To Whisper Her Name (39 page)

The comments — not rudely meant, Olivia knew — had drawn laughter. But what the general said next had inspired her to hope Ridley might consider staying at Belle Meade after all, if given the proper motivation.

“Ridley Cooper is turning out to be a fine foreman. The other men respect him and respond to him well. Who knows but what he might have a future here at Belle Meade.”

Colonel Burcham, seated beside her at the table, had leaned close to her. “Hmmm … That may be, but helping with a yearling sale, leading a horse around … still sounds like a stable hand to me.”

Anger rippled through her again just thinking about it. Colonel Bryant Burcham was so much like Charles. To anyone looking on, he was dashing and charming, obviously a man of means. A man worth pursuing. But every time he touched her … The small of her back as she preceded him through an entryway; his elbow brushing hers at dinner; the way he always,
always
offered his arm, then drew her close — so close her breast brushed his arm. She shivered and felt Charles touching her all over again.

She kicked the covers back and rose from bed, her nightgown sticking to her body. November had brought cooler temperatures. But today, as often happened this time of year, summer seemed to be rearing its head again, and the air in her room felt stagnant and constricting. Standing at the side window, the one that allowed the view of the old Harding cabin, she breathed in the night air,
flouncing
her gown, as her mother used to call it. Billowing the fabric to force air up inside, she enjoyed the few fleeting seconds of blissful, heavenly cool.

It had to be well after midnight by now, and the cabin was mostly dark, except for a window at the front where a warm glow dispelled the night. She wondered if Ridley was still awake. Most likely not. Rachel would have given him something to help him sleep. Still, she wished she could check on him herself. She was growing far too accustomed to their time together and missed him when she didn’t see him.

Like now.

She glanced behind her at the window on the adjacent wall, hearing Colonel Burcham’s voice and wishing he and the general had stayed in the library for their little military
tête-à-tête
. If not for them,
Olivia was certain she could have sneaked down the stairs and back up without being discovered. Especially since Elizabeth, fatigued from the day’s events, had retired early. But the staircase emptied directly onto the porch outside the general’s office where the men were reliving their glory days.

Sighing, she turned back. Her gaze dropped to the wisteria whose blooms had long since vanished, then to the lattice. And slowly, stealthily, an idea began to form. An idea that almost felt as if it had been lingering nearby, merely waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. Hearing the thought plainly now, Olivia pushed back from the window.

No … She couldn’t. Ridley wouldn’t be here to catch her if she fell.

But
— an internal voice countered —
you didn’t fall last time. You made it fine
.

But last time, she’d had Ridley there to help her, which had bolstered her confidence. This time she had no one. And if she
were
to fall, she could lie there on the ground all night.
No
.

She looked back at the door again. That wasn’t true. The general and colonel would surely hear the ruckus and come running. At which time — if she weren’t dead — she would be in a world of trouble.

Which simply meant one thing …

She couldn’t fall.

She never would have entertained the thought of sneaking out like this before coming to Belle Meade.
Before meeting Ridley Cooper
. Just the thought of him cinched it for her.

She couldn’t get dressed fast enough.

O
livia tucked the back hem of her skirt in the front of her waistband, just as Ridley had taught her, then gripped the windowsill, her hands sticky from nerves. Snatches from the general and colonel’s conversation drifted toward her from around the corner on the porch below, and she caught an occasional whiff of their cigars. Pipe smoke, she’d never minded. But the smell of cigars turned her stomach.

She leaned her face out the window and took deep breaths, trying to work up the courage she lacked. She sent up a quick prayer, fashioning it after prayers she’d heard Bob Green offer in church. She didn’t know Uncle Bob well, but she knew him well enough to know he knew the Almighty better than most. And he spoke to God more honestly than anyone she’d ever heard.

She eased her leg out the window — the rhythm of her heart kicking up several notches — and could hear Ridley’s voice in the back of her head.
Don’t look down. Just concentrate on where you’re going to put your other foot
.

Holding on for life and limb, she finally managed to locate a foothold. Then, hearing Ridley’s silent counsel, she put her weight on it to make certain it was the lattice and not the vine. She got a firm grip on the lattice with her left hand and took a steadying breath. It was much cooler outside than in her room, and she welcomed the breeze — on the half of her that could feel it. She licked her lips and tasted fear. Then squeezed her eyes tight.

She could do this. She’d done it before.

Going against instincts she trusted, she maneuvered her other leg out the window, wishing for the first time in her life that women could wear trousers. At least while scaling the walls of —

Her right hand lost grip on the window, and she slipped.

Her body arched wide, giving her a sickening weightlessness that sent her stomach to her throat. It only lasted a second or two, but it felt like an eternity. And it gave her a glimpse of the ground far below she never wished to see again. Momentum propelled her back toward the house, and she knew she’d only have one chance.

She hit the lattice hard and clawed for a grip.

