Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) (26 page)

Holding his breath, he fought
the urge to turn around and see if she was watching. He counted slowly to
himself, when suddenly, she was there, her white kid gloves clinging to his
boot. “I’ll be there waiting for you, at the finish. I’ll be there—” But before
she could say any more, she was swept away with the crowd as Edward thundered
past, riding Almighty.

“Gentlemen riders,” the
steward called from the bandstand, “and ladies and gentlemen of Laurel Grove,
welcome to the biggest event of the day—the Carolina Challenge!” There was a
great applause as the crowd cheered, sending a spark of excitement sizzling
through the air. Several horses responded by neighing wildly, tossing their
heads, and gnashing their teeth at their neighbor, but Midnight Storm was as
good as gold. Ben was proud of the stallion, being a novice, and could tell it
was ready to go. With its head held high, it sniffed the air with nostrils
flared like a pointer prepared for the hunt. Its ears stood upright, reaching
toward the sky, while its tail swished back and forth. Ben patted its neck and
whispered into its velvety fur, “Ride like the wind, my friend. Like the wind.”

Ben retrieved the numbered
card out of his pocket and tied it to the stallion’s bridle, saying a quick
prayer to the Lord.
Jesus, there’s nothing more I can do. It’s up to you
now.
A sense of peace came over him at hearing the voice down deep in him
reply,
Yes, rest in Me.

The steward cleared his
throat and motioned for the crowd to quiet down. Adjusting his dark gray
Stetson to the back of his head, he read from a list of rules, toying with the
black leather tie around his neck. “Three miles with twenty-four hurdles,
including fences, hedges, water barriers, and fallen logs. Race begins here, at
the bandstand, then travels along the marked route to Claridge Springs by way
of Middleton Farm, through the woods to Palmetto Ridge, along the outskirts of
Fairington, then down to the Old McNair Cemetery. Then back over toward
Rutherford Hall and to the Methodist Church steeple at the south end of Main
Street. Last year’s winning time is twenty minutes and twenty-four seconds,
with Mr. Edward Millhouse on Pride & Glory of Rutherford Hall.” There were
more cheers as Edward tipped his hat and waved to the crowd. Almighty stomped
its hooves and snorted loudly, acting as pompous as its owner.

“Last but not least,” the
steward continued, “there will be no official wagering, no unsportsmanlike
conduct, and all obstacles on the racetrack must be completed with rider on horseback.
There are fifteen thoroughbreds competing, three colts, two stallions, seven
geldings, and three fillies. First horse to reach the steeple wins. Prize is a
silver engraved belt buckle and a purse totaling—” He hesitated as the crowd
grew deathly quiet, waiting in anticipation for the dollar amount to be
declared. “One thousand dollars!” There was an explosive roar of approval,
exciting Ben down to his bones. He couldn’t fathom having that much money. “May
God be with you!” the steward called over the noise. “And may the best horse
win!”

A round of chatter followed
the crowd as it was shepherded off the street to a safe distance from the
horses. The steward called numbers one through four, along with the
thoroughbreds’ names—Silver Socket, a pale gray and white gelding from the
Sutherland Farm, Raven’s Cliff, a black gelding from Claridge Springs, Four-in-a-Row,
a fine looking chestnut colt belonging to Isaac, and Adelaide’s Rush, a dark
bay filly with a black mane and tail. The riders settled into their saddles and
stirrups and took their positions at the starting line.

The next four horses were
called, which included a smokey black stallion and red dun gelding from
neighboring farms, a seal brown colt, and a red roan filly all the way from
Woodland Falls. Edward’s group came next, including three geldings, all paling
in comparison to Almighty, and then Ben’s group was called. A beautiful
palomino gelding with a white star on his forehead was announced and a light
bay filly that reminded Ben of Miss Majestic. Finally, the steward shouted his
name, “Number fifteen, Midnight Storm, a four-year-old stallion, standing
sixteen-and-a-half hands, and owned and ridden by Mr. Ben Eagle-Smith of Laurel
Grove.”

The crowd cheered, as hats
waved above gentlemen’s heads, and whistles reverberated through the mayhem.
Ben heard his name resonating above the hoopla, suddenly catching a glimpse of
Isabella’s lavender hat bumping up against Miranda and Rebecca and Mabel’s white
linen handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes. His eyes skated the crowd,
looking for the blue hat and quail feather, but it wasn’t there.

