To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  “Was your time in there . . . hard?” Cullen asked softly.

  “Aye, it was. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, Cullen, but spendin’ time in prison was somethin’ I’d not wagered on doin’. But what I did was wrong, and I know it. I knew it then too. But—”

  “You had men after you.”

  “Aye . . .” Ethan looked away. “And I had a debt I couldn’t begin to pay.”

  Cullen turned to him and waited for his brother to meet his gaze. “But we made good money, Ethan. They paid us well, those wealthy London lords with their blood horses and grand estates soaked in ancestral money. The extra they slipped us on winnin’ days alone was more than our own da made in two years of sproutin’ potatoes.”

  “And you squirreled away every bit of yours. Didn’t you, lil’ brother?”

  A thread of sarcasm weighted Ethan’s tone, something that, when they were younger, had made Cullen hesitant to cross him. Now it only made him realize how different their choices had been in recent years.

  “Aye, I did,” Cullen answered. “Every penny. Or at least every penny Moira and I didn’t need to keep the cupboards stocked.”

  Wordless, Ethan stared into the night, the hum of crickets softening the harshness of the silence.

  Even so, the ease between them warred with the tension, and Cullen realized his love for his older brother—and his gratitude for what Ethan had done for him—had sought, time and again, to lessen the distance between the choices they’d made. But even love’s tendency to be blind couldn’t set things to right that were blatantly wrong.

  Cullen gripped the porch rail before him. “When did it start?”

  “The gamblin’?” Ethan asked.

  Cullen nodded.

  “Four years back, or thereabouts. Came so natural to me.” He laughed. “But I always was more like our da than you. You got Ma’s strength and smarts. Me, I got Da’s bent toward weakness and discontent.”

  “That’s not true. You’re a—” What he’d started to say—a good man—he couldn’t, not knowing what he knew. “You were a good brother to me.”

  “Cullen.” Ethan’s voice held authority. “I am our da. I gambled away a small fortune. I wasted so many years lovin’ women while half the time I didn’t even know their names, much less remember bein’ in their beds. I drank ’til I couldn’t remember where I was, much less who I was. Because the more I saw him in me, the more I ran. And the more I ran, the more I realized I couldn’t get away from it.” Ethan bowed his head. “It felt as if the part of me that somehow knew better than to do those things did them anyway. And what I knew I should do, I didn’t. Instead, I became everything I had hated about him. Only now I hated it in myself too.”

  Some distance away, the lonely howl of a wolf cut through the quiet, reminding the night of a far less gentle side.

  As Ethan’s confession settled inside Cullen, he felt an inexplicable familiarity about it—as well as an equally overwhelming love for his brother.

  “You’re not alone in your struggles, Ethan. Nor in hatin’ parts of yourself. I still fight the temper I learned from our da, too, among other even less desirable traits. But I’ve learned somethin’ in the past few months, somethin’ the man who sold me this land taught me.”

  “Margaret’s father?”

  Cullen nodded. “Part of bein’ able to move on is found in lettin’ go of the past. And for us, that means lettin’ go of the hate we had for our father. It’s not hurtin’ him anymore. He’s gone. It’s only hurtin’ you and me . . . when we hang onto it.”

  Pale yellow lamplight illuminated the open door to the stable, and Cullen recognized Maggie’s slender frame as she walked by. What he wouldn’t give to see Bourbon Belle whole again. Odd, when he thought about it, considering he’d been so against Maggie’s desire to race the mare.

  Which he still was. That hadn’t changed.

  But seeing Maggie so burdened with concern for the thoroughbred wore on him. As did their cross exchange earlier in the day concerning the wagons and harvest.

  He gazed out over the sleeping fields ready for reaping and saw, again, the image of Grady Matthews slipping into Stephen Drake’s office. Drake was behind what had happened the other night, including Belle’s poisoning. Cullen knew it, even if he didn’t have evidence.

  After all, a sweet-smelling cigar wasn’t exactly proof. So why did Ethan’s suggestion of paying someone a visit still hold appeal?

