The Horsemaster's Daughter (39 page)

I
t was full dark. Ordinarily Eliza would have made herself a cup of tea from the wild rose hips she’d gathered at the last of the summer and climbed into her creaky bed with a lamp and a book. But she was not alone. She had a guest, and she couldn’t decide what to do with him.

At first, they’d been thrown together by circumstances and the horse’s need. But now, by some mutual agreement they had not actually discussed, Hunter Calhoun had become her partner in working with the stallion, and her guest.

She had no skills as a drawing room wit. In fact, she lacked both—the drawing room and the wit. Her father once told her that in some faraway places, like Boston and Baltimore and Philadelphia, people stayed up late reading aloud to each other and discussing what they read. Perhaps she and Hunter Calhoun could do that.

As she paged through her books—she didn’t know why she had to browse, since she knew the books like treasured pets—she kept thinking about how Calhoun had looked when he had finished bathing at the cistern and come to supper. There was something both touching and compelling about his thoroughness. He had washed every inch that she could see. He smelled of the hard lye soap she’d bought on one of her rare visits to the mainland. Even his fingernails were clean. His golden-yellow hair showed the furrows of his fingers where he’d combed through it, and a crystal drop of water seemed to cling to each curling end. She had the wild and probably erroneous impression that he wanted to groom himself for her, look nice for her, and the very idea made her stomach cramp with nervousness.

Over supper, Calhoun had explained how he’d come into possession of the stallion. His agent, a man whose judgment he trusted, had found Sir Finnegan on a vast estate in the west of Ireland. It was an area famous for producing the fastest horses in the world, and the stallion had grown strong on the grass that grew in the lime-rich soil. Though the stallion was known to be extraordinarily swift, his English owner deemed him a poor foal-getter and a nervous racer. Thinking to dupe an American bumpkin into a bad trade, he had been pleased to sell Finn.

“And he was right,” Calhoun admitted. “He probably knew Finn was half mad, and he only got worse on the sea voyage. That’s why he came cheap.” Calhoun looked disgusted with himself. “I still don’t know if this horse will race.”

Eliza didn’t want to raise his expectations too high. “My father used to say speed and sanity don’t often reside in the same horse. He trained the champion Aleazar, but his fame was brief. The stallion came to a bad end. At four years old he killed a boy and was shot moments after. So there’s no bloodline, just memories. And those are dying too.”

After supper Calhoun had gamely offered to look after the animals—water and dried cordgrass for the cow and the horse, and dried corn for the hens—and left her to herself in the quiet cabin. Idleness sat ill with her. She simply wasn’t used to sharing her duties.

She folded her arms protectively across her middle and stood in front of the bookshelves, wondering if she should offer to read to him like some young lady of Boston. But what?
Jane Eyre?
That was an unabashed romance, and Calhoun would probably mistake her intent.

A loud thump on the roof startled her. Without even thinking, she grabbed her rifle from under the bed and burst out on the porch, searching the darkness for the gleam of a cougar’s predatory glare. Instead, she saw only Caliban in the light streaming through the open door, his tail swishing and tongue lolling. The big dog’s attention was focused at a point over her head…on the roof.

“Mr. Calhoun?” she asked uncertainly.

“Hunter. I know you think it’s a stupid name, but I’ll thank you to call me that.”

“What are you doing on the roof?”

She heard a metallic clink as he opened his drinking flask. Ever since she’d given him the rum, he had kept his flask filled with it. “I wanted the view from your father’s observation deck.”

“The wood’s rotten. Falling apart.”

“It’ll hold. Join me.”

She set down the rifle and walked out a little ways so she could see him. “How did you get up there?”

“Stood on the porch rail and pulled myself up.”

His words made her picture him just that way; long strong body stretched toward the sky, his enormous muscular arms working to lever him up and over the eaves.

He held out an arm. “Stand on that puncheon and I’ll help you up.”

Feeling ridiculous, she climbed up to the top of the tall wooden cask—it had once contained Spanish olives in pickling brine—and balanced on the lid. His large hands reached for her, and she wasn’t sure what she should do.

