“Steady, girl,” Maggie whispered, peering down from the bluff, leather reins held taut. The thrum of spectators on the field below rose on the cool morning breeze, and she leaned forward to stroke the thoroughbred's neck. “Wait,” she gently coaxed, anticipation sparking the air. “It's coming . . .” But even as she said it, her own pulse edged up a notch.

Bourbon Belle pawed the dirt, and Maggie sensed the mare's restraint growing thinner by the —

The gunshot sounded. The horses on the racetrack below bolted from their marks, as did Bourbon Belle, and exhilaration fired through Maggie's veins.

Belle surged to life and Maggie gave the horse her head, allowing the mare to surrender to every instinct the animal's sleek-muscled body commanded. To run.

Belle's hooves pounded the smooth dirt path, and Maggie imagined that this was what Willie experienced when he raced Belle around the track below. Except the boy was less than half Maggie's weight, so he and Belle all but flew, just as she expected the pair to do again at the heat later this week.

One and a quarter miles, barely a two-minute race. But the thud of Maggie's heart marked the time as Belle rounded the familiar curve in the path, the mare's powerful stride devouring the distance.

Crouching forward, as she'd trained Willie to do, Maggie felt the wind whipping the pins from her hair, and she relished the freedom that only this kind of riding could bring. And though she knew the peace was temporary at best, she embraced it.

Belle thundered down the path and Maggie urged her on, the starting point looming just ahead. At that moment a chorus of cheers rose from the field, and Maggie looked to see a thoroughbred flashing across the finish line below. Belle powered onward, slowing only when Maggie tugged the reins.

Breathless, Maggie paused and let the pungent sweetness of the field grass fill her lungs. She reached to scratch the place between Belle's ears. “You did well, girl.” Maggie took another needed breath. “I was the one who slowed us down.”

Belle whinnied as though acknowledging the fact, and Maggie smiled.

The winnings from the upcoming heat — if Willie and Belle won, which they would, Maggie felt certain — wouldn't come close to paying the back taxes owed on Linden Downs, but she hoped it would be enough to pacify the Tax and Title Office. Again.

Belle had won her last five heats, and considering the number of races scheduled at Burns Island Track, that meant a fairly reliable source of income for the next few months. But what Maggie's sights were set on — if Linden Downs could survive that long — was the inaugural Peyton Stakes to be run that fall, the largest race in the country with the highest earning purse in history. And it would be run right here in Nashville at Burns Island.

And her own Bourbon Belle, the three-year-old she'd raised from a foal, would win that, too, barring any unforeseen competition. The mare's race times demonstrated that without question.

So why did the next few months seem like an insurmountable hurdle? She couldn't bear to imagine that, after holding on for so long, she and her father might lose the only home either one of them had ever known.

Maggie dismounted, welcoming the chance to stretch her legs and let Belle cool down before starting for home. But as the moments passed and the excitement of the race ebbed in the field below, the reality of her situation returned.

How had it come to this? Such a jagged end to something she'd worked so hard to hold together. Yet she refused to give in to the despairing thoughts. Not while she still had breath . . .

And a jockey ready to race only four days hence.

She would succeed. With Belle, and with Linden Downs. She had no other choice. Her father had been her shelter and strong tower for so long; now it was her turn to be his.

Maggie retrieved the pack she'd laid aside earlier, along with her rifle. The pack she stuffed into the saddlebag, and her rifle she secured in the sheath tied to it. Racing and shooting all in the same day. The term blissful came to mind, but didn't quite seem befitting of the activities.

She climbed back into the saddle and nudged Belle toward home, but quickly realized Belle wasn't interested in trotting. Or even cantering. The thoroughbred wanted to do what she did best.

And Maggie happily obliged.

Kneeling on the riverbank, Cullen McGrath stared into the murky waters of the Cumberland, yet saw only shadows of the briny deep that had swallowed his world whole. Never a man to question his own judgment, he'd been bested by doubt more times than he cared to admit since he'd first planted a sodden boot on this country's soil a year ago.

Regret had proven to be an equally brutal companion. But of one thing he was certain . . .

“I'll be keepin' my promise to you,” he whispered in the humid morning air, “no matter what the cost.” Were vows spoken aloud in this earthly realm heard in the next? He hoped so. In this moment, at least. His grandfather, who had spoken oft of such things, had assured him of it.

Aye, Cullen, me boy. 'Tis naught but fools who believe this life is all there be. The world comin' after 'tis far greater. And the secret of livin' this life to the full is to do it in light of the next. Never forget that you're —

“Hey! You over there. The horse is ready.”

Cullen grimaced at the sharp rein to his thoughts, his grandfather's brogue still thick within him like mist on the heathlands. People used to tell him as a lad that he sounded like the man, but not until recent years had he fully appreciated the comparison.

