To Whisper Her Name by Tamera Alexander

hope of finding the man. Still, he’d come all this way.
    He saw two stables — one south of the mansion and one north — and was leaving no stone unturned. Since Belle Meade was a stud farm, he assumed one stable housed stallions. And the other, mares. He headed for the one closest to him.
    When he stepped through the open doors, his gaze was drawn upward to the massive beams that supported the weight of the high-pitched roof. This place looked more like a cathedral than a barn. He glimpsed a tack room off to his right and shook his head at the number of stables and abundance of horse tack. Saddles, bits, bridles, and blankets lined the walls and shelves, all neatly arranged and far finer than anything he’d ever owned.
    Numerous barrels containing feed, and others containing water, were set every few feet down the length of the building. He blew out a breath. These thoroughbreds lived better than most people he knew, himself included.
    “You got the general’s permission to be in here?”
    Ridley turned to see a man standing in the doorway of one of the stalls, a pitchfork in his grip and a squint of unwelcome in his eyes. Ridley quickly sized him up. The war had taught him many things, mostly how to read people, and rarely was he wrong. But the thing he noticed most about this fellow was how he resembled one of the corporals from that fateful night on the mountain, the first — and last — time he’d seen Robert Green. He wasn’t the same man, Ridley knew. And yet, staring at him, it felt like he was.
    Ridley felt an instant dislike for him, yet forced a pleasantness, reminding himself why he was here. “I’m wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for —”
    “I asked you … Do you got the general’s permission to be in here?”
    Ridley held his gaze. “No. I don’t. But all I’m looking for is —”
    “I know what you’re lookin’ for, stranger.” The man strode toward him. “Same as what that fella we caught sneakin’ round here last week was lookin’ for. You tryin’ to scout out what General Harding’s doin’ with his stock so y’all can take it back to Renfroe’s farm and give that ol’ man a leg up before the next race.” He came within a yard and stopped, pitchfork raised. “I got my pay docked for that, so y’all ain’t doin’ that on my watch, partner. Not again. You best turn around and use that door before I poke your belly full of holes.”
    Ridley held his ground and the man’s stare, knowing he shouldn’t. Men like this were animals. Edgy. Territorial. Easy to draw off. You stared at them long enough, they felt a challenge, and he could tell by the way the man fingered the pitchfork’s handle, turning it, working to get a better grip, that he was an easy mark. With steam to blow off. Ridley knew the feeling well. He also knew provoking this man wouldn’t serve his cause.
    He made a half-hearted attempt at a conciliatory tone. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble.” He laughed. “And I don’t even know who Renfroe is, much less —”
    The man lunged, pitchfork aimed chest high, and Ridley spun, wincing when one of the tines grazed his upper arm. So much for filling his belly full of holes. The fellow was about his height, heavier with muscle, but a little slower. With a sweeping motion, Ridley undercut his legs, and the man went down hard on his back, dropping the pitchfork. But he didn’t stay down.
    Ridley kicked the pitchfork aside, dropped his pack, and bracedhimself as the man came at him. Momentum drove them backward, and Ridley slammed into a wall. The back of his head smacked with a thud he knew he’d feel later, and a horse let out a high-pitched whinny somewhere behind him.
    He shoved the man back with force. “Listen to me! I’m here looking for Robert Green, that’s all. And I —”
    The fellow came at him again, swinging hard. His fist connected with Ridley’s jaw, and Ridley would’ve sworn the guy’s hand was made of granite. He shook