Page 47 of Just Imagine
He waited for her at the top of the meadow. She reined in beside him and wiped the perspiration from her cheeks with her sleeve.
His saddle creaked slightly as he moved. “That was quite an exhibition.”
She kept silent, waiting for his verdict.
“Did you ride at all when you were in New York?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t call it riding.”
With a tug on the reins, he turned Vandal toward the stable. “Then you’re going to be sore as hell tomorrow.”
Was that all he was going to say? She watched his retreating back, then tapped her heels against Temptation’s flanks and caught up with him. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to let me ride this horse or not?”
“I don’t see why not. As long as you don’t put a sidesaddle on him, you can ride him.”
She smiled and resisted the urge to turn Temptation back toward the meadow for another gallop.
She reached the yard before Cain and dismounted while Samuel held the bridle. “You’d better take your time cooling him out,” she told the youngster. “And put a blanket on him. I rode him hard.”
Cain drew up in time to hear her orders. “Samuel’s nearly as good a stable boy as you were, Kit.” He smiled and dismounted. “But he doesn’t look half as fine in britches.”
For two and a half years, Sophronia had been punishing Magnus Owen for standing between herself and Baron Cain. Now the door of the rear sitting room she used as an office swung open.
“I heard you wanted to see me,” he said. “Is somethin’ wrong?”
The time he’d served as Risen Glory’s overseer had wrought subtle changes in him. The muscles beneath his soft butternut shirt and dark brown trousers had grown sleek and hard, and there was a taut wiriness about him that had been lacking before. His face was still smooth and handsome, but now, as happened whenever he was in Sophronia’s presence, subtle lines of tension etched his features.
“Nothing’s wrong, Magnus,” Sophronia replied, her manner deliberately condescending. “I understand you’re goin’ into town later this afternoon, and I wanted you to pick up some supplies for me.” She didn’t rise from the desk as she extended the list. Instead, she made him come to her.
“You called me in from the fields just so I could be your errand boy?” He snatched the list from her hand. “Why didn’t you send Jim for this?”
“I didn’t think about it,” she replied, perversely glad that she had been able to ruffle his even temper. “Besides, Jim’s busy washin’ windows for me.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. “And I suppose washin’ windows is more important than takin’ care of the cotton that’s supportin’ this plantation?”
“My, my. You do have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you, Magnus Owen?” She rose from her chair. “You think this plantation’s goin’ to fall apart just because the overseer had to come in from the fields for a few minutes?”
A tiny vein began to throb at the side of his forehead. He lifted a work-roughened hand and splayed it on his hip. “You got some airs about you, woman, that are gettin’ mighty unpleasant. Somebody needs to take you down a peg or two before you get yourself in real trouble.”
“Well, that somebody sure enough won’t be you.” She held her chin high and swept past him into the hallway.
Magnus was generally so even-tempered it was hard to get a rise out of him, but now his hand whipped out and caught her arm. She gave a small gasp as he pulled her back into the sitting room and slammed the door.
“That’s right,” he drawled in the sweet, liquid tones of his plantation childhood. “I keep forgettin’ Miz Sophronia’s too good for the rest of us po’ black folk.”
Her golden eyes sparked with anger at his mockery. He pressed her body against the door with his own.
“Let me go!” She shoved at his chest, but even though they were the same height, he was much stronger, and she might as well have been trying to move an oak tree with a puff of thistledown.
“Magnus, let me go!”
Maybe he didn’t hear the edge of panic in her plea, or maybe he’d been goaded by her once too often. Instead of releasing her, he pinned her shoulders to the door. The heat of his body burned through her skirt. “Miz Sophronia thinks just ’cause she acts like she’s white, she’s goin’ to wake up some mornin’ and find out she is white. Then she won’t ever have to talk to none of us black folk again, except maybe to give us orders.”
She turned her head and pressed her eyes closed, trying to shut out his scorn, but Magnus wasn’t finished with her. His voice grew softer, but his words were no less wounding.
