Harding turned to the gentleman directly on his right.
The man, pamphlet at the ready, flipped through the pages, then stopped. He gave a consenting nod. “Section seventeen, General. Would you like for me to read it aloud?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Harding sat back in his chair. “So, Mr. McGrath . . . consider this your opportunity.”
Tempted to feel relief, Cullen knew better. Because he knew Stephen Drake. “Mr. Gilbert Linden, my late father-in-law, penned a letter listing the details of the transfer of Linden Downs into my ownership. The letter clearly states that the land and everything on it, all livestock and horses—which includes Bourbon Belle—belongs to me. That letter was filed with the Tax and Title Office at the time the back taxes and fees were paid in full.”
Harding’s attention swung back to Drake. “Is that correct, Mr. Drake?”
“We received the deed for the land, General Harding. But sadly, there was no letter such as Mr. McGrath states.” He shook his head, his regret having all the appearances of truth.
Cullen instinctively started for the man again, then caught himself. If he wanted even the slightest chance of racing Belle today . . .
He steeled his temper. “General Harding, that’s simply not true. If you’ll allow me to go get my wife, she will confirm that there is—or was”—he met Drake’s gaze—“a letter from Gilbert Linden. She read it herself, as did the woman in the office.”
Drake exhaled. “So now we’re expected to take a woman’s word over a man’s?” He laughed. “That’s the way of the Irish for you, gents!”
A few of the men laughed along with him. The rest looked at General Harding, who merely took a piece of paper, turned it over, and began to write.
The room was silent, the scratch of the fountain pen the only sound.
After a moment General Harding finished, and from the flourish of his hand, Cullen could only guess the man was making his signature.
“There we are.” Harding blew against the paper, waiting for the ink to dry, then slid it down the table in Drake’s direction. It landed squarely in front of the man.
Cullen read it over his shoulder, and his gratitude toward William Giles Harding increased yet again.
Harding rose from the table. “Gentleman, I had the privilege of speaking with Gilbert Linden myself, after this transfer of ownership occurred, and I can confirm without hesitation that it was Mr. Linden’s wish—no, his determined desire and understanding—that Linden Downs, in its entirety, was at that time—as it is today—under the ownership of Mr. Cullen McGrath. And I have penned an affidavit stating such.”
Drake gripped the paper in his hand. “But this doesn’t mean McGrath can race Bourbon Belle in the—”
“It does, in fact, mean precisely that, Mr. Drake. Because the only question was about Mr. McGrath’s ownership of Bourbon Belle. And I have confirmed that. Unless, of course, you judge my statement and signature as inadequate to provide proof.”
The question hung like a saber set to slice sinew from bone. And though a few of the men seemed to be calculating the cost, none seemed willing to pay it. Save one.
“There is another issue, General Harding.” Drake glanced back at Cullen. “Two, actually.” The conceit in his tone conveyed the man’s enjoyment of the moment.
Harding settled back into his chair, the creak of aged leather somehow complementing the thinning patience in his demeanor. “And may I assume you plan to enlighten us on these points, Mr. Drake?”
“With pleasure, General Harding. The jockey McGrath has set to ride Bourbon Belle today . . . is a girl.”
Shocked grumblings shot up from around the table, along with disapproving looks. Cullen began to think Ethan’s original plan to silence Stephen Drake might have been the better idea.
“Gentlemen!” Harding raised his voice, but even his expression held objection. “Is this true, McGrath? Your jockey, the young boy I just saw downstairs . . . is actually a girl?”
Cullen ignored the faint snickers. “Aye, sir, she is. And while it’s unconventional, I admit, as far as I can see there’s nothin’ in the rule book that states a girl can’t be a jockey.” Sensing further objection, he quickly continued. “My wife’s former jockey, as you know, was a lad. But his family was forced to leave town after a black man was hung and the remainin’ community was threatened with the same retribution if they didn’t leave town as well.” Cullen looked pointedly down at Drake. “That seems to be a relatively common bit of advice newcomers of certain creeds receive when arrivin’ in this city.”
