Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) (24 page)

He pulled her close and allowed his gaze to sweep over her,
resting on her hair and then her eyes. His fingers went to her mouth, gently
tracing the line that ran to the edge of her cheek and back down to her chin. Suddenly,
fire leapt from his dark eyes to hers, knocking her knees loose as the blood
rushed to her toes. She sank into his arms and waited for his lips to be on
hers, letting her know all was forgotten. Closing her eyes, she imagined the
feel of his smooth skin on her cheek and his strong arms wrapped around her
waist, pulling her tighter and closer, lifting her up to the moon and the
stars. “The Challenge is in three days,” he said, his brusque tone bringing her
back down to earth. She opened her eyes, and he was staring at her with a cold,
faraway look. “Then I can prove to you I’m the man you want me to be. A man who
can beat Edward Millhouse.”

“But you are everything I want. And you don’t have to beat
Edward to prove that. Tom says he doesn’t even have the deed—make him prove to
you that he owns your land.”

“No, Angelina. I won’t fight him through lawyers and
courthouses. That’s a battle that takes years, and a man like Edward won’t give
in easily. And besides,” he said, smoothing a wisp of hair off her forehead,
“I’ve come to realize something. Winning the Challenge is about more than
getting back the land.”

Angelina was lost in the depth of his eyes, feeling her
knees weaken again. “I want nothing more than to be with you, Ben,” she gushed,
unable to control her words. “I’ll leave Fairington and help you rebuild here.
My place is with you.” She pressed her body into his, feeling its warmth, but
there was no reaction from him. “Ben, please. Please believe me.”

He grabbed her by the wrists and gently pushed her away.
“It’s late and you should be getting home.”

“You’re not listening,” she pleaded. “My home is with you.”

“Not yet, Angelina,” he said, almost scolding her, bringing
shame for being so bold. “We must wait.”

“For what?” She stepped back, studying him for a moment.
There was something different in his expression—she could see it, as clear as
day. “It’s Isabella, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You love her?”

He chuckled in a mocking way and then gave her a serious
look. “How can you ask that?”

“I saw her in your arms the other day, at Middleton. Don’t
stand there and look at me like you don’t know what I saw.”

Anger shot out of his eyes as his jaw worked back and forth.
“Like I said—you need to be getting on home. I’ll see you safe to Fairington.”

“Fine,” she replied, returning his angry glare, “but I don’t
need you to see me to Fairington.” She snapped Eagle’s Wing’s reins from the
oak, making the gelding grumble. “I don’t need you or anyone else protecting
me.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Ben spat. “As stubborn as can
be.”

Angelina swung into the saddle and slid her boots into the
stirrups. “Me stubborn? Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle black!”

Clicking her tongue, she rode Eagle’s Wing through the woods
and back to the main road, galloping as fast as possible toward Fairington. But
the entire time, she knew Ben and Midnight Storm were close behind, keeping a
watchful eye.

Ben dreamed again, but
instead of seeing visions of thoroughbreds, mountain lions, or even Edward in
his fancy riding attire, he saw only Angelina. Her long, blonde tresses swept
across his face, making him laugh, and the hollow of her neck was at his lips.
Her skin shone like a luminous pearl as he kissed her again and again. Her hand
moved to take his—it was small and soft, and his fingers embraced hers, feeling
the delicate bones that moved underneath. He felt as light as a feather, as
though he were moving gently through the sky.

A horse sputtered and
neighed, pulling Ben back from his dream. His senses returned to him, and
slowly, he became aware of his surroundings. The birds sang and flitted through
the leaves while Midnight Storm munched on a tuft of grass below Ben’s tree
house. Opening his eyes, he gazed at the blue sky through the limbs of the live
oak, trying not to think about Angelina. Was she really sincere about starting
a new life with him? Or were her words just a subtle plan to lure him back to
Fairington? She seemed different, and yet there were things about her that
hadn’t changed, all of which left him confused. One minute she was in his arms,
and the next she was spitting mad like a boiling teakettle.

Ben ran his fingers through
his hair, trying to clear his mind. He knew better than anyone that it didn’t
do one bit of good to figure out Angelina Raeford on his own. As usual, he was
going to have to wait on the Lord. Stretching his arms and legs, he yawned,
feeling a splinter of wood dig into his back. His new abode was a tad
uncomfortable, but it provided independence and privacy until the Challenge.
Once he defeated Edward, he would bunk down in the old barn.

Midnight Storm bumped his
nose against Ben’s heel, indicating it was hungry and ready to ride. Their
usual routine was breakfast, a cool drink down by the stream, and a morning of
vigorous training. But today, Ben had different plans. After a bite to eat and
a quick ride, he was heading off to town to see Mabel Andersen at the Blue
Ridge Hotel. She had requested that he come see her before the race, which was
fine with him, since it had been weeks since he had indulged in one of her
hearty meals. And apparently, she had a surprise for him.