  “She doesn’t like me, you know,” Ethan said, frustration in his voice.

  Seeing Ethan staring in the same direction he was, Cullen smiled, not surprised his brother had picked up on Maggie’s less than exuberant welcome. “She doesn’t know you well enough yet to know she doesn’t like you. She simply doesn’t like what you did. And I can’t say I blame her. Can you?”

  Ethan said nothing, only stared at him, then strode into the house.

  Maggie stirred, awakened by a shift of weight on the mattress. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see Cullen already up, and without the faintest hint of light in the sky. Her first thought went to Belle, and she pushed herself up.

  “Is everything all right?” she whispered, feeling a sinking inside her. She should have stayed in the stable last night, but Rachel had insisted she rest.

  “Everything is fine,” Cullen assured her softly, gesturing. “Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I awakened you.”

  Chilled by the cool morning air, she took advantage of the warmth he’d left behind in the bed and huddled deeper into it. Rachel was right. She was weary and, based on Belle’s lack of progress in the last four days, was readying herself for the worst.

  She watched Cullen dress in the dark. He pulled on his trousers and reached for his shirt in the wardrobe. She knew the future of Linden Downs weighed on him just as Belle’s future weighed on her, if not more so. Because if they lost Linden Downs, it wouldn’t be only the two of them losing their home. So many other lives were involved now.

  And here in the darkness before the dawn, the time that had held some of the loneliest moments in her life, hope struggled to find a foothold.

  Wanting to ask him a question, she hesitated, remembering his frustration with her yesterday. Yet her need to know outweighed the possibility of that recurrence. “So . . . do you know yet when you’ll begin harvesting?”

  “Today.”

  She waited, wanting him to say more. But after a full minute had passed, she assumed that was all.

  “You’ll harvest with one wagon?” She tried for a blameless tone, with only marginal success.

  “We’ll harvest with what we have, Maggie.”

  Hearing the curtness in his voice, she knew she’d gotten all the information she was going to get on that subject for now.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on his boots.

  “Cullen?” she whispered.

  “Aye?” he answered, focused on his task.

  “How long is Ethan planning to visit?”

  He stilled, and she sensed he’d seen through her not-so-subtle phrasing of the question—and part of her was ashamed. After all, Ethan was his brother.

  She’d lain in bed last night, door open, listening to the low murmur of their voices drifting up the stairs and wishing she could hear more. It was silly, but she was almost jealous of their history together and how interwoven their memories were.

  Cullen stood. “He asked me last night how long he could stay.”

  Maggie was grateful the darkness masked her chagrin. “And . . . what did you tell him?”

  An endless pause filled the space.

  “I told him I’d have to discuss it with you. After all . . . Linden Downs is our home, Maggie.”

  Grateful, she hugged her pillow tight, hoping he wouldn’t pursue the discussion now, yet already knowing what her vote would be. But she also knew her vote would come at a cost.

  Then again, so would having Ethan McGrath live with them.

  “Go back to sleep,” Cullen said quiet
ly as he crossed to the door. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  She heard Bucket stir at the foot of the bed, then the sharp snap of Cullen’s fingers.

  “Stay, boy.”

  “But . . . where are you going?” And without Bucket.

  “I have business in town. I’ll be back soon.” He closed the bedroom door behind him before she could ask again.

  Chapter

  FORTY-ONE

  The doorknob rattled, followed by a telling creak, but Cullen didn’t move from where he sat in the corner, unseen, in the darkness. The shadowed figure closed the door, crossed the office to the desk, and dropped a briefcase unceremoniously on top. Then one by one, the man lifted each of the window shades, allowing entrance to a demanding sun.

  “A little late comin’ in this mornin’, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Drake?”

  Stephen Drake whirled, a startled expression contorting his florid face, a reaction Cullen enjoyed perhaps a little too much.