More protests arose, but the slam of Harding’s palm on the table silenced them all.
“We will proceed with order, gentlemen! And anyone who cannot, I invite to take his leave. Immediately.”
The silence simmered.
“Mr. McGrath,” Harding continued, “you are correct, sir. And I do not need to consult the rule book in this regard. I know without fail there is nothing in the regulations about a girl riding in a race, for the very reason that it is understood that jockeys are boys. Jockeying is a dangerous occupation. It takes skill and strength and a quickness of reflexes females simply do not possess.”
“Hear, hear,” several of the men murmured.
Cullen held back his smile as best he could and included the entire gathering in his glance. “Once you see the girl,” he said, “I think you’ll change your mind.”
“And what if she gets hurt, Mr. McGrath?” a much older gentleman asked. “What happens then?”
“The very same thing that will happen if a boy gets injured . . . sir.”
Feeling the silence turning the tide against him, Cullen knew he had to do something. “Are you all afraid to let a girl race against the boys?”
The men laughed in unison, even General Harding, though not as heartily as the others.
Cullen allowed himself the faintest smile. “I remember a time when no one thought a female thoroughbred could beat its male counterpart. But, if I’m not mistaken, that’s happened a time or two. Right here in Nashville.” And, Lord willin’, it will happen again today.
The laughter quieted.
Aware of Harding watching him, Cullen hoped what he’d said hadn’t pushed the general too far.
Drake leaned forward, and Cullen, knowing what was coming, decided to beat him to the punch.
“Somethin’ else you need to know, gentlemen, that I’m sure Mr. Drake here was about to tell you . . . is that my brother poisoned a thoroughbred at a track in London over a year ago. And that for a time I was wanted for the crime as well.”
This news drew only solemn stares.
“But what Mr. Drake doesn’t know—and doesn’t want to know—is that I had absolutely nothin’ to do with the incident. My name has been cleared. And my brother . . . He’s spent the last year in prison, payin’ for what he did. He came out a changed man too.” Though, in a way, Cullen wondered if Ethan wasn’t still paying.
General Harding met Cullen’s stare and held it. “Mr. McGrath.” He sighed. “You have made quite an impression today, sir.”
Cullen could tell the impression wasn’t wholly favorable.
“Gentlemen.” Harding glanced at his gold pocket watch before returning his focus to his colleagues. “The past hour has brought many topics of discussion. But as I see it, only one that requires any response from our society as a whole—and with ever dwindling time to make it. And that question is: will we allow a girl to race in the Peyton Stakes?”
Drake started to speak again.
But Harding raised a hand. “Mr. McGrath, if you would be so kind as to step out in the hallway for a moment while we discuss this issue further.”
Not liking the subdued nature of Harding’s tone, Cullen did as the man asked. But he paused just before closing the door and stepped back inside, feeling as if Gilbert Linden were right beside him. “Somethin’ else I want you to know, gentlemen. My name is on the record as bein’ trainer to Bourbon Belle, just like Gilber
t Linden’s was. But my wife, Linden’s daughter, Margaret Linden McGrath, is the real trainer for the thoroughbred. And always has been.”
Harding’s eyebrows shot up.
“Margaret raised the mare from a foal. My wife’s late father, a man I grew to greatly admire in a very short time, indulged his daughter’s dream. And I nearly made the tragic mistake of not doin’ so. So, should you see Bourbon Belle flyin’ ’round the track later today, just remember . . . That’ll be the work of females, gents. And that’ll sit just fine with this Irishman.”
Chapter
FORTY-EIGHT
How long has Mr. McGrath been gone, Kizzy?” Maggie asked. It was nearly three o’clock, and she and Odessia had already been waiting with the girl for over an hour.
Standing on a stool in the stall, Kizzy stroked Belle’s head. “He done left soon after we got here, ma’am. Ain’t seen him since.”
Maggie exchanged a look with Odessia, who sat beside her in the fresh hay, her expression pensive.