Branches tore at her right palm. She grappled for hold and something sharp pierced the soft inside of her hand. But she held on, struggling to find purchase with her right boot. Finally she did, and — body shaking — she pressed her forehead into the vine, clinging to it. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she breathed out, hearing it the way Uncle Bob said it and doubting her heart would ever regain a normal rhythm.

She clung there, willing her body to calm, to stop trembling — while watching for General Harding and Colonel Burcham to round the corner of the house and find her. She couldn’t hear them talking anymore, but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar in her ears. So she waited. But with every slowing beat of her heart, her hands lost strength. She either had to climb back in the window or climb down. She couldn’t stay here.

Finally, she heard laughter. From which decorated Confederate officer, she didn’t know. But she decided she wasn’t about to climb back in the window after coming this far and risking this much. The rest of the way down was more her body knowing what to do rather than her telling her body what to do. When she reached the bottom — legs shaking, fingers aching — she untucked her skirt and looked up, not exactly eager to retrace her path but knowing she could do it. Her right palm burned and was sticky with sap from the vine. But she’d have to see to that later.

At least she could say she’d conquered the lattice!

Even with moonlight, the mansion grounds were darker than she remembered on the walk with Ridley, and she looked around for the man on night patrol. She didn’t see anyone. Still, it was comforting to know she wasn’t out here alone. When she reached the stretch of meadow leading to the cabin, however, she grew nervous again and decided she’d rather not risk surprising any animal that might not want to be surprised. So she stomped through the field grass, making as much noise as she could.

The light in the cabin window still shone in the distance, and as
she drew closer, she caught the scent of pipe tobacco mingled with cherry and something else familiar. On the other end of the pipe was Bob Green.

He rose from his chair on the porch. “Missus Aberdeen?” he whispered. He took a couple of steps. “That you, ma’am?”

“Yes, Uncle Bob. It’s me.” Olivia kept her voice soft, like his, in case Ridley was asleep. She climbed the steps to the porch.

Uncle Bob glanced beyond her. “Everythin’ all right at the big house?”

“Oh yes. Everything’s fine. I just came to check on Mr. Cooper. To see how he’s doing.”

Uncle Bob didn’t answer immediately, and the trickling melody of the creek behind the cabin filled the pause. “You come all this way?” he whispered. “In the dark? By your lonesome?”

She grinned, proud of herself. “Yes, sir. I did. All by my lonesome.”

He smiled big, and so did she. She’d left out the part about climbing out the window but had a feeling he’d be impressed with that too, if he knew.

“Well, come on then. He’s inside. Still awake, last time I checked.”

She’d walked by the old Harding cabin countless times but had never been this close. The porch opened to a dogtrot that split the dwelling right down the middle, and she followed Uncle Bob into the left side of the cabin. A single oil lamp gave light to the room, and Ridley lay on a bunk by the stone hearth, his eyes closed. She might have thought him asleep, if not for the seashell he fingered in his right hand.

The lyrics of the creek were even more pronounced in here than on the front porch, and when she saw a back window open, she realized why. Her gaze returned to Ridley and to the thin straw-stuffed mattress and rolled-up blanket beneath his head. She thought of her own bedding in the Hardings’ home — same as that of her childhood and the home she’d shared with Charles — filled with goose down and fluffed daily by servants. She’d never given it a second thought.

Until now.

“Ridley, you got company, sir.”

Ridley smiled, eyes still closed. “Sure I do. Is it Jack Malone … here to finish the job?”

“Not exactly,” Olivia said. “But I’m guessing that with a head as hard as yours, you’d be fine even if it was.”

Ridley’s eyes came open.
“Olivia?”
He tried to sit up. Then paused, holding his head.

“Please don’t get up, Ridley.” She came alongside the bed. “I won’t stay but for a minute or two.” She directed the comment to Uncle Bob as well. “I just came to see how you’re doing after that …
display
of yours this afternoon. Which nearly scared me to death.”

Ridley smiled. “You were frightened?”

She nodded. “For the horse.”

Uncle Bob snickered behind her.

Ridley lay back down, his dark look unconvincing. “You’re one heartless woman. Coming down here to try to rile me up. And with my head already about to explode.”

She warmed at the comment, knowing it was his way of thanking her. Hearing the shuffle of steps, she turned to see Uncle Bob standing just outside the door. He nodded once, then left, the door still slightly open.

She took in her surroundings.
Rustic
described the cabin well and might have even been a little generous. The walls were paneled wood, as was the floor, and a small table with three mismatched chairs sat off to the left by the window. A clock adorned the wall above it, and a wash basin hung unceremoniously on a nearby hook. Maybe it was the stark contrast of having lived in the mansion for months now, but the cabin felt so small. And she couldn’t stop thinking …

This
was where General William Giles Harding had been born?

“Welcome to our humble abode.”

“It’s very nice,” she said a little too quickly, and could tell by his expression he’d already read her thoughts. Yet he didn’t seem the least put off.

He gradually turned onto his side. “The general and Mrs. Harding must be sleeping soundly tonight if you were able to sneak down the stairs.”