“Runners take your mark!”

Adrenaline surged through
Ben’s veins as he realized all of his hopes and dreams started and ended with
this day. He stroked Midnight Storm’s mane and spoke softly in his native
tongue. “
The Lord has not given us a spirit of fear, my friend, but of
power—His power. Whatever we set our hand to prospers.”
Edward glared at
Ben in a mocking way, as though he had heard. Ben stared back without reaction,
feeling his back straighten up in the saddle like a steel rod had been slid
down his spine.

“Steady!” The steward raised
his arm and pointed a pistol toward the sky, firing off a loud POP! Horse
hooves rumbled against the earth, as the thoroughbreds scrambled down the
street toward the main road that led to Claridge Springs.

Midnight Storm took off like
a streak of lightning, passing the palomino gelding and the light bay filly, before
overtaking three more horses as it thundered down the road. Ben caught a
glimpse of Edward’s dark hat but kept his primary focus on passing Adelaide’s
Rush, the dark bay filly. As they turned right into an open field, Ben felt
another rush of exhilaration at seeing the first jump—a five-foot hedge of boxwoods
connecting two oak trees at a space of fifty yards. Silver Socket, the gray and
white gelding, was in front of them and soared over like a lilting fawn. Midnight
Storm followed right behind but soon left the gelding in its dust. As the
second hedge approached, Ben kept the stallion to the left of the group,
avoiding Raven’s Cliff and the red roan filly from Woodland Falls who were
riding dangerously close to each other. Suddenly, there were whinnies and
neighs as two riders tumbled to the ground. Midnight Storm ignored the screams
and jumped with ease, galloping faster toward the edge of the woods where
Edward and four other riders entered through a wide opening.

The sun hid behind the covering
of thick limbs and leaves, as they closed in on the leaders, leaping over a
large fallen pine. “
Like the wind,”
Ben called to the stallion, urging
it down the wooded trail and out the other side to where a long, white fence
waited for them. A strong gust of wind swirled through his hair and snaked
around his neck and down his throat, making him swallow unnaturally. Instantly,
he was lifted off the ground, only to float back down again into a carpet of
cool, green grass on the other side of the fence bordering Middleton Farm. Two
horses fell behind, including Four-in-a-Row, one of Isaac’s favorites, which
left Edward and two other riders.

Ben was conscious of the
spectators congregated in clusters along the race path, and yet he was
oblivious to anything other than the black velvet hat that bobbed several
strides in front of him. Squeezing hard with his knees, he pressed Midnight
Storm over a split-railed fence, through a small stream, and over another
boxwood hedge that the filly next to them refused. Its rider went sailing
through the air and slammed down hard in the mud, almost taking Ben down with
him, but Midnight Storm kept going, sensing the familiarity of home as they
neared the woods that lead to Palmetto Ridge. This was their stomping
ground—their turf.

Relaxing in the saddle, Ben
gave the horse its head, sensing it take flight. He closed his eyes for a
moment, imagining his Uncle Bear Claw riding fast and furious, barebacked and
shirtless with long, gray-streaked hair streaming in the wind. And then he
thought of his father.
Always look to the inside—look to the heart.

The crack of leaves and bark
under the stallion’s hooves forced Ben’s eyes open. They were deep into the
forest that led to the other side of Fairington, at the exact spot where he had
rescued Isabella from the mountain lion that day. Midnight Storm raced past a
brown gelding with a jet-black mane, bearing down on Edward for the lead, getting
closer and closer, jumping long and wide over a fallen oak, and then galloping
toward the edge of Fairington. In no time, they overtook Almighty by a several
horse lengths.

“YEE-HAH!” Ben whooped,
unable to contain his glee. There were no other contenders in front of them now—it
was just a race to the finish. He let out a loud native yell, which made the
stallion run that much faster. Releasing the reigns, Ben felt his body moving
as one with the power of God’s creation. A warm feeling brewed deep inside his
belly, making him smile. He knew it was the Lord. “Thank you,” he whispered for
only the wind to hear.

