Kentucky 1881

The cracking of a whip echoed in the silent room, drifting through the open window like an executioner's ax as it struck a victim's neck. Harold Leonard completed his work, then gazed up from the stack of papers to eye the elderly man sitting across from him. It wasn't hard to see why this man demanded respect and why he received every ounce of it.

Victor Turner was a large man, though his illness had taken a dramatic hold on him, reducing him to a shell, confining him to a wheelchair. His once-powerful stature was weak and thin, his face drawn and shallow. Still, he possessed a power - more in his eyes and arrogant mannerism, then his disease raked frame - warning one and all not to tangle with him. Even his name demanded attention. Victor Turner, it sounded like a single syllable the way people used it, never Victor or Vic, not even Turner and rarely Mr. Turner, but Victor Turner. It was as if speaking his name would turn the clouds to gold and the earth to wine.

His dark hair streaked liberally with grey hung to his shoulders like a shroud, his eyes shone a brilliant emerald green and his large weathered brown hands spoke of many long years of hard work and strong determination. Though the dark shadow of death stood on his front step, he still did not back down to anyone. Harold only hoped the old man knew what he was doing this one last time.

The woman next to him sat as a quiet observer, watching but not speaking a word. She remained so quiet in fact, that one easily forgot her presence. She had spoken little the past hour and a half as Victor dictated his wishes to the lawyer. She didn't look pleased with the revision to her husband’s will, but she wasn't the sort of woman who would argue with him - leastwise not in public. Her dark hair, much the same as her husband, was streaked with grey and held securely at the back of her head, beneath a dark violet bonnet made of the same costly fabric as her gown. Her dark blue eyes sparkled like precious sapphires in the morning light and her full lips were red with rouge.

She wore an expensive velvet gown in soft lavender hues, a white gossamer satin collar embraced her chest in a modest cut and full bustle on her backside accented her tiny waistline. Around her neck, she wore a string of tiny pearls, a ten-karat opal hung from the center of the strand, surrounded with small diamonds. The woman reeked with the air of sophistication and money, spoiled to the point of eccentricity by her adoring husband. What a strange couple these two made, Harold thought, as he tried to console his own misgivings on the day's events.

"I have to ask you again, are you certain, this is how you want things to be handled?" the younger, plump man asked, his honey-brown eyes searched Victor’s expression for any visible sign of regret, but there was none.

The man had his mindset on his task and would not be convinced to the contrary.

“Quite,” Victor said, breathing heavily through weak, tired lungs that had been too long neglected. "Just make certain, Daniel doesn't know anything about this. This must remain between the three of us until the time comes. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir, you have my word on it. But I should tell you, Mr. Turner, I don't like any of it. Daniel is like a brother to me and I don’t like what you’re planning to do to him. I've known the man since we were children, I respect him more than my own father and I've never kept any secrets from him. I don't know how I can start now."

"I understand, Leonard, but you need to remember how important this is, not just to me, but to both Daniel and Julia. If there were any other way around this, I would have taken it. I just don't have the time to set things right."

"I'll do as you ask, Mr. Turner. As your attorney, I have sworn complete confidentiality to you and your case, but I still don't like it."

"All that said, I think we should be going."

Louise Turner stood up and reached for the back of her husband's wheelchair. She hated to see the man so weak and vulnerable. The past few days had played havoc on him, robbing him of so much of his precious strength.

Harold escorted the couple out of his office, opening the doors as he preceded them. He watched with a frown while the black man stepped down from their Dearborn coach and lifted the man to the back seat before helping Louise in and stowing the wheelchair behind the wagon. The expensive vehicle pulled away from the front of the building, leaving Harold with a feeling of regret and guilt eating a hole in the pit of his pudgy stomach.

He hated giving that man his word, he felt as though he were selling his best friend to the devil himself. If only Daniel hadn't given the old man over to him as a client, he could have easily rejected his obstinate orders, but he had given his word to his friend to keep him on, and he couldn't back out of it. The money was one thing, having Turner stables under exclusive contract meant a great deal of money to the practice, but he also had his personal morals to consider. Since Daniel had insisted, Harold knew he had to ignore his standards and do as the old man requested. Mourning what was done wouldn’t help matters anyway. He knew what he had to do, and like it or not, the deed had been done and there was no turning back.