Kizzy leaned down to scratch her leg, and Maggie caught a brief glimpse of the welts just above the child’s ankle. The thin scars, perfectly matching the tail end of a whip, rekindled Maggie’s anger, as did thinking about Ennis and all this family had endured.
She rose and brushed off her skirt, and just then heard Cullen’s distinctive brogue. She stepped out into the aisle and felt a flush of pride at the mere sight of him.
She met him halfway, and as he got closer his smile widened.
He picked her up in a hug. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. McGrath.”
Holding her tight, he stepped inside the empty stall neighboring theirs and kissed her soundly before putting her down again. Blushing, Maggie glanced outside the entryway to see if anyone had seen them. Her husband’s soft laughter, along with the pleasure in his eyes whenever he touched her, all but silenced that prim voice of warning inside her.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. “Kizzy said you’ve been gone almost since you got here.”
“Everythin’s fine. Registration details just took longer than I expected.”
His tone was convincing enough, but the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes seemed more pronounced and made her wonder if something had gone awry.
“You look beautiful, Maggie.” His gaze moved over her.
Pleased that he thought so, she smoothed a hand over her new riding habit and gave a formal curtsy. “Thank you, sir, for your kindness.”
He offered an exaggerated bow that drew a giggle from Kizzy, who was watching over the top of the stall. Cullen tweaked her little nose.
“In just a while,” he said, taking Maggie’s hand, “it’ll be our turn on the track to get warmed up. Let’s get Kizzy and Belle ready.”
A while later, at Cullen’s insistence, Maggie led Belle onto the track, Kizzy astride the mare. Cullen, Odessia, and Cletus followed, and Maggie paused to look around, taking it all in. How different it looked to see the racetrack from the ground again instead of from a bird’s-eye view up on the ridge.
Already spectators were arriving, and the breeze carried a luscious blend of aromas from vendors cooking food for purchase outside the gates. The scents ranged from sweet to spicy and everything in between.
Maggie was certain she smelled fresh-popped corn, and her mouth watered. But it wouldn’t be right to eat in front of Kizzy, who had had so little today, much less in the past week, all in an effort to make the girl as light as possible on Belle.
Maggie had promised to make the child Aunt Issy’s lemon cookies following the race. Likewise, Onnie had promised her sweet sweet potato sticks, one of the woman’s specialities. And Maggie knew Kizzy would hold them both to it.
Kizzy shielded her eyes in the midafternoon sun. “This be bigger than the practice track at Belle Meade, Missus McGrath.”
“Yes, it is.” Maggie stared up into the empty stands. “But think about this: it’s also easier in a way. Think of how many turns you and Belle have to make at the track at Belle Meade to cover the same distance. There aren’t nearly so many turns here.”
Kizzy nodded as though comparing the two in her head. “I’m thinkin’ we can go even faster here!”
Maggie exchanged a look with Cullen, who’d come alongside them.
“That’s what every jockey thinks . . . at first. Remember what we talked about on the way here.” Cullen laid a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Fast off the mark, then steady and smart. You don’t want to push Belle until the very end.”
“Yes, sir, I know. Uncle Bob done told me the same thing.” The child got a sassy look about her. “Over and over,” she finished beneath her breath.
Cullen poked her in the ribs, and Kizzy giggled. Even Odessia laughed at that.
Watching Cullen with the girl, hearing them jest with each other, warmed Maggie’s heart and gave her a glimpse of the father he would be. And had been, she remembered.
She went to stand with Odessia and Cletus as Cullen led Kizzy around the track. “I wish Ennis could be here with us.”
“I don’t,” Odessia said softly, then firmed her jaw in such a way that Maggie almost felt as if she’d misspoken. “My husband, ma’am,” Odessia continued, “he’s strong in his body and in his mind. But his heart—that man’s heart is all wrapped up in me and these kids.” Odessia laughed, but it had a desperate sound about it. “Anythin’ else were to happen to our little girl—” She firmed her lips. “I’m sorry, Missus McGrath. I shouldn’t borrow trouble, I know. That’s what Ennis always says.”
