Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) (2 page)

Ben Eagle-Smith pulled on the reins of his chestnut
stallion, Mighty Wind, bringing the thoroughbred from a gallop to a slow trot. The
horse neighed like a ferocious lion as it rose up on its hind legs, pawing at
the dirt road. “Whoa, boy,” Ben coaxed, wondering what had caused it to be
spooked. Immediately, the stallion settled down and remained quiet,
occasionally flinching against the reins. “That’s it. Nice and calm. We don’t
wanna make a grand entrance. Just ease in, real simple.” In the distance ahead
was a sign posted over the entrance to a substantial property that read,
Fairington
Farm
.

Reaching into
his vest pocket, Ben pulled out a black leather-bound book and swiped his hand
over the cover where the initials AMR were embossed. Then removing his Stetson,
he mopped his brow with his sleeve and opened the book, reading where his eyes
fell. It was the Old Testament, Deuteronomy 16. “Vengeance belongs to the
Lord,” he said, with little emotion in his voice. Closing the book with a snap,
he tucked it in his vest pocket and settled the hat down low over his brow to
shield his eyes from the sun. The wind blew a cool breeze, drying the
perspiration on his skin and swishing his long, dark ponytail back and forth
against his back like the tail of a horse. “Okay Lord,” he prayed out loud,
“I’ll do things your way. But if it doesn’t work—I’m doing it mine.”

With a cluck of his tongue, Ben urged Mighty Wind down the
long, winding path that led to the Fairington barn. He was amazed at how the
property had changed over the years. The oak trees were enormous now and the
dogwoods were flourishing with pink and white blooms, along with the jasmine
and wildflowers that coated the fields with a splash of yellow and blue. An
extra wing had been added to the house, which was now painted a crisp white
with black shutters, and the barn was twice the size of what he remembered.

A dark-skinned man stopped his wood chopping and squinted in
his direction. He wasn’t Cherokee that Ben could tell, but was certainly Indian.
As he drew closer, Ben recognized the man as Tom Humphries, the foreman.

“Hey there, stranger,” Tom said. “What can I do for ya?”

“Well, I was hoping to find some work,” Ben said. “Heard the
missus here isn’t opposed to hiring half-breeds, unlike some of the other farms
around here.”

“That’s right.” Tom squinted even harder under his Stetson
and studied Ben, as if his memory was trying to place a face. Ben held his
breath, but after a moment, could sense he hadn’t been recognized. “Well, what
can you do?”

“Oh, about anything with horses, really.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How ’bout shovelin’ out their stalls? That interest you
any?”

“If that’s all you got.”

“All for now.” Tom tipped his hat back on his head and
grinned. “We’ll see how you handle a shovel before we give you a go with the
horses. How’s that sound?”

Ben nodded and dismounted Mighty Wind with one swoop of the
leg over the horse’s head. “Tom Humphries’s the name,” Tom said, holding out
his hand for a shake. “Yours?”

Ben wiped his sweaty palm against his trouser leg before
shaking Tom’s. “Eagle’s Wing. That’s what my Cherokee folks call me, my mama
mostly. But I go by Ben.”

Tom squinted again, studying Ben with a skeptical eye. “Uh
huh,” he grunted, a spark of recognition flickering through his expression.
“Last name wouldn’t happen to be
Smith
now would it?”

“What if it was?”

Tom smiled extra big, revealing a set of pearly, white teeth
which glowed against his dark skin. “I remember your pa, and your mama too. She
was a good woman. You look like her in the eyes.”

“Well, she’s dead now, sir.” A whoosh of anger crept up from
the pit of Ben’s belly and spread out over his whole body.

“I heard. And I’m sorry for your loss. I know she was done
wrong before y’all left.”

Ben nodded. “We were both done wrong. And I aim to make
things right.”

Tom stepped closer, almost too close for Ben’s comfort, and
peered into his eyes. “You come here to cause trouble, boy?”

“No, sir, not at all. Just wanna earn my keep and ride my
horse. This here’s Mighty Wind.”

“Huh,” Tom grunted again, turning his focus to the stallion.
“Mighty
fine’s
what I say,” he murmured, eyeing the animal’s legs and
haunches. “Mighty fine.”

“I raised him myself, from a colt.”

“You don’t say? Thinkin’ ’bout breedin’ him? Stud fees could
bring you a pretty penny.”