Running his hand through his thinning brown hair, he went back inside the building. He gave his secretary, Anna, orders not to disturb him then closed the door to his private office again. He sat in his large leather chair and opened the bottom drawer of the oak desk, glaring at the contents. Inside sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey and several small glasses. He pulled out a single glass, along with the bottle, and set both on top of the desk. Drinking didn't come as natural to him as it once had, a habit his wife Margie had broken him of quite some time ago, but there was little he could do at the moment. He needed something to dull the gut-wrenching guilt churning in his middle.

Harold drank down the first glass with a shiver and a growl that did little to ease the burning sensation in his throat. God, this stuff tasted like shit, he thought, and the worst part was that it did nothing to ease his conscience. After twenty minutes and two glasses later, he didn’t feel much beyond a soft numb buzzing between his ears.

He closed the bottle and put it back in its hiding spot in the bottom drawer, then walked to the hook holding his jacket and slipped it across his torso. Harold staggered out to the street in front of the large, three-story building, telling Anna he would not be returning the rest of the day. He gazed up to the clear blue sky, squinting at the light through bloodshot eyes. The sun was high and warm, and its heat radiated across his pale, round cheeks, but it did nothing to warm his guilty soul.

It must be around lunchtime which meant Margie was setting his meal on the table for him just about now. He sure didn’t relish the idea of going home drunk and hoped the walk would help sober him up enough to feign illness and go to bed for a few hours. As much as he hated lying to her, he hated the situation Turner had placed him in more.

The only good thing about this day was Daniel's absence. He had gone to Graves County on business and fortunately, he wouldn't return until the day after tomorrow. No doubt, he'd be back out at the old man’s stables come Saturday morning as always, but Harold knew Turner wouldn't say anything about his plans. He was determined to keep his transaction a secret until his death. Good, God! If Daniel knew or even suspected what the old man had done, he would be furious beyond words. The whole idea was insane, even if it was legal. If only Daniel hadn't turned the man over to him, Harold growled again, staggering in the direction of home.

Walking was very difficult since he could barely feel the street beneath his feet, but he managed to move forward without stumbling and falling even once. Harold prayed he could walk off enough of the alcohol’s effects to appear semi-normal before he confronted Margie. If he thought being locked in a room with the mighty Turners all morning was rough, just wait until his wife, now six months pregnant got a whiff of the whiskey on his breath. Hell had no fury, like the wife of a drunken lawyer.

The air was warm, and the wind blew gently across the tall wild grass of the open meadows. Daniel sat on the back of his steed, Roustabout, looking out over the land and watching nearly a hundred horses as they grazed the thick green fields.

He loved this place and had always felt content here, ever since he first set foot on this property. It was as though he were one with the vast serenity of the land. Daniel untied the ribbon restraining his hair back from his face, allowing the longer-than-style strands to blow freely in the breeze. He unbuttoned his frock coat and slipped it off his shoulders, laying it across his horse’s hindquarters. He knew he shouldn't have worn such a heavy garment, but the mornings were cooler this week than last. At least the afternoon held the warmth he had always longed for.

Daniel smiled at the peacefulness surrounding him, unaware of what the future held in store. He knew only a portion of what Victor Turner had planned, yet it was far more than he felt he deserved, and regardless of his constant arguing with the old man, he just wouldn't listen to reason. Daniel knew Victor's children would be furious when they learned their father had left him half the stables. He was certain there would be a fight on his hands, but it had been Victor’s wishes and he would never go against a dying man’s last request.

Sighing deeply, he leaned back in the saddle and tipped his face toward the sun. He loved the dry warmer climate of Kentucky compared to his home country of England. Though it rained, it was never as wet or cold as London. It was an inviting land and he had spent five years building a strong relationship with the property owner. He thought of him more as a father than a friend or client. Though he knew the will had already been drawn up, he couldn’t seem to get his mind off the heirs to the fortune or what their reactions would be when they learned they would be sharing the stables with a complete stranger.

