The two of them needed to talk further, and would. Soon.
Maggie made sure the front door was unlocked, then turned down all but one of the lamps in the central parlor, grateful for the lovely evening she’d spent with her father. Just the two of them, as it used to be. It had been so nice, talking about everything, and nothing.
Yet Papa’s occasional glances toward the door hadn’t gone unnoticed, his question unvoiced though not unseen.
He’d retired earlier, making it up the stairs and to his bedroom with her assistance. His breathing had been labored, and the effort had taken all of his strength. She’d brewed a strong batch of catnip and pennyroyal tea, which seemed to help his cough. She’d offered to make him a plaster of onion and butter to apply to his throat and chest, but he’d refused, simply wishing to go to bed.
At times she thought his color was improving. Then at others, she was certain it wasn’t. But the thought of this house, of her life, without him was nearly unbearable, and she never allowed her thoughts to go there for very long.
The pale glow of lamplight ghosted the central parlor, and she retrieved the lamp on the side table and was starting up the stairs when the sound of footsteps on the porch brought her around. Finally.
Not wanting Cullen to think she’d been waiting for him, she also knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink without learning the outcome of his meeting. Schooling a polite but, she hoped, a slightly disinterested smile, she opened the door.
But no one was there.
Certain she’d heard him, she stepped outside, the lamp enveloping her in a halo of light. “Cullen?” She lowered the lamp a little in order to see better, and looked toward the stable. But the yard was empty, the door to the stable closed. A breath of wind stirred the lilac at the far corner of the porch, and the sweetness of the scent seemed incongruent with the moment.
She turned, her pulse edging up a notch. “Cullen . . . is that you?”
Only silence answered back, and the surroundings so familiar to her suddenly seemed less so, draped as they were in shades of gray and black. A low growl issued from somewhere behind her, and she turned to see Bucket standing in the shadows at the top of the staircase.
The hair rose on the back of Maggie’s neck, and she stepped back inside and closed the door.
She bolted the lock.
Bucket growled again, louder this time.
“It’s all right, boy,” Maggie said softly, not wanting the collie to awaken Papa, yet secretly grateful for the dog’s presence. Not easily spooked, she told herself it was nothing, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.
With the curtains undrawn, the lamplight reflected off the bare windows, and she quickly extinguished the lamp in her hand and the one in the central parlor. She found the darkness reassuring.
She moved to the staircase and eased down onto the next-to-bottom step, hearing Bucket’s soft tread. She turned, expecting to see the collie coming down the stairs. But . . . no Bucket. Apparently the dog had returned to Papa’s bedroom. So much for helping her keep watch.
She wished Cullen would return, while at the same time realizing how ironic that wish was. Sitting close to the wall, she leaned into the shadows, the steady thrum of her heart overloud in the quiet.
Moments passed, and with them she caught every aging creak and waning sigh of the house. They were sounds she heard every day. So why did they prick at her nerves like—
A shadow crossed in front of the window, and Maggie bit her lip to keep from screaming. She didn’t dare move as the shadow disappeared around the side of the house.
The back door!
Flying off the staircase, she half tiptoed, half ran down the hallway into the kitchen and flicked the latch on the door only seconds before the telling creak of a board sounded from outside on the back porch. Or was it simply the house again, and her imagination playing tricks on her?
Heart hammering in her throat, she hurried back into the hallway and pressed against the wall outside her father’s library, eyes closed, straining to hear the slightest sound from either end of the house.
But it was the rattle of the front doorknob—easy at first then more insistent—that shot heat through her veins like fire through ice.
Realizing the door was locked, Cullen used the key Mr. Linden had given him. He made a mental note to thank Margaret for turning down all the lights. The house was pitch—
“Take one more step and I’ll shoot!”
Cullen went stock still, seeing the glint of moonlight reflecting off the barrel of a rifle. He didn’t dare raise his hands in truce lest the gesture be misconstrued. “Margaret,” he said firmly. “It’s me. Cullen.”
He waited as she slowly—very slowly from his perspective—lowered the gun.
“What are you doing, sneaking in here like that? I thought you were a prowler!”
Tempted to smile at her chosen term, Cullen found the aftereffects of what she’d been about to do suddenly less than humorous. Heat surged through him, replacing the calm of seconds before. “Sneakin’? Since when do prowlers use a key?”
“I . . . didn’t hear the key. I guess I—”
“Was too busy aimin’ for my heart?”
She stepped forward into the scant light slanting in through the window. “I’m sorry, I—”
He strode to her, held out a hand, and she relinquished the rifle. He checked the barrel. Loaded. “You were serious.”
“Never aim a gun unless you intend to use it. That’s what my brothers taught me.”
“Did they also teach you to actually see what you’re shootin’ before you shoot?”
“I didn’t shoot.”
“You almost did.”
“I gave you fair warning!”
He scoffed. “With your finger on the trigger?”
She started to say something then lowered her head.
Remembering again the fear he’d heard in her voice, and seeing her hands trembling even now, he took a calming breath. “You’re quakin’ like a leaf. What’s wrong?”