“We’ll see,” Ben said with a sly smile.

“All right then, Ben Eagle-Smith. Your secret’s safe with
me. For the time bein’,” Tom said with a wink, slapping him on the back. “Pay’s
five dollars a week plus room and board, for you and the horse. That sound to
your likin’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, come on, and I’ll show you ’round.”

Ben tethered Mighty Wind to the hitching post and followed
Tom toward the bunkhouse. “Supper’s at six sharp. And you don’t wanna be late.
The missus has some kinda temper when her people’re late. ’Course you probably
remember.”

“I think I’ll be able to handle her.”

“Careful,” Tom warned with
a hard look Ben’s way. “She may be tough, but underneath it all, she’s as
delicate as a flower, and I won’t have any of my men crushin’ her with a
rebellious attitude. And that goes for you, too. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” After a
moment, Tom’s expression softened to a smirk that worked its way across his
face. “There’s gonna be
some kinda
fireworks when she sets eyes on you,
that’s for sure. Some kinda,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, and she goes by
Angelina now, but you better call her Miss Raeford. ’Course that’s ’bout to
change. Gonna be Mrs. Millhouse soon.”

“Millhouse—” Ben stopped in his tracks as a surge of heat
coursed its way up to his throat. “As in Edward Millhouse?”

“Yep. One and the same.”

Angelina reached the barn and dismounted Eagle’s Wing. She
removed the saddle and eased the bridle from the horse’s mouth, speaking softly.
“Go on, boy. It’s such a beautiful evening. Go run free for a while. We’ll give
you a good brush down after supper.” With a slap to the backside, the gelding
trotted away into the open field, tossing its glossy mane.

She returned the saddle and bridle to the tack room and made
her way to the house, eager to wash up before sinking her teeth into a piece of
Ella’s fried chicken. Her mind was already buttering a flakey, piping hot
biscuit, when a creak from one of the porch rockers startled her as a tall,
elegantly attired gentleman rose to his feet. “Angelina, darling.”

“Edward!” she exclaimed, fighting the repulsion rising up
from the pit of her stomach. “Why, you’re early.”

“Never too early to see my angel,” he said in that slippery
tone of his that made her cringe. He smiled, revealing a set of white, even
teeth that seemed to disappear under his bushy moustache. Even though he looked
strikingly handsome in his three-piece suit and shiny black boots, he reminded Angelina
of the local undertaker preparing for a burial. That and his slicked-back
sandy, brown hair made her forget all about Ella’s tasty fried chicken and
biscuits.

 “I told you not to call me that name. I’m not a child
anymore.”

“Don’t I know,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist
and breathing into her ear. “How was your ride?” He pulled her close, pressing
his lean muscles against her side.

“Edward,” she protested, trying to wiggle free.

“What’s this? No proper greeting for your future husband?”
He cupped her cheek in his palm and turned her face toward his. Angelina didn’t
want to look at his sculpted features and smooth, tanned skin, but before she
knew it, she was locked into the dead stare of his dark, brown eyes. His gaze
flickered for a moment as a look of disapproval clouded his expression. “Darling—have
you been crying?”

“Of course not, it’s just the dust and flowers in the air.”

“There you are,” Jessie scolded, opening the porch door in
time for Angelina to nudge away from his grasp. “You should’ve told us you were
gonna be gone so long,” she said, cutting a look Edward’s way.

“Oh, Jessie, stop making such a fuss. Edward doesn’t mind,
do you?” Angelina cozied up to him and batted her eyelashes, as if her previous
indifference had been a misunderstanding. “Edward, dear, I don’t really feel up
to supper tonight. This pollen has put me all in a frazzle.” She walked her
fingers up the bottom of his waistcoat to his jacket lapel. “If you don’t mind,
I think I’ll go lie down for a while.”

“Well,” he said with that strange look in his eye that made her
blush, “if you must—”

“What?” Jessie chimed in. “Ella and I’ve been cookin’ all
day!”

“But I’m sure Jessie’ll be glad to dine with you, isn’t that
right, Jessie?” Angelina asked, flashing a dimpled smile.

Jessie’s dark eyes narrowed and her cheeks reddened to a
deep rose. “No, I’m sure Edward would rather have his
betrothed
at the
table—”

“Well, fine then!
I’ll see you two after a while.” Angelina planted a quick peck on Edward’s
cheek and winked at Jessie before scooting into the house. “Have a pleasant
supper.”