Victor often spoke of his two children, Julia and Jeremy. Julia, he said, was pampered beyond the point of reason, yet she would always be his angel. He described her briefly as being ornery and hot-headed saying she had a bite as deadly as a scorpion and a tongue as sharp as a whip. There was a definite gentleness about the way he spoke of his daughter, a sparkle in his eye when his thoughts drifted over the years of happy memories.

He said she moved to Boston to be nanny to his sister-in-law's three children, but he never really went beyond that. He mentioned once a tragedy that had driven Julia from Kentucky, making her swear never to return. Daniel assumed it must have had something to do with an undesirable man, an unsuitable or unfortunate love affair, perhaps.

Daniel snickered to himself, remembering the many young debutantes he knew back in London, who fell into the same category, innocent by day and hotter than hades by night. No matter how much Victor pleaded or plotted, Julia refused to return home. The sorrow in the man's weak voice made Daniel suspect, being part owner of Turner Stables really wouldn't matter much to her. Her intentions - according to Victor - was to live the life she made for herself, which meant she would want to return to Boston as soon as he was dead and buried.

Jeremy wasn't described in quite as loving a way as his older sister. Victor stated that his only son had been reckless and somewhat of a playboy, in his earlier days. He hated everything his father offered to him, even to the point of using an inheritance from his grandmother to put him through school rather than the money his parents offered him. Victor said he was just as stubborn as his sister and never agreed with anyone about anything, least of all his own father. The only good thing he said about his youngest child was how much he loved and respected his mother.

Of Julia, Victor's tone always seemed to be more admiring than the one he used when speaking of Jeremy. He spoke often of a little girl growing up, who would ride with her daddy when he would go to round up the horses. He said if it wasn't for her bull-headed attitude, she would have had no faults whatsoever and blamed his wife's Italian blood for her determination.

Louise Turner, on the other hand, spoke lovingly of both her children, as Daniel knew only a mother could. Good or bad, her children were her pride and soul. She agreed that both were stubborn and independent and even admitted that they were somewhat spoiled, yet there was nothing unfavorable that she could - or perhaps would - mention of either one of them.

She bragged her son Jeremy up, mentioning time and again how he would soon be graduating college and how she wished he would move back to Kentucky when he did. She loved her youngest child and even went so far as to mention several prospective and desirable young girls whom she felt would make a proper wife for him. Daniel would never tell the woman that he knew most of the young ladies she mentioned. He would never admit to her that they were less than respectable or tell her how many had shared his own bed, along with half the men in Mayfield.

Louise spoke often of Julia, as well. She told him how beautiful her daughter was and how she would make a wonderful wife and mother to some lucky, deserving young man - as if he had never heard that line before. She admitted she really couldn't describe her daughter in perfect detail for him since she had seen her only twice in the past five years. A tragedy involving her best friend had torn Julia’s life apart, driving her from her home and family. Daniel began to wonder if the event Victor had mentioned was more of a love triangle, then an unwanted or unreturned liaison.

The woman went on to say she had asked her younger sister if she might take Julia in for a while. She had intended for Julia to remain in Boston long enough to finish out her senior year of school and then return home. But much to her mother’s disappointment, Julia refused to come back to Kentucky. She accepted a position her Aunt Lena offered her and became the family's nanny.

Apart from the few differences, both Victor and Louise described the same traits in their children, it sounded as though Daniel would soon be meeting a set of Siamese twins. He didn't know whether they would be receptive, or resentful toward him. He wasn't even sure what they looked like, although he could imagine both had dark hair, a trait shared between their parents. He imagined both were stubborn, conceited, arrogant, and vain due to their lavish upbringing and money. He only hoped they didn't remain in Kentucky long enough to cause trouble.