“Who said I used the stairs?”

Slowly, his easy smile faded to doubt, then disbelief. He rose on one elbow. “Olivia Aberdeen,
please
tell me you did
not
climb out that window by yourself.”

“All right. I won’t tell you.” She grinned, scrunching her shoulders.

“But I did!”

He exhaled. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could have —”

“Ridley Cooper!” She huffed. “I expected you to be proud of me!”

“Proud of you for risking your neck just to —”

“What happened to ‘Climbing’s just like walking, except you’re going up or down’?”

“That’s different, Olivia. That was when I was with you to make sure —”

“And what about ‘I want you to know you
can
do this’? Or did that mean something different then too?”

He stared at her, pressing his left temple. “You’re the most headstrong woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

He didn’t intend it as a compliment, yet she couldn’t help but smile. “And that’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

A hint of humor shone in his expression before he groaned and lay back down. “You’re going to be the death of me, woman.”

She laughed, not knowing exactly what he meant but liking that he cared enough to think his life hinged on her actions. She spotted a thatched-seat rocker by the hearth. The chair sagged with the weight of time and use but looked sturdy enough. She pulled it a little closer to the bed and sat carefully, wincing at a pain in her right hand. She glanced down at her palm, then almost wished she hadn’t. An ugly gash, not quite an inch long, was caked with dried blood.
The vine …
Apparently, the stickiness she’d felt earlier hadn’t been sap. So much for conquering the lattice. She buried her hand in her lap, not wanting him to see.

“I hope you had dinner,” she said, wishing now she could have brought something. Or had at least thought about it before coming.

“I did. Betsy brought something over for Uncle Bob and me.” He gestured. “She made those biscuits you like. We have some left. Help yourself, if you want.”

Olivia spotted a cloth-covered plate on the table. “Are you sure?”

He looked over at her, smiling. “Very. But only after you help me sit up.”

“You’re making me
work
for my biscuit?”

“You bet I am. Those are good biscuits.”

Careful of her injury and of him seeing it, she helped him to a sitting position, then rolled up a thin blanket and stuffed it behind him for support.

“Thank you.” He leaned back. “Feels good to sit up.”

“Where are the sutures?”

He pointed toward the right side of his head. “It only took nine or ten.”

“
Only
nine or ten?” She helped herself to a biscuit, using her left hand, and eased back into the rocker.

The quiet settled around them.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Olivia. Despite how you did it.” She gave him a smart look.

“It’s actually quite scandalous on your part, you know. Visiting the private quarters of an unmarried man.”

The way he said it made her smile. But she realized, with no small surprise, that he was right. She looked around. She’d never been in the private quarters of an unmarried man before. It felt a little rebellious and definitely beyond the bounds of propriety. But what she found most telling was how she hadn’t even given it a thought. Until now. She was a different woman when she was with Ridley Cooper. And she rather liked who she was becoming because of him. But she didn’t like seeing him hurt like this.

“You could have been killed today,” she said softly.

He looked at her. “But I wasn’t.”

“But you could have been.”

“But … I
wasn’t
.”

Though his tone was serious, the look in his eyes said he understood her concern. And appreciated it. And that was enough. For now.

She finished her biscuit and brushed the crumbs from her lap, her right hand aching. “I understand from General Harding that you’re in charge of the yearling sale. The way he spoke about you at dinner tonight, I’d say he thinks very highly of you.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“That’s nice to hear. And while I’m grateful for the opportunity …” He sighed, half smiling. “I’m under no illusion that I’ll be in charge. We both know who’s always in charge around here.”

She nodded, conceding the fact.

“What he’s put me ‘in charge of’ is coming up with a way to sell the yearlings that will result in the highest sales.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got some ideas, but I’m glad I’ve got some time to think about it.”

“Who knows? Your ideas might be so good he’ll make you an
offer you can’t refuse.” She tried for a casual tone, as though this next thought had just occurred to her. “Either that or … you may end up liking it so well here that, come June, you won’t want to leave.”

He held her gaze, his own deepening with an intensity born only from truth.

“Come June, Olivia …” He swallowed, the sound pronounced in the quiet. “Regardless of what happens with the yearling sale, I
will
be leaving. I hope I’ve never given you cause to think otherwise.”

The quiet of his voice and the honesty in his face made it impossible to maintain his gaze, so she lowered hers. Then saw, again, what was in his hand.

She gestured, grateful for the distraction. “I’ve wondered if you still had that.”

He held up the seashell. “‘Course I do. I’ll never part with it. At least not willingly.”

He looked at the shell then back at her. She nodded, and he held it out.

It was just as pretty as she remembered. The inside smooth against her thumb and pinkish like the dawn. With her thumbnail, she counted the outside ridges.
One, two, three …

“Twenty-eight,” he said. “There are twenty-eight ridges.”

He leaned forward to adjust the padding behind his back. She paused from counting to help, but he held up a hand.