He rose to full height, but as he turned, movement in the field across the river caught his eye. A horse and rider passing in a flash. Nay, more like a streak of lightning. But was it really a —

He squinted. Surely not . . .

Yet the skirts flapping behind the slip of a girl — or was it a woman, hard to tell at this distance — left no doubt. She rode with a freedom and passion that reminded him wistfully of another lifetime. And she rode astraddle to boot. He felt the start of a smile. He hadn't seen that kind of speed and grace in a horse's stride since watching Bonnie Scotland race the wind back in —

“Hey! Are you listenin' to me, boy?”

Boy? Bristling, Cullen looked back and directed his gaze to the tree trunk of a man who stood waiting, reins in hand.

It wasn't the blacksmith, the owner of the livery, who had accepted his offer earlier — begrudgingly, if the blacksmith's reluctance to shake his hand indicated anything. But Cullen remembered this fellow all the same. Younger than Cullen by a few years, and cocky, from the looks of him. He'd come in shortly after the blacksmith had agreed to the deal and had stood off to the side watching and listening.

Cullen crossed the distance, sensing challenge roll off the man in waves. Back in the day he would've planted a fist upside the fellow's head just for looking at him sideways, much less for doing so with such disdain. But Cullen doubted that a blow, even square on, would take down a man this size.

Yet with his own stature and strength being a fair match, he gauged that one well-placed jab would at least shake a few bolts loose. And considering the anger that had been building inside him in recent months, it would feel good to knock the fool's head clean off his shoulders. Along with that silly smirk.

But he needed what he'd come here for today, so instead of giving in to old instincts, he met the man's stare straight on. He withdrew a wad of bills from his shirt pocket and counted them out, reaching for a civility that had been all but stripped clean in his months of working on the docks at Brooklyn harbor.

He held out the bills.

The man shook his head. “This horse is worth two hundred dollars.”

Cullen eyed him. “And yet I'll be payin' a hundred and fifty, like the blacksmith agreed upon not an hour back.”

A dark look hooded the man's eyes. “Dixon's changed his mind. Guess he decided he don't want to sell this horse for that amount. Leastwise, not to you.”

From his peripheral view Cullen caught the blacksmith peering from inside the doorway, and he quickly gained the truth of the situation.

He'd been in Nashville only two days, but already he'd faced the less than enthusiastic reception most Southerners extended to people from his homeland. And if by some miracle he'd managed to miss that, the countless HELP WANTED: NO IRISH NEED APPLY shingles hanging outside nearly every blasted shop he'd seen thus far told the story well enough.

It would seem the tales of hospitality he'd heard told back in Ireland weren't quite on the mark. But this was the New World, and a free one. He had every right to be here. And he'd come too far to turn back.

Cullen looked at the money in his grip, then at the man. “If this is to be the way of it, then you best tell Dixon he's decided to lose the sale.”

“He don't care about the sale.”

Cullen feigned surprise. “He sure enough seemed to care when he shook my hand on the deal.” With effort he averted his eyes from the magnificent animal he'd spent the last two days scouring Nashville's liveries to find. A Percheron, one of many fine specimens he'd seen. But none like this. A black stallion standing nineteen hands, with a sharpness to his gaze that betrayed a keen mind with strength enough to build a dream. Or so Cullen hoped.

“Or maybe,” Cullen continued, further testing the waters, “a handshake doesn't mean anythin' to you Southern gents.”

“Oh, it means somethin' to us. We just don't like bein' cheated.”

“Cheated?” Cullen gave a sharp laugh. “That's a mighty stout word to be bandyin' about, friend. 'Specially when you're the one shiftin' the deal here.”

“I ain't your friend. And we ain't got no deal. Not with you. Not with your kind.”

Again Cullen bristled. “And exactly what 'kind' would you be referrin' to?”

A sneer lifted one side of the fellow's mouth. “The way I see it, you're just like them darkies. 'Cept lighter. Out to cheat and steal, to take whatever you can. But we're teachin' them a thing or two. Same as we'll do with you.”

“Like them darkies, you say?” Cullen blew out a breath and tucked the money safely back into his pocket. “So not only are you as dumb as a beggar, you're also dumb as a cockeyed post, is that it? Or do you really think you can tell the make of a man by the color of his arse?”

Cullen managed to dodge the fellow's first swing — and the spooked Percheron's nervous sidestep. But the second blow landed like an anvil to his gut, and his breath left in a rush. The punch reminded him of his older brother's, only Ethan's blows packed twice the wallop.

Winded, but still steady, Cullen managed to drive his fist square onto its mark, and the man teetered — Ethan would've been so proud — and a trickle of blood edged down his chin. He blinked as if dazed not only by the blow but by the one who'd delivered it.