  Drake quickly recovered. “Mr. McGrath . . .” Shaking his head, he smiled and made a tsking sound. “Forced entry into a place of business. Not unexpected from your kind. But still, against the law.” Drake crossed to the desk, opened a side drawer, and pulled out a pistol, then aimed it square at Cullen’s chest.

  Cullen stood. “Call for the authorities. They won’t find a busted lock or jimmied window anywhere. Just a man who arrived a bit early to speak to the Tax and Title Office Manager about his land, and who found a door that opened with very little resistance.”

  Cullen took a step toward him, and Drake cocked the gun.

  “You should have left town when I told you to, McGrath.”

  “And you should do a better job of hidin’ your gun.”

  A shadow crossed Drake’s face. He uncocked the pistol and checked the chamber.

  It was Cullen’s turn to smile. “You’ll find the bullets. Eventually.”

  “My men will—”

  “Will be back in about an hour, at least I believe that’s the order you gave them a moment ago.” Cullen nodded toward the front window, through which voices could be heard even now. “Seems nothin’s very private these days.”

  “I don’t know what you hope to gain by coming here, McGrath. But whatever it is, you won’t get it. And I’m not afraid of you.” He laid the gun aside as if proving his point.

  “I would hope you’re not. After all, we’re goin’ to be neighbors. For a very long time.”

  Drake leveled a stare. “I seriously doubt that.”

  His patience thinning, Cullen crossed the room, knowing how differently this “meeting” would be going right now if Ethan had come in his place, as his brother had begged to do. “I’m goin’ to speak slowly for you, Drake, so you’ll be sure to understand. At times you Southern men seem to be weak in your listenin’ skills, among others.” All levity drained from him. “I’m here to give you fair warnin’. I know it was you and your men who visited my farm a few nights back.”

  “You have no proof of that.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But I’ve got somethin’ better. Two things, actually. I’ve got my gut. And my gut tells me you’re rotten through and through. I smelled the putridness on you the first time we met. And second, I’ve got my land. Paid for outright, deeded to me. And there’s nothin’ you can ever do about that.”

  Drake smirked, his eyes going dark. “You ignorant Irish dirt grubber. You cannot begin to comprehend who I am or what power I have in this town. In this state!”

  “That may be true, but whatever power you may have, along with the other cowards runnin’ ’round at night in those fancy white hoods, I’m here to tell you that if you step foot on my land again with the intention of doin’ harm, I’ll show you no mercy. Same as you showed Mr. Ennis.”

  The heat in Drake’s features cooled by a degree. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Desperately wanting to put his fist through the man’s face, Cullen struggled to hold his temper in check. “Consider you and your men warned, Mr. Drake. You come onto my land again, you come in daylight, on a horse, straight up my drive. You come in the dark of night, you die.”

  “Do you know what men in this town would do to you if you killed me?”

  “To know you’re dead, they’ll have to find your body. And hear me well, Drake . . . I won’t be wastin’ good rope for the likes of you.”

  Cullen got as far as the door.

  “Funny how you think you know people. Take Margaret Linden, for instance. I’ve known her all my life. Pretty enough as a girl. But once she blossomed into womanhood . . .” Drake whistled low. “Even more beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

  Cullen’s grip tightened on the doorknob.

  “Oh, I knew her father had a certain . . . softness for Negroes.” Drake laughed softly. “But until you came to town, I’d never pegged pretty little Maggie as being a nig—”

  The words scarcely left Drake’s tongue before Cullen lifted him by the throat and shoved him against the wall. For the first time Cullen glimpsed a glimmer of fear in the man’s eyes. He tightened his grip, and Drake’s eyes widened. Why was it some men only understood force?

  Tasting the bitterness in his mouth and seeing his whitening knuckles around Drake’s throat, Cullen eased his grip, then let go.

  Drake slumped against the wall, his breath coming hard. “You’ll regret this . . . McGrath. I give you . . . my word.”

  Cullen looked at him. “I’ve seen you up close, Drake. You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think you are. And your word is worth nothin’.” He strode to the door. “Now stay off my land.”