She raised her head a fraction. “I heard something a while ago. I thought it was you so I went outside to the porch, but you weren’t there.” She looked past him toward the still open door. “No one was there.” She looked back up at him. “But someone was out there. I felt it.”
“Did you see anything?”
She shook her head. “Not until I spotted a shadow go around the side of the house.”
“So you did see someone?” He turned and looked behind him. Heard the wind in the trees and saw the shadows playing across the windows.
“I—” she started.
He looked back to find her watching him, then she shrugged as if reading his thoughts.
“I thought I saw someone. And then . . .” She fell silent and wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“What?” he said more softly.
“I thought I heard a boot step on the back porch just before you came in.”
He didn’t know Margaret Linden well yet. But he knew her well enough to know she wasn’t a woman easily unnerved. “Is your father upstairs?”
She nodded. “With Bucket. Who was no help whatsoever.”
“You’re certain they’re both upstairs?”
Another nod.
“I’ll check around outside. Lock the door behind me.”
“But what if you—”
“Lock the door behind me, Margaret.”
Gun in hand, he paused on the front porch until he heard the click of the lock, then he moved off into the yard. He circled around the side of the house, remembering the first day he’d seen the Sharps rifle hanging over the hearth in Mr. Linden’s library.
That Margaret could handle such a firearm was impressive. That she’d been about to shoot him with it was far less so.
He paused beside the back porch to listen.
The distant hoot of an owl carried toward him on the breeze, and he glanced over at a rustling in a pile of leaves blown up against the f
oundation of the house. A mouse or some other night scavenger. Certainly nothing that would cause a shadow in the window.
If there’d even been such a thing. He could see how she might have been mistaken.
He made a circle around the house then checked the stable and barn for good measure. A good piece down the road, he could see Cletus and Onnie’s cabin. It was dark, as were the other former slave cabins down the way. Seeing the rustic dwellings brought to mind his earlier discussion that day among the shanties on the edge of town.
His initial guess about the man in question had proven correct. Ennis was an impressive fellow, though none too trusting. Cullen could relate. Now to get the workers out here as they’d agreed and begin clearing, tilling, and planting these fields. Judging by the almanac, he figured they were already two weeks behind.
The night all stillness and quiet around him, he started back toward the house and was nearly to the porch when he caught the first whiff. Tobacco, he thought. But . . . with a sweetness to it. Careful not to alter his stride, he continued on across the yard and stopped by the well.
He reached into the bucket and lifted the ladle to his lips, listening—and remembering what Mr. Linden had said to him about the trouble he’d had some time back after the old hunting cabin had been burned down. Stephen Drake’s threat was also never far from his mind.
Standing in the shadows, Cullen faced into the breeze and tilted his head upward as though admiring the blanket of stars overhead, his gaze scanning the tree line opposite him. Nothing. The scent was gone.
He gripped the rifle and strode back to the house. He scarcely knocked on the door before it opened.
“Did you see anyone?” Margaret ushered him in, wide-eyed, then closed and locked the door behind him. The collie, apparently having had a change of heart, stood obediently by her side, tail wagging.
Cullen rubbed the dog’s head. “Decided to be of help after all, I see.”
Margaret exhaled, glancing down. “Only after the fact.” She peered up again, question in her expression.
Cullen shook his head. “It’s all quiet.” The half-truth felt stilted leaving him, and he knew why. But telling Margaret someone had been out there would only cause her to worry. And she had enough to deal with considering the recent changes in her life, including her father’s deteriorating health.
“Why are you so late? Coming home, I mean. Were you with General Harding all this time?”
Cullen couldn’t say why her questions pleased him, but they did. He propped the gun in a corner. “Things simply took longer than I thought. And . . . no. General Harding and I only met for about an hour.”
“So . . . where were you all this time?”
Looking at her, the shadows hiding all but the scarcest hint of her expression, he heard the worry, and curiosity, in her tone and knew now—after meeting with General Harding—why she’d been so hesitant for that meeting to take place. “After I finished at Belle Meade, I rode their land, at invitation from the general. He invited me to hunt at Belle Meade anytime. Nice man, all in all.”
“All in all?”
Cullen smiled. “Rich and powerful men are not usually ones I tend to cozy up to. Nor they to me.”
“Yes, but you’re now the owner of Linden Downs, one of the first farms to be settled in Nashville.”
Her emphasis on the word hinted at lingering animosity, but the fact that she said it at all told him acceptance might be on the horizon.
“And while it may not be one of the largest farms,” she continued, “it’s one of the most respected. Or . . .” Her voice fell away. “It once was.”
“And it will be again, Margaret. I promise you that.”
She looked up at him, and he wished he could read the look in her eyes. Was there hope in them? Or the least bit of softening toward him, perhaps?
“So . . . what did you and the general discuss all that time?”
There. Finally, the question she’d been waiting to ask him. He offered a nonchalant shrug. “Belle Meade, Nashville, horses, crops . . . the things men talk about.”
She waited as if wanting him to say more. And he knew what she was really asking. Yet he wasn’t about to answer her. Not here. Not now. That was a conversation he wasn’t eager to have. Yet knowing Margaret even so little, he knew they would have it soon enough.