Ben sat up on his elbows and
watched Midnight Storm, wondering what Mabel had up her sleeve. “’Morning, boy,”
he said. “You ready to start the day?” The stallion rumbled a neigh and then
lifted its head and sniffed the air. Its ears flattened back to its head, and
it whinnied as something moved through the trees, straight toward them. The
leaves rustled and shook, and then a horse stepped through the foliage. The
filly was back.

White Flower trotted over a
fallen log and pranced beside Midnight Storm with a broken, frayed rope around
its neck. “What am I gonna do with you, little lady?” Ben scolded. He had used
a double braided rope and tied it extra tight to a fencepost at Rutherford Hall
just last night, but these tactics were obviously no match for White Flower’s
will. The filly looked at him with a doe-eyed expression and nuzzled its nose
toward Ben’s outstretched hand. He smiled and fished around in his pocket,
producing two sugar cubes—one for the Midnight Storm and other for White
Flower.

The whole town of Laurel
Grove was abuzz with the excitement of the Carolina Challenge, which was one
day away. Spectators and entrants came from miles around to attend the race and
festivities, camping along the main road and edge of town in tents, covered
wagons, and buggies. Townspeople with rooms to spare rented out accommodations
for a spectacular sum, and young girls sold meat and chicken pies as they
roamed through the crowd. Street vendors appeared from nowhere, selling fresh
corn on the cob, fish and chips, and barbecued pork. Already, the Methodist
Church was collecting cakes and pies for the annual bake auction, and artisans
and merchants were setting up their booths to sell their goods and wares.
Storefronts were swept clean, window trims were freshly painted, flower boxes
were replanted, and musicians and street performers provided entertainment at
every corner. Ben’s favorites were an old man who played a fiddle while little
boys danced around, and a younger, muscular man who juggled milk jugs and balls
for hours, it seemed. The excitement in the air was as thick as a warm vat of
molasses, and Ben loved it.

As he approached Main Street,
he took note of the many fine looking thoroughbreds being groomed by trainers,
Negro stable boys, and their owners. They were busy with preparations,
including elaborate mane and tail braiding, hoof cleaning, and shoeing. The
richly-colored horse blankets reminded him of his Uncle Bear Claw’s collection
of blankets and tapestries woven in bright, native designs. There were leather
saddles with ornate stitching imported from Europe, fancy bridles with silver
trim, and polished boots that rose to the knee. Velvet hats and fitted jackets
in bright colors dotted the landscape, as well as fancy silk and lace dresses
donned by the ladies. Even the local dressmaker had set up a rack of ready-made
dresses for sale. It was as if the Queen of England would be attending the
Challenge.

Ben laughed to himself,
reveling in all of the hoopla. But despite all the fine pedigree and elegant
accessories, he knew none of the contenders were a match for Midnight Storm.
“Isn’t that right, boy?” he asked the stallion, gently patting its neck.

As he neared the Blue Ridge
Hotel, the crowd became thicker, and the smells of food, horse droppings, and
sweaty trainers were enough to overwhelm even the most desensitized nose. Ben
couldn’t wait to get inside and catch a whiff of Mabel’s fresh kitchen. His
meager campsite meals of trout, squirrel, and rabbit left him salivating for
her beef stew, chicken and dumplings, and pork tenderloin.

The hotel was filled to the
brim with customers, and there were no vacancies, based on the hand-painted
sign hanging on the front door. Mabel had moved some of the flowerpots off the front
porch to accommodate more tables and chairs for guests to dine and watch the
ongoing activities. A young Cherokee girl named Tia, and Litty, an old Negro
woman, helped serve plates from the kitchen and refill glasses of lemonade and
iced tea. Ben saw platters of fried chicken, baskets overflowing with fresh
biscuits, and peach pie served with whipped cream. Despite the heat, the porch
covering provided enough shade to keep things cool. And every lady had a
brightly decorated parasol or fan in her hand to keep the sun at bay and the
skin lily white. Ben thought of Angelina. Her skin was smooth and sheer as a
pearl with a hint of a golden hue—as lovely as a ripe peach. And he had never
once seen her with a parasol or silly fan in her hand.

He led Midnight Storm behind
the hotel to the coach house where the customers’ horses were kept by Litty’s
husband, Arthur, the stable hand. Dismounting, he tied the stallion to the
hitching post and entered through the kitchen door. “Why look at you!” Mabel
exclaimed. She slammed the oven door closed and brushed a loose strand of gray
hair from her face. A wooden spoon was in one hand and a dishtowel in the
other, and her apron was covered in flour and peach juice.

“Good morning, Mrs.
Andersen.”

“That it is. And I think it’s
high time you started calling me Mabel, don’t you?”

“If you say so,” he said,
smiling.

She looked him over and
rested a hand on her hip, frowning. “As thin as a rail. Come on and sit down,”
she said, pulling out a wooden chair from under the kitchen table. “Living off
weeds and tree bark is what I hear. When’s the last time you had a good meal?”

Ben shrugged his shoulders
and watched her slam around the kitchen, shaking a skillet filled with sizzling
chicken, taking a pan of biscuits out of the oven and shoving a fresh-made pie
inside, and then closing the door with a swift kick. A soup ladle was used to
stir a pot of stew simmering on the stove and a dirty dish plopped into the
sink basin with a splat. It was like he was listening to the music of a
washboard quartet.