The noise of hooves brought Daniel out of his stupor in time to witness Rally Overton - the stable's foreman - hurrying his stallion in his direction. Daniel estimated the man to be at least twenty years his senior, making him close to fifty years old, if not more. Overton’s skin was dark brown from the many years in the sun, skinny and short in stature, as well as being an illiterate who never desired to alter his circumstances. He may not have been able to read or write, but he was damned good at reading the land and animals around him. He could tell when a mare was going to give birth and when the ground was too cold to let the horses out to graze, even if it felt warm to the rider.

“Mr. Brownin’," the man shouted, pulling his horse to a halt next to Daniel's. "We've got a problem."

That was nearly how every sentence the man began started. There was always a problem, even if it was nothing more than a cat having a litter of kittens behind the woodpile.

"What is it, Rally?" Daniel asked with a sigh

"One a the mare's is real sick. I think its colic, but I ain't fer certain shore. We’s found some moldy feed in the back a one a the stalls, but I ain't for certain shore, how it got there."

"Have you told Mr. Turner about this?"

Daniel had been overseeing the stables for Victor since he helped the man draw up his first will four years ago. They had developed an instant liking for each other, as well as a deep respect for the other's intellect concerning well-bread horseflesh. Victor offered to sell Daniel his prize stallion, Roustabout, at an almost obscenely low price. Daniel had been so pleased with his horse - a hopeful for next year's Beaumont Stakes - he had been willing to help the old man at the ranch, which he had done nearly every day for the past three years.

"No, Sir, I ain't. Do ya think I’s outta?"

Daniel shook his head, aware more than anyone - with the exception of Louise - just how sick the land's owner really was. To keep the ranch hands respect and loyalty, he had to help with the charade that all was normal at the main house.

"I think we can take care of it ourselves. I'll tell him after supper. By then we'll have it all under control."

Daniel and Overton hurried back to the stables, plotting the cure and cause of the moldy feed.

Several strange things had occurred lately, but there were too many contradictory reports to point a finger at just one person. The only thing everyone agreed on, was the dark-haired woman seen riding off the day they found three dead horses. Nobody knew who she was, or where she came from, and she rode too fast and knew the terrain too well to find. Even with Roustabout, they couldn't catch her.

Hopefully, they would be able to discourage anything more serious from happening in the future, or from causing trouble at the annual fall sales. Daniel feared for Victor's health and feared too that he would demand on helping them find the culprit behind the accidents. He not only had to protect the old man from an early grave, but he had to make certain the stables didn't suffer from these strange events. A little bad publicity could cause a huge ripple in the gossip chain and the stables would suffer the consequences.

Until Julia and Jeremy Turner returned home, it was Daniel's responsibility to keep things under control, and out of respect for the old man, he vowed to do just that. He didn't give a damn what the Turner brats had to say about it. If it was a fight they wanted, he would be prepared for it.

The peak of the dark brown roof rose above the towering trees, as the hack pulled up the dirt road leading home. The ranch-style windows with their diamond framed panes shone like rare gems in the setting sun. A warm breeze blew across the fields and stables, bringing with it the familiar odors of a horse ranch. The coachman continued his journey with a snort of disapproval. It was a scent Julia had once thought she'd never be able to wash off her skin, the scent was pure home and she found herself inhaling deeply. Strange, how someone could come to miss something so repugnant as the smell of horse dung and drying hay.

The door to the large ranch house swung open and the aging butler - long overdue for retirement - stepped out on the large wooden veranda as the team of horses pulled to a halt. His tight curly hair was sparse and silver and showed of a recent trim, his face seemed a little darker and held several wrinkles Julia hadn't remembered him having a few years back, yet he was just as welcoming and friendly as always.

Thompson had been with the Turner family since before she was born. He had been a bought and paid for slave, now free and working for a weekly salary. He had the chance to leave years ago and start a life as a free man but chose instead to stay on at the ranch. He was a loyal employee and a good friend. Never in all the time, Julia had known him, did he miss a day’s work, much to her father's constant complaints. It was odd how two people, who never appeared to get along, became as dependent on each other as Thompson and Victor Turner were.