Bounding up the staircase, Angelina scurried into her
bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock. She held her breath and listened
for Jessie’s footsteps, but there was no sound other than Ella rattling pots in
the kitchen. “Thank goodness,” she mumbled, breathing a sigh of relief.
Lord, how am I gonna stomach being married to that man?

She checked her reflection in the mirror and gasped at what
stared back at her. “Oh,” she fussed, inspecting her red, puffy eyes and the
flushed cheeks stained with salty tear tracks. With a quick scrub with lavender
soap and fresh water, she washed her face and neck and patted them dry. Next,
she replaced her riding shirt with a freshly pressed cotton blouse adorned with
lace and tiny pearl buttons and tucked it tightly into her riding skirt.
“There,” she said, running a brush through her curls and pinching her cheeks
for color.
Much better.

Angelina opened the bedroom door and stuck her head outside
the corridor, hearing Edward’s low murmur mingle with Jessie’s girlish chatter.
She crept down the back stairwell toward the kitchen, being careful to avoid
the bottom step that squeaked like a frightened mouse caught in a trap. Just as
she was about to slip outside to safety, Ella looked up from her hot skillet of
fried chicken and frowned. Angelina slammed a forefinger to her lips, but Ella
refused to play along. Shaking her head, she shoved a hand on her hip and said,
“Child—you are too much. Just too much.”

As if on cue, Edward’s ridiculous, bellowing laugh filtered
into the kitchen, accompanying the sound of popping grease and sizzling meat.
Angelina covered her mouth to stifle any remnants of a giggle, giving Ella an
“I told you so” look, but Ella would have none of it tonight. With a snap of
her fingers and a point to the door, she shooed Angelina out of the kitchen
like she was exiling a stray dog.

Angelina scurried to the bunkhouse where a bout of raw, male
laughter filled the night air, so different from the raucous sound coming from
Edward’s mouth. Tom and his trainers and riders—six of them in total—would be
eating chicken and mashed potatoes with green beans and field peas. And no
telling what Ella baked for dessert.
A banana pudding, or maybe a peach
cobbler
, she thought.

The bunkhouse door opened with a prominent squeak as she
entered the dimly lit room. Two rows of bunk beds bordered the opposite walls, and
a large, rectangular table sat in the center of the room, anchored by eight
wooden stools. At once, the laughter came to a halt as the men set their forks
to their plates with loud clinks and rose to their feet. “Evening, gentlemen.”

“Evening, Miss Raeford,” Tom said. “You wanna take a seat?”
He pulled an empty stool from the head of the table and nudged it toward her
with the toe of his boot.

“Thank you, Tom. Don’t mind if I do.” She nestled into her
seat and they did likewise, but without a word. “There’s no reason to go all
quiet because of me,” Angelina said, taking a look around the crude, wooden
table. Wade and Stevie, two of the older trainers, sat across from Mitchell and
Billy, the younger men who groomed the horses and kept them tacked and ready to
train. And then there was the new man who sat at the end of the table—a native Indian
with his head bent over his plate. Angelina eyed him a moment, trying to get a
good look at his face. “Tom, Wade, you boys can go on and finish eating while
it’s hot. No sense in you letting Ella’s good cooking go cold on account of
me.” She chuckled, but no one else laughed. “Y’all save me a piece of chicken?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wade replied. “A drumstick. Just what you
like.”

“Mmm.” She grabbed the end of the chicken leg and bit into
the meat, letting the flavors coat the inside of her mouth as she chewed. “I’d
say Ella out did herself tonight. Whadda y’all think?” Again, silence
prevailed, which gave Angelina pause. She noticed Tom and Wade cut their eyes
over to the end of the table where the Indian sat. “What’s the matter with
y’all? Cat got your tongue because of a new boy come to work for us?”

 “I’m not a
boy
, ma’am,” the Indian man said calmly,
refusing to look her way.

“Excuse me?”
Angelina asked, her face flushing. “I call all my workers
boys
, don’t I,
Tom? Always have. You’re my boys while you work for Fairington. I take care of
my own. And if you have a problem with that—”

“Ma’am?” Tom said gently, patting the top of her hand with
his palm. “Miss Raeford? It’s his first night.”