“Well, sit down.” Setting a
plate of hot food on the table, she rummaged in a drawer for a knife and fork.
“You could use a bath, I’ll tell you that.” She shook open a folded linen
napkin and tucked it under his chin. He smiled and sat down, scooting the chair
under the table to the distinctive sound of wooden legs scraping against the polished,
wooden floor.

“Sure looks good.” He stared
at the plate and salivated at the contents—fried chicken with diced potatoes
and gravy, field peas with ham hocks, creamed corn, and hot biscuits. Closing
his eyes, he quickly blessed the food and dug in.

“Race is tomorrow,” she said,
stirring the stew. “You still fixing to ride, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You gonna ride looking like
that?” She surveyed him from head to toe and made a face. “Hair a mess and
filthy dirty?”

Ben examined the front of his
shirt that used to be a crisp white but now looked a strange shade of gray. “I
reckon I could get cleaned up a bit.”

“You reckon right. You finish
up there and then you’re getting into the tub, and I don’t wanna hear any
complaints. And you’re gonna scrub,” she said, wagging a finger in his face.
“Your mama would do the same thing, God rest her soul. She was a good woman.”

Ben knew better than to fight
Mabel when she was in one of her moods. Besides, it would be nice to soak in a
hot bath and look presentable before the race. And Midnight Storm could use a
good washing too, as well as a brush down.
Might even braid his tail,
he
thought.

After completing his second
plate of food, Mabel shooed him out of the kitchen and into her bedroom where a
white cast iron tub waited for him, filled to the brim with hot, sudsy water.
The room was painted a soft yellow and covered with assorted pressed flowers
displayed in painted wooden frames. In the corner was a double-canopied bed
adorned with a crocheted lace coverlet over a light blue blanket. Matching silk
and crocheted pillows were strewn at the head of the bed, and the mahogany
canopy was covered in the same crocheted lace. Blue and yellow striped silk
curtains at the windows with white tasseled tiebacks completed the décor. “Now
strip down and give me those clothes,” Mabel commanded. “I have a good mind to
shove them straight down in the stove. ’Course it would probably smell up the
whole house, and then what would the guests say?”

Ben didn’t say a word, but pulled off his boots and removed
his socks and then nodded her way, signaling he needed privacy. As soon as she
left the room, he piled his dirty clothes by the bedroom door and sunk down
into the warm bathwater. It was soothing to his back and chest, and he soon felt
the pain in his body ebb away. He washed as best he could with the little bar
of lavender soap and closed his eyes, drifting off into a place where horses
thundered through the woods and leapt over hedges and fences. And then
somewhere in the distance, a mountain lion roared.

His eyes jolted open when Mabel swept back into the room,
her skirt rustling as she draped a cotton towel, fresh linen shirt, and work
trousers across the bed. “Time’s up. I’m busy and you need to get ready. I’ve
got something I wanna show you.”

Before he could answer, she
was out the door again. Ben grabbed the towel and dried off, rubbing his hair
until it looked like a mangy dog that had gotten caught in a flood. He slipped into
the trousers and linen shirt, sniffing the lavender and lemon scent that brought
back memories of Angelina.

“Now, here’s the surprise,”
Mabel said, peeking her head behind the bedroom door. “You ready?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said,
buttoning up the trousers.

She swung the door open and
breezed into the room holding a pair of shiny, black leather riding boots with
silver buckles at the top. She held them up to Ben and smiled. “Whaddya think?
I know they’re not Cherokee moccasins, but they’re mighty fine nonetheless.”

Ben stared in awe, admiring
the craftsmanship and design. He ran his fingers along the smooth leather
surface, feeling the sleek polish. He had never owned a pair so fine. “They’re
beautiful.”

“I’ve got a little money put
away, but what good does it do me if I don’t have someone to spend it on?” Her
gaze softened as her hazel eyes filled with emotion. “There’s no one else on
earth I’d rather spend it on than you.” She touched his cheek and gave it a
gentle pat. “You’ve got your pride, I know, but you need someone to love on you
a bit, take care of you. Don’t look at me like that, ’cause you know I’m
right.” She smiled and a mischievous glint shone in her eyes. “Now, there’s
something more. You have to have something to go with the boots.”

“Miss Mabel,” Ben protested,
“I can’t accept this—”

“You can and you will.” She
opened up the mahogany wardrobe, and there hanging in front was a beautiful,
royal blue riding coat with black buttons at the waist and cuffs, looking like
something Edward and his Charleston friends would wear—what Uncle Bear Claw
called
dinuwo
or white man’s clothes
. Ben stared at the coat, imagining what he would look like in such a
magnificent article of clothing. He never wanted to give in to dressing like
his father’s people
,
but he had to admit,
somewhere in him was the desire to reclaim his white heritage. Even as a boy,
when he tried to look and act like the other white boys, there was someone like
Edward or Angelina’s father to remind him of his Cherokee blood.