Julia watched the old man accept her luggage from the driver, who quickly unloaded her belongings from the top of the coach. He was anxious to leave the smells of the farm behind as the haste in his actions revealed. Julia paid him promptly, included a generous tip, and then turned towards the woman walking down the steps behind her.

Her dark hair, though streaked with strands of silver, matched Julia's in length and texture. The midnight blue of her eyes shined her pleasure, yet her features were pale and drawn making her appear much older than her fifty-two years. It was obvious there was more behind Julia's urgent homecoming than she had been led to believe.

The return home to Turner Stables was prompted by a telegram from Louise who had pleaded with her daughter to return to Kentucky, telling her only that her father was very ill, and she was needed. The facts were hard to accept since her father had been sick only twice in his life as she recalled. That, with the fact that her mother was prone to exaggerate, led Julia to believe all was fine. Now, as she stood watching the older woman, seeing the fatigue and exhaustion etched on her delicate features, she realized there was much more here than what had been revealed in the brief explanation.

"Julia, darling, welcome home. How was your trip?"

Louise hugged her daughter's slender frame against her, wrapping her arms around her so tightly Julia was certain she'd choke the breath from her.

"It was fine, long but good. How's Father?" she asked, pulling away.

"He's resting right now, but you can see him in a little while. Let's get you settled in and get some dinner into you. You look as though you haven't had a square meal in well over a year. Hasn't your Aunt Lena been feeding you?"

Julia and her mother followed close behind Thompson who walked up the steps and into the spacious, well-cared for mansion. She looked around the entry as she removed her dark red and black hat and gloves.

The front hall was just as impeccable as always, etched in varnished oak with a matching light brown carpet. The stairs that faced the door wound around to the top floor, encircled in an oak banister that brought back many memories of little children sliding and racing down them. It had been five years since Julia was last here, yet everything remained exactly as when she left, making her homecoming feel stale. It was as if she had never left.

"I want to know about Father's condition," she insisted, receiving an urgent look from her mother, as she glanced towards the dark man who stood by the stairs with the luggage.

It didn't seem likely that Thompson wasn't aware of the situation or her father's illness, yet Louise acted as though she really couldn't speak freely in front of him.

"I'll see to yer unpackin’ Miss Julia," he said quickly.

His southern drawl echoed in his deep tone, as he hurried up the stairs. The two women watched the man ascend the winding staircase, disappearing like a dark shadow around the corner and down the hallway. Years of trust and service assured them they were safe to continue speaking. He would not be eavesdropping just out of sight.

"Okay Mother, now tell me, what's wrong with Father?"

Julia's urgency for knowledge was wearing thin on her tired nerves and weary emotions as she confronted her mother. Her sharp tone was the result of too many long hours on a smoldering hot locomotive, and the need for a long luxurious bath, maybe even a glass of bourbon.

"Let's get you something to eat, dear," the older woman hesitated in the details as she edged closer to the kitchen. "I'm famished, aren't you? The train must have been just dreadful. Why on Earth, can't they make those things less trying, it’s beyond me. Why, I remember when your father and I went to New York, in seventy-two..."

"Mother, stop it!" Julia snapped, grabbing the woman's arm and putting a halt to the irritating chatter as she turned her around. "I'm not a child. I have a right to know what's wrong with him."

Louise stopped just inside the kitchen door and lowered her head.

"He's dying," she whispered, her voice was weak, and her tone shook with the threat of unshed sobs.

"What do you mean, dying? What's wrong with him?"

Julia held onto her mother’s arm and stared at her lowered head. She wasn’t sure whether her mother was exaggerating or telling the truth, it just all seemed so unreal. When Louise did look up, tears brimmed her eyes and sorrow gripped her mouth, pulling the corners down.

"He has emphysema," she told her daughter painfully. "He was told about it several years ago but chose not to listen to the warnings. I suppose he thought himself immortal. He just kept working as though nothing was wrong. He never slowed down, he didn't even tell me until it was too late. We could have spent these last years together instead of pretending everything was fine."