It didn’t matter. He pulled hard. She heard a slight tearing sound as her dress caught on something. A second later, she lay on the sloping roof of the cabin.

Hunter Calhoun lay beneath her.

The moment heated every bone in her body, though her mind burst into a thousand scattered thoughts. She had never touched a man like this, even by accident. He didn’t feel as hard as he looked. He had a wonderful cedary fragrance. His yellow hair was amazingly soft. All the wild sensations rushed through her with the speed of a spring breeze, and then she realized he was laughing softly, amused by the awkward pose.

And his laughter too, was as evocative as a kiss. She could feel the rush of his breath and fancied she could discern its flavor. He tasted sweet with the spiced apples they had eaten at supper.

“You’re heavier than you look, girl,” he said, rolling to one side.

He kept hold of one arm while she righted herself and sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. He didn’t move away from her. “You were right about your father’s deck. Too rickety to hold us.” He pushed at the small, railed projection, made from the topmast of a wrecked ship. “Why did he build a deck up here?”

She hesitated, thinking of the hours her father had spent here. “I’m not sure. I think he liked looking out to sea. We should get down.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. The pitch of the roof is shallow. I don’t think you’ll slide off,” he said. “But these cedar shakes are dry as tinder. Don’t you worry about fire?”

“No.”

“One good spark from the stovepipe and the whole house could go up in a second.”

“It’s just a house,” she said, then saw that he was grinning and shaking his head. “What?”

“You’re a sorry excuse for a woman, Eliza Flyte.”

“Why do you say that?”

“All the women I’ve ever known are devoted to their things. They couldn’t stand the idea of losing anything.” He took a long drink of rum, though a distant expression sobered his face. “There’re women who’d give up a loved one before they’d give up the family silver.”

She wanted to ask him if he was talking about his late wife, but then she realized she didn’t have to ask.

“So,” he said. “About this view.” Setting aside the flask, he lifted an arm and with a sweeping gesture encompassed the night sky. “No wonder your father used to come up here.”

She let her head drop back and looked. It was the clearest of spring nights, the display of stars so dazzling that they seemed to circle and swim in the deepest black imaginable. “I do love the stars,” she said softly. “I love the stories about the constellations and how they got their names.”

He chuckled. “Let me guess. Your father’s stories.”

“That’s right. See that one there? It’s called Delphinae, who shot an arrow through her lover’s heart,” she said. “It’s truly a glimpse of heaven, especially on a night like tonight.”

“When we were boys,” he said, “Ryan—that’s my half brother—built a lookout platform at Albion. He always wanted to go to sea, and he used to lie up there each night, studying the constellations.”

“And did your brother ever go to sea?”

“He did. Sails a brig out of Boston and keeps a town house in Norfolk. He and Isadora make port often enough to visit.”

“He travels with his wife?”

Hunter grinned. “And their two babies. I daresay Isadora gives him no choice.” He settled back thoughtfully. “I never did pay much attention to the constellations and their stories. I just liked…the light, I guess. The idea that the universe is bigger than anyone can imagine, and that it’s always there, even when we’re not looking at the stars.” After a pause, he added, “These days, I forget to look up at them for months on end.”

“Why?”

He laughed quietly, mirthlessly. “Girl, you asked a mouthful. I reckon if you think about what I’ve told you of my life, you’d understand.”

“You haven’t told me that much,” she said.

There was a long pause. He took a drink from his flask. “I have two children,” he said.

She hoped the darkness covered her surprise. “Why didn’t you say anything about them before?”

“I don’t—I never know what to say about my kids. Theodore—we’ve always called him Blue on account of the nursery rhyme.”

“Little Boy Blue, you mean.”

“Yeah, that was his favorite. And Belinda.”

“A boy and a girl. That’s lucky.”

“I wish I could believe it.” He drew his knee up and rested his arm on it. “I might lose my kids for good to their grandparents. The Beaumonts don’t think I’m much of a father anyway.”

“Who’s looking after your children right now?” she asked.

“Nancy and Willa, the housekeeper and cook.” He noticed her skeptical look. “In my world,” he explained, “the father is not important.”

