“Orlando, next stop,” the conductor called.

Certain this announcement would rouse her family, she glanced across the aisle.

Although her brother, Martin, was facing the window, her father, Charles, was looking her way and gave her what she called his patent leather grin. Back when times were good, that smile – and plenty of sweat – had built one of Kentucky’s most successful horse farms. This afternoon, the grin excused her for not taking her usual place beside him when they reboarded the train.

She sent him an answering smile, and he too turned to the window.

The open Gladstone at her feet beckoned. Inside rode a letter from Orlando Gordon, the man who’d lured them onto this train – and shared a name with their destination. What would her family say if she read them the letter? While Martin might laugh, her father would huff. She’d never do it, though. Not till she’d seen the man who wrote it.

Her fingers slipped into the bag, touched the envelope and traced the old-fashioned red wax seal with its filigree “G.” For months, she’d resented this man, who used expensive stationery addressed in a distinctive, angular script. Now, thanks to this small envelope, she wanted nothing more than to meet him.

She lifted her bag to the vacant window seat beside her. Taking care to keep the envelope out of view, she slipped the pages out.

Three weeks ago, she’d found a little envelope addressed to her tucked in with Mr. Gordon’s latest response to her father and carried it to the horse barn, her fingers pressing into the thick ivory vellum with its strong black lettering. The letter felt alive, as though the man who wrote it walked beside her – a man she figured for closer to her father’s 63 years than to her own 19.

Sliding her thumbnail under the wax seal, she lifted it off intact. Inside, she discovered not a single sheet of Mr. Gordon’s heavy stationery, but several pieces of onionskin, a clue he didn’t want anyone to notice how much he’d written. A mixture of dread and eagerness had spiked through her when she unfolded them.

The same tangle returned as she scanned the now-familiar words.

Belle Isle, September 18th, 1894

Dear Miss MacBride,

When I discovered your note enclosed with your father’s last letter, it filled me with joy and confirmed that my high expectations of you are well warranted.

Please understand: You are the reason I offered what you called an “exorbitant sum” for your father’s prize stallion, Mujar. In his letter concerning the auction of his Kentucky property and stock, your father mentioned that you had trained Mujar, his most valuable stud thoroughbred, as a saddle horse. I hoped to please you by purchasing him.

Thus, I was delighted when you rewarded my impulse with a separate note, but disappointed when you then cautioned me about buying him, as though I’m feeble. Please, let me allay your concerns about his skittishness; I enjoy a spirited ride.

In the same light, your confession of once taking Mujar on a bareback romp charmed me. While some men might be offended by the idea of a lady riding astride, our mutual friend Mr. Harney educated me long ago about the feistiness of Kentucky women.

Judging from the formality of your letter, I sense you view me as an upright but boring town leader. While I cannot deny this is the image I share with the world, it has little to do with the man behind the façade. You may understand this, since I believe you also lead a hidden life.

How do I know this? Through undercurrents in your father’s letters. I’ve long sensed a special link between the two of you, especially since he seldom mentioned you, yet often referred to himself and your brother. This both piqued my interest and made me wonder about your father’s intentions. While a proud papa could be forgiven for dangling his daughter before a wealthy, potential suitor, Mr. MacBride seemed to do the opposite.

Your note helped me resolve some of these questions. To understand how, realize that I believe one can learn a great deal about someone by examining his or her penmanship. In your case, I noted sizing and spacing not unlike your father’s standard script, although with proper feminine embellishments.

I compared your father’s signature with the rest of the text and found obvious differences. His signature pressed more deeply into the paper and betrayed unsteadiness not apparent elsewhere. I concluded it is likely you write your father’s letters and have him sign them.

Let me reassure you, then: I am impressed by this discovery. I hope you will feel the same when you at last meet me.

My new theory about your father’s correspondence inspired me to go back and re-read all of his letters. After careful study, I concluded that you did not merely take dictation, but composed them yourself. The hesitancy I detected about leaving Kentucky and purchasing my Florida property might not, as I’d long assumed, stem from your father’s concern about his ability to raise oranges.

Instead, it may reflect your own apprehension that this new enterprise will prove even more daunting than the trials your father faced with his horse farm. Or it could spring from some other cause. Perhaps a suitor who holds your heart captive?

Miss MacBride, if I have read your fears correctly, please believe that upon your arrival I will endeavor to assure your family’s success, both financially and socially. As for any swains you leave behind, I suspect I’ll not be the only gentleman seeking to supplant them.

One thing is certain: my new perspective convinces me that you must dote on Mujar more deeply than I suspected. This makes me all the more pleased to be bringing him to Florida. Perhaps one day you’ll visit Belle Isle and allow me to demonstrate the care I intend to lavish on your beloved stallion. It would delight me to see you on his back, with or without a saddle.

Anticipating your arrival, I remain,

Yours very truly,

Orlando J. Gordon, Esquire

That afternoon in the barn, she’d stopped reading, her hand clutching Mujar’s mane. How could a stranger know so much about her? Feeling the horse tremble, she’d relaxed her hold, placed her cheek against his soft muzzle and murmured “Settle down” to him – and herself.