Louise was near hysterics when she finished, causing Julia to pull her into a reassuring embrace, offering her all the strength she possessed.

“He’s very weak,” she continued with a few sniffs to fight the tears back. “You won’t recognize him. He spends so much time sleeping. I know he’s depressed and scared, but he won’t show it, instead, he sits around talking about the future as though there was one.”

They walked together to the small worktable in the center of the kitchen and sat down. Julia tried to concentrate on what her mother had said but thinking of her father in the terms presented before her wasn't easy. It was as though her mother spoke of a stranger, the man she knew and loved was far stronger and more determined than anyone she had ever met. With the way her mother described him, he appeared to be barely more than a forbidding stranger

"What does the doctor say?"

Julia found her own voice thick and strangled in her throat as she confronted the situation with both determination and disbelief.

"He's outlived what was originally predicted," Louise informed her, accepting the tea, Mrs. Lester, the family cook poured for them.

She wiped her nose and eyes on the embroidered handkerchief she always kept tucked inside the sleeve of her dress, before taking a sip of the hot liquid. They waited to speak further until the woman had left the room, to protect Victor’s privacy.

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

Julia felt numb, her heartbeat was thrumming between her ears, her hands slightly sweaty.

"It's too late. I don't think praying would even help at this point. If only he had told us earlier, perhaps we could have done something to prolong his time."

"Mother, please, you can't dwell on the past, it won't help. What father has done or hasn't done isn't the issue. We have to face the future for whatever it's worth."

The words were spoken, even though the pain and shock inside her began to demand revenge. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, to plead for miracles, but as logic threw its voice into the cloud of confusion, she knew there was nothing left to do but prepare for the inevitable.

"I don't think I can do this Julia," Louise whispered, unrestrained tears streaking down her pale cheeks. "I don't know how your father expects me to just say goodbye after twenty-seven years of marriage."

"Don't do this Mother," Julia whispered softly. The shock had yet to wear off and the pain was still throbbing wildly within her chest. "I think I need a drink," she announced, standing to walk back to her father's den, where she knew a supply of liquor was kept.

"I'll send a brandy up to you," Louise told her, wiping her eyes and nose on the lace hanky again before continuing. "Why don't you go up and get settled in, I'll have Bridget fill you a warm bath? We can talk more after you’ve had a chance to rest. Your father will be up from his nap soon and no doubt he'll be anxious to see you."

Julia thought this over for a brief minute and decided against arguing. A warm bath and a few minutes alone to digest what her mother had told her, was too overwhelming to pass up.

“Honey,” her mother said, halting her departure.

Julia turned and glanced across her shoulder, a frown pulling her brows together above her green eyes.

“I’m sorry this wasn’t the type of trip you were expecting, but I needed you by my side. I can’t do this alone.”

“I promise I'll be here for you,” she heard herself saying as she wrapped her arms around her mother again.

Julia wasn’t exactly certain why she promised such a heavy vow, she wanted to leave Kentucky as soon as possible, but she had a very strong feeling Boston was slowly slipping through her fingers.

That evening, after the three Turners had finished their supper, they retired to the sitting room for coffee and dessert, an old tradition that apparently had not gone out of style with her parents. Julia sat quietly beside the open doors to the veranda, watching her father with scrutinizing eyes. Once, a very strong, virile specimen of the male gender, Victor Turner now sat weak and withered to a form she barely recognized. Only his bright emerald eyes remained familiar to her. Even the dark, thick mass of hair she used to watch blow in the breeze as he rode toward the open fields, was gone, replaced with silver threads of age. He sat in a wheelchair, struggling to suck air into his lungs, yet acting as if nothing was wrong. As he sat determined to face his own death with pride and honor, the man proved to be stubborn and relentless, commanding the situation to the final moment.

Her mother had informed her earlier that afternoon, that her father spent his mornings the same as usual, conducting business until he became too weak to continue and was forced to rest. He consulted with several of the more trustworthy members from the stables, made repeated trips to Mayfield on business, and often rode in the Dearborn pulled by his favorite stallion, Mercury. It would never replace the long rides on the range he had in his younger years, but it was a suitable substitution.