“You’re worried about your daughter, Odessia. And that’s understandable. But I truly believe she’ll be fine. I’ve never seen a—”
“A better rider,” Odessia filled in for her. “Or more gifted, especially so young. Ain’t that what you was gonna say, ma’am?” Not a hint of sarcasm tainted the woman’s voice, only deep concern. “Missus McGrath, I don’t want you to think that I ain’t grateful for what you and your husband are doin’ for my baby girl. And it ain’t that I don’t think she can do it neither.” Her voice caught. “I think she can. And will.” A tear slid down her cheek. “But—”
Maggie took hold of her hand. “But even when you know someone can do something—” She paused, seeing the love welling up in Odessia’s eyes, so similar to another love she’d seen and been so blessed to know. “Even when you think they should, sometimes you’re still a little frightened for them when they do.”
Odessia nodded. “It’s ’cuz you love ’em so much.”
Oh, Papa . . . Maggie’s eyes burned with the memory, her voice scarcely coming. “And you can’t imagine your world without them.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Using a speaking trumpet, a man in the two-story wooden tower overlooking the field called out instructions.
“It’s time,” Cullen whispered, looking at Maggie and seeing in her eyes the same exhilaration, hope, and worry that roiled inside him.
“Twenty minutes,” the man in the tower announced, “until the race begins. Everyone who is not a horse or a jockey or a trainer in some capacity must leave the staging area at this time.”
The comment drew laughter from racing entrants and spectators alike.
Odessia hugged Kizzy tight. “Baby, you do everythin’ Mister and Missus McGrath and Uncle Bob done told you to do, you hear me?”
“You’s squeezin’ me too tight, Mama!”
But Cullen noticed that the little girl didn’t struggle to get away.
He reached for Maggie, and she came into his arms seemingly without a care of who was watching. But everyone else around them was hugging too.
“They’re going to be all right,” he whispered in her ear. “Both of them.”
Maggie nodded, her arms briefly tightening around his waist. Then she knelt before Kizzy. “I’m so proud of you, Kizzy. You’re going to do so well.”
“I’s gonna win, that’s what I’s gonna do, ma’am!”
Maggie laughed and kissed the top of the girl’s cap.
Then, with a last look, she made her way with Odessia to their seats in the stands. Cletus and the other workers gathered in the Negro section at the far end of the track, but Cullen had purposefully listed Odessia as Maggie’s personal maid, to allow her to accompany them.
He helped Kizzy onto Belle, the girl’s weight so inconsequential he wondered how the mare even knew the child was in the saddle.
Cullen felt the stares and gathered that the news of Belle’s jockey being a girl had spread.
“Mr. McGrath—”
Hearing the familiar voice, Cullen turned to find General Harding beside him—along with Grady Matthews. If only Cullen had proof, he’d tell Harding his suspicions about the man right now.
“I came to wish you and your jockey godspeed,” Harding said, shaking his hand. “And to tell you how well I thought you handled yourself today. Certain individuals can be . . . more difficult than others, and those were volatile subjects.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
Harding smoothed a hand over Belle’s haunches. “She’s a beauty. I look forward to seeing her run. And I sincerely hope she feels none of the effects from her recent illness.”
Grady Matthews stepped forward and also gave Belle a pat. “Glad she’s doin’ better, sir. Snakeroot’s a hard thing for a horse to pull through.”
Cullen held Grady’s gaze, his spine going stiff. “Aye, Mr. Matthews. It certainly is.”
The two men left, and Cullen waited until Harding was a few feet away before calling out his name.
The general returned. “Something wrong, McGrath?”
“Just thought I’d let you know I figured out who poisoned Belle.”
Harding’s eyes narrowed.
Cullen glanced in the direction Grady Matthews had gone. “There are only four people who knew Belle was poisoned by snakeroot. Me, my wife, my brother, and Rachel Norris.”
It didn’t take long for understanding to move into General Harding’s features. The man turned and looked at Grady Matthews standing beside Uncle Bob and Fortune, Harding’s own prizewinning thoroughbred. Then the older man turned again and searched Cullen’s face.
To Win Her Favor Page 38
