Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) Read Free Page A

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