“In my world,” Eliza said, “the father is everything.” A wistful yearning stole over her. She waited for Hunter to tell her more, but he stayed quiet for a long time, listening to the sounds of twilight rising up over the marsh. The crickets and frogs surged to life on a great, energetic crescendo.

“I reckon I’ll have to find a new wife soon—give my children a mother,” he said.

“Ah.” She didn’t know what else to say. Resting her chin on her knees, she imagined how hard it must be for him to be missing his wife and worrying about his children and his farm. Perhaps being alone out here on the island was a blessing after all.

In her heart, she knew she’d never believe that, but she kept telling herself that she was fortunate to be free, unfettered by family ties.

“Is the viewing platform still up in that tree?” she asked.

“Yeah, but it’s old, probably rotted like your father’s deck. No one goes there now.”

“Wouldn’t your son like to climb up and look at the stars with you?”

“Blue?” His tone changed with that one syllable. “No, not Blue.”

She tried to picture Hunter Calhoun’s son. In her mind’s eye she saw a yellow-haired boy, rosy-cheeked, robust and athletic. Merry eyes and a laughing mouth. Hunter would be the sort of father a boy would worship, she was sure of it. Yet it was strange. When Hunter spoke of his son, she found herself wondering about what he wasn’t saying as much as what he was.

“Won’t your children miss you if you stay here much longer?” she asked.

He laughed, and it was that humorless, bitter laugh, the one that made her feel sad. “No, honey, those kids won’t miss me. I’ve never been much use to them.”

“How can you say that? You’re their father, the one they look up to, listen to, tell all their troubles to. I never knew my mother, but my father was my whole world.”

“It doesn’t work that way in my family. After Lacey died, her people took over with the children. Blue and Belinda spend more time at Bonterre than they do at Albion. They share a tutor there with their cousins and the neighbor kids. I can’t complain. The Beaumonts are good to them.” He lay back against the slope of the roof and stared up at the sky. “Yeah. They’re good to my kids.”

What about you? she wanted to ask. Are you good to your kids?

But she didn’t know this man. She had no right to question what he did or failed to do about his children.

“Charles is good to them too,” Hunter said. “He’s my cousin on my father’s side. He lives in Richmond, but comes out to Albion all the time. Loves the horses, and he knows about running a farm. And he likes being near his boy, Noah.”

“Noah is his son?”

“Yeah. Noah’s mother was a servant.”

“A slave.”

“Yes.”

“Is Noah a slave?”

“No. He’s family, and he knows it.”

She thought of her father’s rage and indignation when he read the journals and broadsides from the mainland. “In the eyes of the law, he’s not family,” she pointed out.

Hunter blew out a sigh, like a gust of weary wind. “He knows that too. I don’t make the laws.”

“You don’t object when they’re unjust, either.”

“How do you know?”

She almost laughed. It was so obvious from his laconic, pleasure-seeking nature that he wouldn’t bestir himself to take up a cause beyond himself and his precious Albion. “Because I think you are comfortable with matters just as they are.”

“I never saw it as my mission to change the world,” he admitted. “Hell, I can’t even change my bad habits.” He grinned fondly at his whiskey flask. His grin faded. “If folks won’t tolerate a boy of mixed race, I can’t force them to change. But in my eyes, Noah’s family. I count myself lucky, having a family.” His gaze penetrated through the darkness. “Don’t you get lonely out here?”

She spread her arms, encompassing all she could see. “This is the life I’ve been given. My father’s love was a precious gift to me, and I’d dishonor that gift by wanting more than I have.”

“So you’ll just stay here, settle for this?”

She watched the blaze of stars, and from the corner of her eye saw one shoot off and then fall out of existence. She could confess to Hunter Calhoun that there were days—many of them—when the simple act of breathing required too much effort. She could confess that there were some nights that she would not allow herself to sleep for fear that she’d dream of the night her father had died. But he was a stranger, so she didn’t answer.

They tracked the silent, angry flight of an owl on the hunt and listened to the distant swish of the endless, destructive caress of the waves on the edge of the island. The marsh whirred with the sound of frogs and crickets, but the noise itself was a sort of silence, pervasive and never-ending.