction was chosen, there was no going back. At least not easily. And even then, if you could retrace the steps, the view was never the same. Nor the path ahead. Because every step changed the view. He’d learned that painful truth and was determined to make his path straight and true this time. No lies. No half-truths. He wasn’t going to waste another moment living life the way someone else told him to.
He only had one life to live, and by God—or without—he would live it the best he could.
“As I said, Drake, I’ll leave.” He leveled his gaze at Miss Linden. “As soon as you unhand my wife.”
Chapter
TWELVE
Four days, and still she would scarcely look at him.
Cullen lifted the ax and brought it down with force, splitting the piece of wood clean in two. He set another log on the stump and repeated the process for the better part of the morning, welcoming the physical exertion and hoping it would ease his frustration.
Bathed in sweat, the morning air thick with summer and freshly laid hay, he shed his shirt and wiped down his face and neck. If he had it to do over again, would he handle the situation with Drake any differently? The man had all but called him out. What was he supposed to do? Walk away without saying a thing? What would Miss Linden have wanted him to do? But of course he didn’t know, because she wasn’t speaking to him.
He tossed his shirt over the corral and knifed his hands through his hair.
Deathly silence had accompanied them all the way home in the wagon. Miss Linden’s back rigid, jaw set, eyes forward. And he would’ve sworn the bench seat had grown. Either that or she was hanging off the side—anything to touch him as little as possible. The woman was his wife, if only on paper. But what woman could respect a man who would cow to such arrogance? Such ignorance?
Nay, he’d done the right thing, even if her embarrassment kept her from seeing it at present. No woman wanted a man who wouldn’t come to her defense.
“Mister McGrath?”
Cullen turned to see Onnie standing on the front porch, a glass in her hand, and Bucket running straight for him.
“For you, sir. If you’s thirsty.”
After giving the collie a welcome, he crossed to the porch. “Thank you, Miss Onnie.” He gulped the sweet tea without pause.
She must have put the glass in the icebox beforehand, and he held it to his forehead, the cool feeling like a touch of heaven.
She took the glass from him and nodded toward the pile of wood. “Think we got us enough for two winters already.”
He shrugged. “I like to be prepared. And it always goes faster than you think it will.” Especially with the plans he had for this place. He glanced at the door. “Is she back yet?” he asked, figuring it had to be nearing noon.
“No, sir. But sometimes her ridin’ lessons at Belle Meade, they take a while. You get that letter come from Belle Meade earlier?”
Having successfully put it from his mind until now, he nodded. But he didn’t care who General William Giles Harding was, Cullen was in no hurry to cozy up to a man neck deep in horse racing. General Harding would forget soon enough what he’d done.
“You still goin’ into town like you said, sir? With that list?”
Cullen nodded. “After I clean up at the creek.”
“I fetch you clean clothes and leave ’em here on the porch.”
She disappeared into the house with Bucket and returned a moment later with the clothes, along with a towel and soap. Cullen walked through the woods to the creek and rinsed the remnants of work from his body. He waded into a deeper pool, lathered his hair, and dunked several times.
The Lindens and I are old family friends. Drake’s words returned to him, and so did Cullen’s frustration.
Stephen Drake was no fool. The man had a streak of meanness in him, of the worst sort. The kind that gave a man like Drake a twisted sense of pleasure. Combine that twisted nature with power, which Stephen Drake certainly possessed as manager of the Tax and Title Office, as Onnie informed him, and you had someone who could sway decisions to get whatever he wanted. And if that didn’t work, he’d simply threaten the person until he did.
Cullen strode to the creek bank and grabbed the towel, recalling the initial shock in Drake’s expression when learning that Miss Linden was now Mrs. McGrath . . . then the slow way the man’s face and neck had reddened when she nodded then looked away.
That had been the hardest part for him, seeing her embarrassment. Embarrassment at being seen with him. At being singled out as his wife. Yet he’d also seen offense in her expression, which told him she’d personally felt the cut of Drake’s prejudice. Which, in turn, meant a great deal.
He pulled on clean drawers then trousers, reminding himself again that Margaret Linden was young yet. When he was her age he'd thought he knew everything, and hadn’t allowed anyone to tell him different. Only with time and living—and loss—had he learned how little he really knew. Odd how that worked. Backward, in a way.
They hadn’t gone to church yesterday, which was fine by him. One less punishment. But following breakfast, Mr. Linden had read from his Bible at the table. When Cullen saw him produce the thick leather binding he’d gotten a trapped feeling, thinking a sermon was forthcoming. But the man had simply read. And read well, in fact.
As it turned out, the text wasn’t half bad either. Not nearly as discouraging as Cullen had expected.
He wasn’t certain what book Mr. Linden read from, but the words had to do with charity. Or love, as Mr. Linden said it meant. Something about charity suffering long and being kind. Not envying or being puffed up. And although Mr. Linden never looked at him, and Margaret’s gaze never ventured across the table, Cullen somehow felt that Mr. Linden had chosen that section of Scripture special, for them both to hear.