  A blistering sun beat down on the fields, belying the earlier cool, and Cullen wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. Bucket lay panting beneath the shade of the wagon, attempting to stay cool. At this rate they’d never get the crops harvested and to market, much less get it done before the quality of the yield began to suffer.

  Even with everyone helping to pick the corn, transporting each load from the field to the barn with only one wagon took too long. He shielded his eyes and scanned the gentle rise and fall of green in all directions.

  To have come this far only to fail now seemed even worse than if the crops hadn’t come in well at all.

  It was near sundown by the time the wagon returned with the last load of the day, and when Cullen saw for himself how little they had stored in the barn, he wished he had put his fist through Stephen Drake’s face that morning.

  But when he spotted Maggie walking toward him from the stable, tears streaming down her face, an even greater depth of disappointment nearly drove him to his knees.

  Then she smiled—smiled—and the wave of dread building inside him lost its momentum, rendered powerless in the wake of fresh hope.

  “Come and see,” she whispered, voice shaky. She took hold of his hand. “I started to send word to the fields an hour ago, but I wanted to show you in person.”

  He grasped her hand and followed, Bucket trailing behind, tail wagging. And he felt an answer to her prayer—and his—coming to fruition, even if another was not.

  He entered the stable and saw Belle standing in her stall, regal and beautiful, eyes bright and tail swishing, and he knew that even if that mare never ran again, she would always serve as a reminder for him to never give up.

  Maggie brought her face close to Belle’s and kissed the horse on the bridge of her nose. Belle whinnied and tossed her head, causing Maggie to stagger backward a step.

  Instinctively Cullen reached to steady her, letting his hand linger at the small of her back.

  “She’s going to pull through,” Maggie whispered, her tone rich with hope and love.

  But Cullen looked into the thoroughbred’s large, dark eyes and saw the heart of a champion, and knew—with a quandary of emotion—that Bourbon Belle was going to do a lot more than simply pull through.

  Question was . . . what would he do then? Because he knew his wife. And he also knew the dream she’d suppo
sedly given up still beat steady and strong inside her, whether she fully realized it or not.

  Chapter

  FORTY-TWO

  Two mornings later Maggie rose with the sun and felt the lingering sting of grateful tears when she saw Belle waiting and watching for her at the stall door.

  “Morning, pretty girl,” she cooed softly.

  With fluid strokes she ran the curry brush over Belle’s coat, treasuring each familiar pass.

  Rachel Norris had returned to Belle Meade last evening, and Maggie was certain Bourbon Belle wouldn’t have made it without the woman’s healing qualities. After harvest was finished, and if finances allowed, Maggie planned on speaking with Cullen to see if they couldn’t do more for Rachel than the modest amount the woman had charged.

  Outside, the workers gathered for another day of harvest, young and old doing their part. Maggie heard Cullen’s voice over the throng, as well as Bucket’s gleeful bark.

  “Mrs. McGrath?”

  She turned and looked behind her. “Mr. McGrath . . .” She tried to resist the frown that rose every time Cullen’s brother came near.

  He paused outside the stall. “Is it all right with you that I’m here?” A tentative smile touched his mouth. “Cullen told me about her progress, but I been wantin’ to see it for myself. If you don’t mind.”

  Feeling pride akin to a first-time mother’s—but protectiveness, too, Maggie stepped aside and gestured an invitation. She was surprised it had taken Ethan this long to work up the courage to visit the stable. The man asked after Belle at least twice a day.

  Still, it wasn’t as though she’d encouraged him to come.

  Ethan stepped inside the stall, his timidity making him appear even larger somehow. Belle turned her head to eye him, and Maggie watched Belle, knowing horses were excellent judges of character.

  Ethan held out his hand and the mare sniffed it then licked his palm.

  Cullen had told her last night as they lay in bed that Ethan was doing the work of nearly three men, carrying bags of corn and bundles of tobacco on foot from the farthest fields back to the barn. And from what she’d seen herself, the workers seemed to like Ethan as much as they did Cullen.