On the street passersby slowed their pace to gawk, children among them. A tiny girl, her expression stricken, stared wide-eyed, and Cullen — his fist still stinging — swiftly soured on the fight. He saw the moment for what it was — the chance to end it, and perhaps knock some sense into one of these hayseed hoopelheads.

A swift right hook, lightning fast with nothing held back — just as Ethan had taught him — and the tree trunk fell with a thud.

Cullen spied the blacksmith backing farther into the shadows. “I've no desire to quarrel with you, Dixon,” Cullen called out, flexing his hand, “but I do aim to have this horse. And for what we shook on. A man's word is his bond. If you don't have that,” he said, more to himself than to the other man, “then you've got nothin'.” He took a deep breath, and the ache in his side told of soreness that would set in by morning. He looked back again. “So tell me, are you comin' out? Or am I comin' in?”

The blacksmith, a short boulder of a man, came bustling out faster than his trim height would have portended. “It weren't my idea, McGrath. Y-you —” Stammering, he glanced down at his friend, who was still out cold. “You gotta know that.”

“All I know is that you and I shook hands.” Cullen tugged the bills from his pocket again. “Now in my book, that means we have us a deal. What say you?”

Dixon hesitated. His gaze flitted about, first to his friend, then up and down the street. Finally he snatched the money and stuffed it into his grimy apron pocket. “The horse is yours. But don't come 'round here no more.” His gaze ventured past Cullen a second time. “I won't sell to you again.”

Cullen glanced over his shoulder to see what was of interest, but spied nothing in particular. Even the curious onlookers had moved past. “And why won't you be sellin' to me again, Dixon? My money's as good as the next.”

“It ain't about your money.”

“If that's the case, then why won't you —”

“'Cuz buyin' a horse like that —” The blacksmith gestured toward the Percheron, frustration outweighing the hesitance in his voice. “It says you aim to stay here, get yourself some land, maybe start up a farm.”

“So?” Cullen shrugged. “What if I do? It's nobody's business but my own.”

Huffing, Dixon peered up at him. “That's where you're wrong, Irishman. You're in the South now, boy. There ain't no such thing as your own business. Not for me, and 'specially not for the likes of you. Now take the horse and go, before I change my mind. And if anybody asks” — Dixon moved to help his friend, who was finally coming to — “you didn't buy that horse from me.”

The man's warning sat ill within Cullen, and was only made worse by the dismal prospect of future business dealings in this town. But having learned the importance of timing — be it in a physical confrontation or otherwise — Cullen did as he asked, and gathered the Percheron's lead rein to guide the draft horse down the street. The effort took some coaxing, and he quickly added strong-headed to the animal's admirable qualities.

He made his way toward a saddlery shop he'd passed earlier. He only hoped the owner of that establishment would prove to be more open-minded than the others.

He held a similar hope for at least one of this city's landowners. Although, up to now, that hadn't been his experience. Without exception, every farm he'd visited yesterday with an inquiry about land advertised for sale had earned him the same response: Irish need not inquire. But he'd inquired anyway. Determination had given him no choice.

But determined or not, he'd come up empty-handed and had twice been threatened at rifle point for trespassing. He gave a frustrated sigh.

His pockets held the same currency as theirs, yet his apparently wasn't good enough. At least he didn't need a loan. No bank would loan “to the likes of him,” as Dixon had put it. But no matter. Cullen had funds enough to purchase one of the smaller properties he'd seen listed in the newspapers — if only they would sell to him.

Several were set to go up for auction within a fortnight, but his visit to the courthouse yesterday morning had provided a swift answer to the question about whether or not a bid from him would be accepted. No, he would have to find someone willing to sell to him outright. Which at this point seemed next to impossible.

But perhaps one of the property owners close to going to auction, if desperate enough, might be persuaded to take less than the asking price.

Cullen slowed his steps, his attention snagged by the distant roar of cheering and by another sound he could never mistake, not in a thousand lifetimes . . .

The telling, rhythmic pounding of hooves.

As though guided by some unseen hand, his gaze trailed the length of the street to a field at the far end. Seeing the twentysome-foot banner stretched across the entrance, he felt a wake of memories break inside him, and he paused on the sunbaked road.

BURNS ISLAND TRACK, the banner proclaimed, with the smaller title NASHVILLE THOROUGHBRED SOCIETY printed beneath.

Merely reading the words tempted him to turn and run while he still could, even as the tug of the familiar baited him closer. But he knew better. And besides, he'd already chosen to run. That's why he'd left England to come to America. To start over.

A question occurred to him then that was neither new nor kind, but he still wished he knew the answer. Was what had happened on the voyage across the Atlantic his punishment for what he had — and hadn't — done in London? Had the Almighty been paying him back?