The open field narrowed into
a wide, wooded trail that led to the stream running along the edge of
Fairington. Midnight Storm galloped toward the calming sound of water gently
whooshing over the rocks as it cut a path through the forest. Ben looked back,
but there was no one behind them. Kicking the stallion in the sides, he braced
himself for a giant leap across the banks of the stream. The horse moved
through the air with speed and grace, its hooves splashing against the edge of
the water before scampering up the trail.

Through the canopy of leaves,
Ben saw the vibrant green of the Fairington fields ahead. He envisioned
Angelina waiting for him there, wearing white and holding a bouquet of flowers.
The wind blew through her long curls and loosened a handful of rose petals that
floated up into the air and caught in her blonde locks.

Suddenly, a strange sound
came from behind, and the vision of Angelina blurred for a moment. Midnight
Storm jerked its head and neighed frantically as something whacked Ben on the
back, almost knocking him off his saddle. He gripped the reins and righted
himself in time to see the flutter of a white mane and the flash of a red
jacket by his side. A black riding crop ripped across Ben’s arm, tearing the
blue serge material like a sharp carving knife. Edward grimaced and struck
again, but this time Ben grabbed the crop, feeling the sting resonate through
his palm, down his arm, and into his chest. With a quick jerk, he tore the weapon
from Edward’s fingers and shoved him in the shoulder with all of his strength.
Almighty bit into the air, gnashing its teeth, finally nipping Midnight Storm
on the ear. The stallion retaliated by ramming Almighty in the side, knocking
Edward to the ground.

Ben kicked Midnight Storm
with his heels and cut through the trees, fighting to get through the woods to
the open field as quickly as possible. The wind whistled around his face as the
stallion ran faster and faster, weaving in and out of the thick brush. A POP
sounded off in his mind, reminding him of the steward firing off his pistol to
start the race. Midnight Storm stumbled for a moment, sending Ben forward in
the saddle. He grabbed the thick mane to steady himself and felt something wet.
Looking down, he saw that his hands were coated with blood.

“Whoa, boy!” Ben pulled on
the reins and the stallion stumbled again, almost falling over a rotten log before
slowing to a stop. He dismounted and saw a hole in the horse’s neck the size of
a dime that was oozing red. Yanking his jacket free, Ben bunched it in his hand
and pressed down on the injury to stop the bleeding. Midnight Storm whinnied
and pranced about as though the earth was made of hot coals.
“Shh—it’s all
right, now,”
Ben said, whispering in his native tongue.

Suddenly, the cock of a gun
hammer sounded behind Ben’s ear, making his blood grow cold. He turned around
and stared down the barrel of a Remington pistol in Edward’s hand. The black velvet
riding hat was gone, revealing Edward’s slicked down mane that was dirty and
rumpled. A streak of grime ran across his cheek and forehead, resembling hot
tar, and his red jacket was torn on the side. Even the ascot was twisted and
out of place.

“You shot my horse?” Ben
asked, feeling anger course through his veins.

Edward’s face crumpled for a
moment, growing dark and gray. He cocked the pistol again and pointed it
higher, right at Ben’s face. “Get back on and get out of town—and don’t ever
come back.”

Ben stared at the end of the
pistol, looking deep into the little, black hole where a bullet would fire and
possibly take his life, ending all of his hopes and dreams. The thought of
Edward Millhouse being the one to decide the number of his days suddenly struck
Ben as wrong and unfair, and downright unacceptable. “No,” he replied, shaking
his head.

Edward hesitated a moment,
staring back at Ben with a pair of dark, beady eyes. “So be it.” He cocked the
pistol again and pointed, but this time, his hand trembled.

Coward,
Ben thought, lunging forward to wrench the gun from Edward’s
grasp. Midnight Storm flapped its lip and neighed loudly as Ben slammed his
fist into Edward’s side, knocking him to his knees, but Edward still held a
firm grip on the pistol. He grabbed Ben’s legs with his free hand and shoved
him to the ground, wrestling Ben for control of the weapon. They fell on top of
each other, rolling down into a ravine where the stream used to run, which was
now covered with mud and dead leaves. Ben bit down hard on Edward’s hand until
he screamed, finally loosening his hold on the handle. Ben jerked the pistol
free and pointed it at Edward, seeing the black fire in his eyes and the
snarling lip that made him shudder. Edward reminded him of the
klandagi
, the black mountain lion, which had taken Mighty Wind
from him that day.