Wild Midnight Read Free Page A

back to the highway. The road’s closed.”  
    By training and instinct Rachel believed in compromise and conciliation, but for the first time in her life she considered that perhaps both were going to fail her. She made a valiant effort to keep her voice steady. “We have people waiting for us, and we can’t keep them waiting much longer or they will go home. It’s impossible for us to turn back now.  
    The horseman’s eyes glittered. “The damned road’s private property. Now get out.”  
    She squinted against the sun. She knew he’d taken advantage of this, cleverly keeping his back to the light, just as he’d taken advantage of most everything else: materializing out of the shadows to startle Mr. Wesley and make him run the truck into a pothole, eyeing her in that insinuating way, undoubtedly waiting for them by the gate, perhaps for hours. Rachel set her rounded jaw stubbornly. She’d been told the field road had been open for years. The farmers’ cooperative, of which she was executive secretary, had been going in and out the past few weeks, and so had the gang plows and other machinery. No one had even registered a protest, until now.  
    “You are misinformed,” she said in her soft, determined voice. “This road runs between the property of Beaumont Tillson and the fields we have leased. He has never closed it off.” When only silence greeted her words, she went on, “In order to keep a road private one must close it off for forty-eight hours every year, that is the state law. Otherwise it becomes a public right of way. Mr. Tillson has not—”  
    “Crap,” the harsh voice said. “I’m Beaumont Tillson. And I say it’s closed.”  
    Rachel’s mouth dropped open. For a moment the rude words didn’t register. Beaumont Tillson was a much older man, she was sure of it. “You can’t be,” she blurted.  
    That wide, carved mouth tightened. “Lady, I know who the hell I am even if you don’t. And I’m telling you I don’t’want your damned tenant farmer trash making a four-lane highway of this woods.” He slid a long leg over the saddle and into the stirrup on the far side. He kneed the sidestepping, restless stallion into the road, reining it in tightly as it tossed its big black head. “The road belongs to me,” he said over the rattle of bridle and the sound of the black’s dancing hooves. “And I’m ordering you to get out.”  
    Rachel’s lips thinned. The black horse reared, spurred by its rider, and brought its forefeet down hard in the dust of the road less than a yard from her toes. She actually felt the breeze from those slashing hooves on the front of her jeans, and flinched. But she held her ground. They matched glares, her brown eyes steady against the crystal slits of furious gold-green. The horse reared again as the man on it dug his heels into its sides. This time when it came down the distance was wider, the black’s eyes rolling wildly as it shied.  
    “I am sure you know our group,” Rachel said in a voice that shook only a little. “We were formed in January of this year as the Ashepoo River Farmers Cooperative.” She hadn’t moved, knowing he was trying to bully her. Besides, she knew something about horses, and was not afraid of being run down. “A grant has been made to the co-op. It will give the small farmers in this area a chance to diversify their crops and improve their standard of living, something that will benefit the whole economy.” She felt as though she could recite the aims and purposes of the United Friends Service grant with her eyes closed, so familiar had they become. “This especially applies to the tenant farmers here who have little capital or investment in machinery and can’t make a living growing cotton anymore. It is not a new idea. As you probably know, boats from Draytonville used to go to Charleston and back for many years with loads of fresh corn, tomatoes, and other produce as well as fish and shrimp—”