Dressed, he made his way back to the house, his thoughts returning to his earlier concern. Stephen Drake wasn’t a man given to weak memory or to turning the other cheek. He was the type of man who always needed to win. Which meant one thing—a reckoning was coming.
But it would have come sooner or later, whenever the man had learned about the marriage. Cullen’s main concern was what form that reckoning would take.
And that he be the only one to pay the price.
An hour later, he prodded Levi down a side street on the east side of Nashville, following the directions Miss Onnie had given him, however odd they seemed. The list of names from Cletus was tucked in his shirt pocket, but he already knew from the older man’s comments which man he needed to find first.
Shanties, clustered together, lined the maze of dirt roads that wound through this part of town. For as far as he could see, lean
tos made of orphaned plank wood, rotting boards, and remnants of old crates huddled together beneath a sweltering sun, the smell of humanity ripe on the warm breeze. Wadded-up newspaper stuffed into cracks served as mortar, and windows were scarce, which no doubt lent the insides a dark, fathomless feel.
One good storm would likely lay waste the structures, but he knew the residents would simply build them again. Because it was all they had.
The day’s heat had driven most of the residents from their shelters, yet they kept to what scarce patches of shade could be negotiated between constructed overhangs and scant tree branches.
Cletus was right: not a white man to be seen. And even though Cullen had never owned another human being in his life, the unblinking stares of both young and old as he passed seemed to reach out and assign him guilt.
When you come to a busted-up old plow, sir, head south.
Spotting a plow, its gears missing, the metal spades worn to nubs, Cullen nudged Levi southward, as Onnie had said.
Go on a ways, sir, ’til you see a shanty on a corner what got three old milk crates piled up on one side. Head east.
The instructions making more sense now, Cullen followed them until up ahead, just as Onnie had said, the seemingly random pattern of makeshift houses stuttered to a pause. When he reached the clearing he reined in. From the sturdy branch of an ancient oak hung an empty noose, the coiled rope dancing far too innocently in the slight breeze.
A heaviness settled inside him.
He read the newspapers. He’d seen the pencil-sketched drawings depicting both Negroes and Irish as apes, a mug of ale typically distinguishing the latter from the former. The Southern inclination toward disdain ran deep and wide. Same as the British. Some things didn’t change.
“You need somethin’, sir?”
Cullen turned in the saddle to see a group of men gathered behind him. Two dozen at a glance, most bare chested, dark skin glistening beneath the sun high overhead. Some carried a hoe or shovel, though Cullen doubted gardening was their intent.
One man stood out from the rest, and not only because he was situated at the forefront. Tall and powerfully built, muscular arms resting at his side, the fellow met Cullen’s stare without reservation. Everything about him declared strength, and judging by the steadiness of his gaze, Cullen figured he was the one who had posed the question.
“Aye, I do need somethin’.” Cullen dismounted. “I’m lookin’ for a man by the name of Ennis.”
Not one of them reacted. Not a nod, not a sideways glance, not even a twitch. Cullen had to admire their unity, even if he hated the reason behind it.
“Cletus sent me,” he continued. “From Linden Downs. Onnie, his wife, told me how to get here.”
This time an all but imperceptible flicker of acknowledgment shone in some of their faces. But not the one man. His expression didn’t change.
“You still ain’t told us yet what you need here . . . sir.”
Cullen could appreciate the strained control in the man’s voice as well as how the other men seemed to look to him for what to do next. Which, when remembering what Cletus had said, made him certain he’d already found the man he’d come looking for.
Having bid good-bye to her final student for the day, Maggie turned and saw General Harding walking in her direction. She ducked back into the mares’ stable, wincing, hoping he hadn’t seen her. Because she knew what he would ask her if he did.
“Who you hidin’ from now, Miss Margaret?”
Maggie looked back to see Uncle Bob, Belle Meade’s head hostler, watching her, his mouth curving in a smile.
Uncle Bob had been at Belle Meade for as long as she could remember. And even though her parents had cautioned her, growing up, about becoming overly familiar with slaves—freedmen now—Uncle Bob seemed different.
First, he didn’t work for her father. And second, he was Uncle Bob.
“Please.” She put a finger to her lips. “I can’t talk to the general right now.”
“Why’s that?”
Crouching, she peered through a space between the boards. “Because he’s going to ask me a question I’m not ready to answer.”
Uncle Bob’s laughter helped lighten the moment. “He still comin’ this way?”
She moved to the right a couple of boards, following the general’s progress. Then sighed. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Seein’ you like that puts me in mind of when you and Miss Mary were little girls, runnin’ ’round in here, playin’ and hidin’.”
Maggie smiled, the memories of those times stirring emotions both happy and sad. It didn’t seem that long ago, yet it felt like another lifetime.