Fatigue was the man’s worst enemy these days. He would tire easily and was forced to sit back in his wheelchair to wait for the end to catch him, or the hour in which he would go to bed and pray for a quick and painless release. It just didn't seem possible for this man who sat in front of her, to be her father.

"Your mother should not have worried you so," Victor told his daughter, as he eyed the older woman who sat next to him in her wingback chair.

His expression was stern and for an instant, the old Victor was back. Julia looked up, to find emerald eyes sparkling brilliantly at her and forced a reluctant smile to her lips.

"I am very glad you've come home, though. I need to speak with you before it's too late."

"Father you're tired," Julia argued, aware he would no sooner listen to her warnings then he had his own doctor. "Why don't we talk in the morning, after you've had a good night's sleep?"

"I'm not that tired and I must speak with you before I die. I have to explain what has happened."

The man's anxieties made his breathing quicken and his hands shake. Julia stood and walked to the chair beside him, laying a gentle hand on his arm, in an attempt to calm him down.

"I've left you co-ownership of the Stables," he continued with a deep breath. "You must assume my role at the annual sales this fall. I know it's not much time for you to prepare, but I'll help all I can before I go. I've briefed my attorney, Daniel Browning, and he's promised to help you when the time comes. I trust Daniel, listen to him, and take his advice. He's a smart man, Julia, and he knows what he's doing. If you have any questions or problems, he's the one to turn to."

Victor looked very pale as he struggled for air, his lungs rattled in his chest as he tried to speak, making his voice sound barely above a whisper.

"You must promise me this," his breath sounded strangled in his throat as he continued. "Don't give up the ranch, it's all we have, it's what we are." He gasped several times before he slowly regained his composure.

Julia's brows pulled together in a deep frown as she watched the old man's attempt to keep the air flowing within his weak lungs.

After several long, agonizing minutes, he spoke to her again, this time in soft whispered tones.

"This ranch, it's your heritage, Julia, and Jeremy's. Please don't let me down." His lungs began to rattle again, and Julia's frown deepened.

"Promise me, Julia. I must know you'll be there for me. I must know you'll keep the family's future going. Promise me!"

Julia couldn't bear to see her father like this, but she didn't want his legacy to fall on her shoulders either. She had her own designs for life and they had nothing to do with Kentucky or the family horses. Looking at the desperation in his eyes she knew she couldn’t deny him this one last request, could she?

"I'll do what I can, Father, you know that, but I don't know anything about breeding horses. I barely know the difference between a filly and a gelding."

"You'll learn," he gasped softly.

Louise’s slender brows furrowed with concern for her husband’s weakening state as she placed her small hand across his larger one.

"I had to learn, just as my father did and his father before him. You can do it, honey. You have to try, I need you."

Realizing how weak her father had become over the last few minutes, Julia felt she had no choice but to surrender to his demands, which she did, reluctantly.

"I promise," she vowed, knowing she sounded less than enthusiastic, or convincing.

"There's more," he told her, through gasps of forced air. "In the past four months, we've lost two good studs to snake bites and another two had to be shot after they broke out of the stalls. We found them both with broken legs, up on the ridge. Now I've got three mares and a colt down with colic from moldy feed. It's not unusual for things to happen, but it's rare considering the staff I have watching the place. What's worse, I think I know who's doing it."

"Who?"

Julia’s frown deepened, if he knew who was causing all the events, why didn’t he tell the sheriff?

"I don't want you to worry about it. I'll take care of it before I die, but I thought you'd better be aware of it."

“You’ve spoken enough for one night,” Louise insisted.

"You need to rest Father," Julia added firmly as she stood and walked behind the man, pulling his wheelchair around the settee while she pushed him toward the doorway. "Thompson will take you to your room and I'll talk with you more tomorrow."

She kissed his shallow cheek gently and nodded for the black man, who was waiting just outside the door. Julia watched Thompson disappear down the hall with her father, listening to the door to his room close.