“Did you tell him about . . . us?”
“Not initially. He knew the farm was up for auction, and all I told him was that I’d bought it. But then I saw his daughter . . . one of your friends from earlier.”
She nodded.
“And I realized you must have told them.”
Her head tilted to one side. “Why do you say that?”
“Because she kept passing by the office window, looking in.” He was curious as to what she’d said to her friends about him, but thought better of inquiring. “That’s when I realized that Harding’s daughter knew. And that the general would, too, as soon as I left. Better for me to tell him than for him to find out afterward. He might wonder why I hadn’t been forthcoming.”
She nodded slowly, as though agreeing with him but still not liking the outcome.
Cullen felt something brush his calf and looked down to see Bucket sitting beside him. Cullen smiled and bent to give the dog a rub. “You’re a good lad, aren’t you?”
A soft scoff issued from above.
Cullen lifted his gaze as he rose. “I’m assumin’ there’s a story behind this one’s name.”
Margaret eyed the dog with open suspicion. “I found him one day on the way home from town, not far out of the city. I heard something crying, so I got off my horse.”
Her voice softened and Cullen could almost see the memory unfolding.
“I followed the sound over to a ditch, where I peered down and saw an old wooden bucket.” The faint smile touching her mouth held a sweetness that challenged her former suspicion. “The pup couldn’t have been more than four or five weeks old. It had rained that morning, so he was soaked clean through, and shivering.” She shook her head, her mouth firming. “And someone had just left him there. On the side of the road.”
“In a bucket,” Cullen finished softly.
“At first I thought he was going to be my dog.” She shrugged. “But the more time he spent with Papa, the more I realized I was wrong. Little traitor.”
“Sometimes the way things start isn’t the way they end up.”
Her expression inscrutable, he took hope from the way she matched his gaze, unflinching.
“I’ll put up the rifle,” she finally said, reaching for it.
Cullen stopped her with a touch to her arm. “I’ll do it.” He retrieved the gun. “You go on up to bed.”
“All right,” she said, voice soft. “Come,” she directed Bucket, and the dog complied before stopping at the base of the stairs and looking between them. Then at him.
Cullen would’ve sworn the collie was asking for permission to stay with him. “I’ll bring Bucket up with me when I come, if you don’t mind. I’ll make sure he gets back to your father’s room.”
“That’ll be fine.” Starting up, she hesitated and glanced outside. “I don’t often let my imagination get the best of me that way.”
“It happens to all of us from time to time.”
Halfway up the stairs, she turned back again. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something about that day in town. With Mr. Drake.”
Finding her timing interesting, Cullen also found himself wondering if she had any idea how beautiful she was. “And what question would that be, Margaret?”
“Mr. Drake said he thought the two of you had an understanding. What did he mean?”
He crossed to the foot of the stairs. “Mr. Drake introduced himself to me in town shortly after I’d arrived. For the express purpose of invitin’ me to live elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere,” she repeated.
“As in anywhere but here in Nashville. But this is where I wanted—and want—to be. So . . .” H
e shrugged. “Mr. Stephen Drake can just do with that as he likes.” He peered up. “Anythin’ else about that day you’d like to ask me?”
She studied him, then finally shook her head.
“Well then . . . Good night, Margaret.”
She gave him the tiniest smile. “Good night, Cullen.”
He waited until he heard her soft tread on the wooden floor above, then he walked into the central parlor and eased down into one of two fancy chairs situated in front of the hearth, Bucket following alongside him.
The furniture was a mite small, but Cullen stretched out his legs and attempted to get comfortable, the rifle beside him on the floor. Bucket conveniently chose to lie within easy reach, and Cullen succumbed to the soulful brown eyes staring up at him.
Rubbing the dog’s head with one hand, he leaned back, sleep the last thing on his mind. Not only because of what he’d detected outside earlier, but because of what his meeting with General Harding had revealed.
Cullen didn’t consider himself a man easily surprised, but Harding had managed to catch him off guard more than once.
“It was disappointing to learn,” Harding had informed him, “that the Lindens lost their jockey last week. The race this past Friday wasn’t the same without Bourbon Belle.”
Cullen held the gentleman’s gaze, trying to make sense of the comment. When he finally did, he nodded in hopes of smoothing over his delayed response. “I’ve seen Bourbon Belle run, so I can only imagine how the mare’s absence was felt.”
“Oh, indeed it was. Although it did mean that Belle Meade brought home another silver cup and a tidy purse.”
Cullen returned the general’s smile, wondering what amount of winnings qualified as a “tidy purse” in the estimation of such a man.
“Do you have plans to race her yourself, Mr. McGrath? I only ask because I understand Mr. Linden’s health is in decline. I inquired of Miss Linden last week”—the older gentleman inclined his head—“now Mrs. McGrath, of course, if her father was interested in selling, and she assured me he wasn’t. But if you’re interested, my offer still stands. I’d be more than pleased to take Bourbon Belle off your hands. And at a very fair price, I assure you.”
To Win Her Favor Page 15