If so, God was crueler than he'd imagined. Could heaven not see that he'd had no other choice?

Cullen's grip tightened on the lead rein. If he had come forward with the truth, it wouldn't have made any difference. People had already made up their minds. Much as they'd done here, in this town, as soon as he opened his mouth.

He'd never been ashamed of his heritage, and he wasn't now. But he was ashamed for having believed, for so many years, in the goodness of the Father God his grandfather had spoken of so many times. Turned out, maybe God the Father was more like his own da instead of the just and benevolent being Grandfather Ian had followed with such allegiance and affection.

From down the street, cheers swelled to a roar, and Cullen felt a thirst begging to be slaked inside him. But that part of his life was dead and gone now. As surely as were his precious Moira and their wee Katie . . .

A needlelike sharpness pricked the back of his throat.

If he could have given his life for theirs that day, he would have. He swallowed with effort. But God hadn't listened to his pleas. Not in the small hours of that morning, and not in the dark, empty hours that followed that night when the precious life he'd cradled in his arms reached out into eternity for the comfort of her ma. With heart ripped open and laid bare, Cullen had petitioned heaven for help. But God had turned a deaf ear.

The last time he'd attended Mass seemed a lifetime ago. On one of his first nights in Brooklyn he stumbled upon a church, heard the familiar prayers, and ventured in, something within already telling him it would be futile. He sat in the pew and gazed up at the blurry form of the crucified Christ and asked — nay, begged — God again to tell him why. To show him the way to go, tell him what to do next.

But no still small voice answered. No whisper, not even a wisp had heaven spared for him. So he'd left, vowing never to return again. The Almighty wanted to remain silent? Fine by him. He'd return the favor.

The Percheron shifted beside him and pawed the ground.

“Easy, boy,” Cullen whispered, reaching up to give him a rub. If he had any hope of a future in this town, or any other, it was up to him alone, and his past must stay buried.

But was an ocean vast enough to keep hidden the weight of his sins? Especially when one of the men Ethan had wronged was an American. Cullen had been told the scandal was reported in the papers here as well. No surprise, considering what horse had been involved, and what it had cost the American businessman. Cullen exhaled, exchanging the stale air in his lungs for fresh.

Surely his past demons — and those that likely still hounded Ethan, wherever his brother was — had grown weary and given up the hunt. If not, Cullen knew that if they caught up with him, they would eat him alive, gnawing on his bones 'til there was nothing left but dust.

Determined to keep running, he continued in the opposite direction down the street toward the saddlery shop. He was a long way from the rule and reach of London's Thoroughbred Society, and he intended to keep it that way. That, and stay as far away from thoroughbreds — and that racetrack — as possible.

He knew just how to do it too. Tuck himself away on some quiet little farm on the outskirts of town. A world away. Alone. That's what he wanted. Maybe then he'd find the peace he sought.

Once in the saddlery shop, he made his selections, choosing the finer but simpler leatherwork from among pieces more ornate yet not as well crafted. A fancy saddle caught his eye, and he knew which one Ethan would have chosen if there.

Ready to pay, he approached the counter, nodding to the young woman watching him attentively.

“Good day, sir,” she said softly, smiling at him, her eyes sparkling. “Perhaps you need help finding something else?”

Checking his gear, Cullen ignored the invitation in her tone and shook his head. “I believe I've got everythin' I need, miss. But thank you just the same.”

Like snuffing out a candle, the light fled the woman's eyes. She looked at him as though he'd grown a second head, one she found significantly less attractive.

And as she silently, stoically summed up his receipt, Cullen thought back to a night with Ethan in an English pub when a tavern wench had reacted much the same.

Cullen, you sorry bugger. Ethan had lifted his ale, laughing. If only you'd taken after our father like I did and had the mark of the Irish atop your head for all to see, that wouldn't happen. As it is — Ethan let out a hearty burp — you can thank our mother, God rest her, for those pale green eyes and dark curls atop your head that draw the ladies . . . leastwise 'til you open your mouth! More raucous laughter had followed.

Cullen smiled to himself, remembering. But apparently Southern women held the same opinion of Irishmen as did English barmaids. Through the years, Ethan had ribbed him mercilessly about not having “the look of the Irish.” But for that distinction alone, he and Ethan could've passed for twins. Aye, Ethan had slightly more brawn to him, but in countenance they were brothers through and through.

Half an hour later, Cullen had the horse nearly saddled and ready when he sensed, rather than heard, someone behind him. And he knew who it was. Wishing now that he'd finished the fight while he'd held the advantage, Cullen turned at the ready.

But the person he came face to face with wasn't the one he expected.