It was bad enough she had to promise her father to assume his role in four months’ time, but then to be informed there was someone deliberately trying to sabotage the stables, just seemed like icing on the cake. Not exactly what she was anticipating when she returned from Boston.

When she turned back to the quiet family room, she found her mother still occupying the area. Her silver and black hair had been pulled back into a formal bun, just like she always wore at mealtimes to avoid getting the long tresses in her food. Her delicate frame was draped in a tailor-made dress of burgundy taffeta, that covered her from wrist to toe. Only the white lace around the cuffs and high neck allowed contrast in the deep rich color. Her tiny feet were void of shoes, much as Julia's were and she reclined on the settee near the fireplace, a small glass of sherry in her hand.

"I wish you hadn't let him go on so," Louise offered sternly. "He grows weaker each day."

"I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter, Mother.”

Julia walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of sherry before returning to the seat by the open door to the veranda.

“He just kept on talking, even when I tried to get him to stop. He's just a stubborn old bastard."

"Don't talk about your father that way," the older woman snapped. "He deserves more respect than that."

"No, he doesn't," Julia growled, her voice rising slightly as her temper increased. "Did you hear what he just did to me? He's always tried to control my life and now he's done it. I left Kentucky to avoid him doing exactly this. The next thing you know, he'll have me married with twelve kids, just so he can rest in his grave and gloat."

"Julia Dennese!" Louise gasped.

"I'm sorry Mother," she apologized with a heavy sigh.

She felt like a mad dog at the throat of its helpless victim.

"I didn't mean that it's just that I didn't expect any of this. I thought I was coming home for a visit, spend a few days riding the horses, visit some old friends then back to Boston. What am I supposed to tell Aunt Lena and Uncle Rupert? We had plans of traveling to New York this summer once the new baby arrived. What am I supposed to do now? I promised I'd be there when the baby was born, Lena trusts me, she relies on me. Damn it, Mother, I like things the way they are...were."

"Julia, have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe coming home for a few months would help you out of the rut your life is in?"

"What rut, Mother? I like my life the way it is."

"What you like is that there's no challenge or risk involved. You need a change, maybe take a long leisurely vacation with a handsome, stimulating man. Would that be so bad? Good Lord girl, your life revolves around taking care of another woman's children instead of your own. How exciting can that be?"

"I'm tired Mother," Julia insisted with a clenched jaw as she stood suddenly from her chair.

She was hoping to avoid this argument with her mother. It seemed to be the main topic of conversation whenever she came home or received a letter.

"I'm going up to bed and I swear if there’s a merciful God in heaven, he’ll let me stay there until hell freezes over."

Louise opened her mouth to speak but closed it again when her daughter turned a narrow stare on her.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. I like my life as is and I'm going to keep it that way come hell or high water."

With that said she turned on her heel and left the room and her mother to watch her departure in silence.

Like every room downstairs, Julia's room was exactly as it had been when she last saw it five years ago. Pink curtains still hung across the doors that opened onto the small veranda. Her matching bedspread now lay across the hope chest at the foot of her small brass bed and the crisp white sheets had been pulled down over a pale pink and white patchwork quilt. The pink rug appeared new and the smell of paint still lingered in the room to assure her the white walls had been repainted, but besides that everything was just as it always had been…pink and outdated.

Julia sat down at the vanity, looking around the room through the reflection in the mirror. God, how she hated the color pink, she thought. She remembered arguing with her mother for weeks over decorating her room. She wanted bright green, maybe even blue, but eventually her mother won out and she was stuck with pink. She moaned as she looked through the open door to her private wash closet. Even it was pink. It was enough to make a grown person cringe with nausea.

Sighing deeply, she reluctantly surrendered to the fatigue that had been threatening her stamina all afternoon and climb into her bed, slipping between the clean, cool sheets. All she wanted was a long, undisturbed forty-eight hours’ sleep. But since that wasn't possible, she'd settle for a little peace and quiet.