“Hard to believe you girls is all growed up now.” He wiped his hands on his trademark white apron. “Makes a man like me feel old.”
Maggie straightened and smoothed her skirt. “As I remember, you used to make us work too.”
His smile turned sheepish. “If you’s gonna ride, it’s only right you help take care of the horses. They give to us, and we give to them.”
She crossed to the stall where Bourbon Belle stood, and rubbed the mare’s nose. “I learned so much here. Mostly from watching you.”
“You might’a learnt somethin’ from me, Miss Margaret.” Warmth touched his voice. “But most of what you got was born in you, ma’am. As I tol’ a good friend a while back, ’fore he left to go out west to Colorado, some things with horses can be taught. The rest of it”—he touched the place over his heart—“is either in here or it ain’t.”
Maggie nodded, looking back at Bourbon Belle and realizing again why she couldn’t give up on her dream. For herself or Belle. She’d wanted this for as long as she could remember. And they were so close. Or had been.
Maggie stood on tiptoe, pressed her forehead into the side of Belle’s neck, and breathed deeply the scent of horse and hay. And her thoughts took her to the one place she didn’t want them to go.
Cullen McGrath.
When she’d left this morning, he’d been chopping wood with more force than necessary. He was still angry with her, she knew. Which was fine. She was still angry with him.
He’d embarrassed her in town that day with Mr. Drake, and with everyone watching, listening. I’ll leave, as soon as you unhand my wife. Yet as embarrassed as she’d been, a tiny part of her had been grateful, even proud of him, for standing up for her. The man was formidable.
Stephen Drake’s reaction had been one of shock. And with good reason. But something else had been weighing on her . . .
The comment Mr. Drake had made that day about having an understanding with Cullen. It was obvious the two men had met before, but how? Stephen Drake’s dislike of the Irish wasn’t surprising. But his animosity toward Cullen McGrath was.
Because it seemed so personal.
She’d feared Mary might have heard the news about her marrying Mr. McGrath from someone in town. But apparently Stephen Drake hadn’t spread the word, because Mary hadn’t said a thing, even over lunch earlier. Surely she would have if she’d known.
If Drake had shown discretion in that matter—regardless of his personal animosity toward Cullen—Maggie needed to thank him. Surely his thoughtfulness was due only to their family connection.
She picked up a curry brush and ran it over Belle’s coat in quick, smooth strokes, none too eager to return home. Not with Cullen there. But neither did she wish to run into General Harding.
During lunch with Mary she’d tried to work up the courage to tell her about Mr. McGrath, but each time she opened her mouth to say the words they’d evaporated, leaving only air in their place.
Mary was eager to be wed, Maggie knew, especially following the recent marriage of her older sister, Selene. Only Maggie sensed that Mary, unlike Selene, wouldn’t mind leaving Belle Meade. In fact, at times Mary seemed almost eager to go. And yet no suitors came calling.
But they would, Maggie was certain. Mary Harding was sweet, kind, and generous. And most importantly, it s
eemed to men these days, she was wealthy.
Thinking of Mary’s promising prospects for marriage made Maggie think of what hers had been. Far less promising by comparison. But for her to have been forced into this marriage as she had been—
Something within her stopped the thought cold. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, ma’am . . . it’s that one always has a choice.
She sighed, not knowing which bothered her more. Admitting to herself that she had, indeed, chosen to marry the man. Or that Cullen McGrath was right.
Both truths rankled at the moment.
“Quite a beauty you got there, Miss Linden.”
Maggie looked up to see a stable hand peering over the stall. Only his attention wasn’t on Bourbon Belle, and the keenness in his expression spoke of something other than admiration. She’d seen the man at Belle Meade numerous times. He worked with the stallions in the other stable, but had never approached her directly.
She glanced over to where Uncle Bob was. Or had been.
“Something to be admired, ma’am. Mind if I get me a closer look?” Without waiting for her permission, he opened the stall door and stepped inside. “She’s been winnin’ some races, I hear. Must be fast.”
Belle shook her head and stomped the ground, and Maggie grabbed hold of the lead rein. “I would prefer you would stay outside the stall, sir. The mare can be a bit skittish.”
He hesitated for a second then moved back to stand in the doorway. “She was sired by Vandal, wasn’t she?” He whistled low, not waiting for an answer. “She sure got some good blood in her.”
“Grady!”
Maggie turned at the sound of Uncle Bob’s voice. As did the stable hand.
“What you doin’ in here?” Uncle Bob eyed him.
“Just gettin’ some horseshoe nails.” The man held up a box in his hand. “Couldn’t find any in the other tack room.”
“Well you got ’em now, so get back to work.” Uncle Bob motioned outside. “Lewis is lookin’ for you.”
She’d never heard Uncle Bob use so strident a tone, and certainly not with a white man. A shadow briefly clouded Grady’s expression, then the man smiled, though it wasn’t a pleasant look on him.
To Win Her Favor Page 13