In the weeks since, she’d re-read Orlando Gordon’s words, picturing him in guises from handsome prince to wily gnome. None fit, which only heightened her impatience to meet him.

She closed the Gladstone and smiled. His letter should offend a proper young lady. Yet he addressed her with assurance, wagering she’d be intrigued. She was – and never more than now, with their first encounter minutes away.

Looking out the window, she at last glimpsed a change in the view. Small frame houses on farming plots appeared among the pines. Then rough wooden buildings came into sight, which looked more like Western scenes from magazine engravings than a tropical wonderland. The tracks turned, running parallel to what must be Orlando’s main street, a block or so east of the rail line. She breathed in, seeking the place’s scent, but caught only the smoke of the wood-burning engine.

The train eased into town. New brick buildings, larger than she expected, dotted the low skyline. Perhaps billing itself “The Phenomenal City” wasn’t all hot air.

“Orlando!” the conductor called.

The engine pulled up at a red brick train station with a round tower.
Her father jumped up. Short and wiry, he moved like a man half his age. Only a thatch of white hair betrayed his years.

“Well, little one, here we are.”

She met his gaze, aware he was seeing both her and her mother, from whom she’d inherited her petite frame and burnished gold hair and eyes. As she got up and reached for her Gladstone, she felt her father’s hands graze her shoulders.

She smiled and gestured for him to go first, then noticed her brother stood watching her. Martin’s stature and looks echoed their father’s, although at twenty-five his hair gleamed deep brown and no wrinkles framed his winning smile. He lifted a hand toward the exit.

“Go ahead, Ro.”

“Oh no. You’re the one who’s panting to see this place.”

He shrugged and went ahead.

She smoothed her dark gray traveling suit and followed him off the train. Pausing at the coach door, she saw a tall, thin gentleman in a finely tailored beige suit moving toward them. She told herself this must be Orlando Gordon, although his pasty, bland face surprised her. Neither the man’s stiff stance nor his mannered smile carried the vigor of someone who planned to use a racehorse for pleasure riding. Frowning, she joined her family on the platform.

“Mr. Charles MacBride?”

The gentleman’s high-pitched yet authoritative voice made her doubt her snap judgment. Maybe this was the richest man in town.

Her father stepped forward and offered his hand.

“In the flesh, at last.” His voice shimmered like the Florida sun. “And you must be Mr. Gordon.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m T. Picton Warlow, Mr. Gordon’s attorney.”

She smiled and started forward to greet him, but a rail hand’s voice drew her attention.

“Get the horse out first,” he called.

She turned and saw an open rail door, with two hands sliding a ramp in place.

Mujar emerged, his head covered to keep him quiet, his deep chestnut coat glistening like a bottle of her father’s bourbon held up to the light. Another hand pulled off the hood.

“Here, boy. Take a look at your new home.”

The engine blasted steam. Mujar reared and broke away, his wild whinny calling her. She flew to him even as she glimpsed someone else do the same. The two converged on the horse, touching his neck where a mare nuzzles her foal.

Although she won the race, the stranger’s rough-gloved hand covered hers. Together, they willed peace into Mujar. When the stallion quieted, she became aware of the stranger’s light touch. She breathed in and caught a sweet but spicy scent, like rose petals.

She widened her focus and realized the man was a Negro, his skin a close match to Mujar’s deep chestnut coat. Meeting his dark gaze, she realized he was studying her with a child-like wonder inappropriate to his station.

Disquieted, she examined the rest of his face and discovered features in perfect symmetry, from his flaring nostrils to the wide lips curved in a smile.

His hand shot away from hers as from a hot stove. The connection had lasted only a few seconds, perhaps not long enough for anyone else to notice it. He stepped back, lifted his hat, and gave the head bob expected of Negroes, revealing close-cropped hair. Even the contour of his skull and the shape of his ears seemed sculpted, not some accident of nature.

“You must be Miss MacBride,” he said. “Mr. Gordon told me of your passion for his new steed.”

His soft, melodious voice caught her as firmly as his hand had. His accent at first seemed British, but with a lilt she didn’t recognize, as though English weren’t his native language. Yet he used perfect grammar, not the “Yas’m” speech common among Kentucky Negroes.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Do you work for Mr. Gordon?”

Again, the respectful nod.

“Yes, miss, I do. My name is James. I’m his grove foreman.”

She glanced at his body. Tall and lean, it matched the beauty of his face. He wasn’t wearing the rough clothes of a Negro servant, but a dark suit with a white shirt, like a Kentucky farmer might wear to church.

Setting that observation aside, she concentrated on the man’s mission, which clearly involved Mujar. She lifted her hand from the stallion’s neck and reached for his halter.

“I take it you’re here to claim Mr. Gordon’s purchase?”

His smile revealed brilliant, even teeth.

“Yes, miss.” He grasped Mujar’s halter, but well away from her hand.

 She loosened her own hold, and their eyes met again. This time, she detected simple curiosity in his. His features relaxed, and the lilt in his voice deepened.

“Mr. Gordon will be pleased to hear how well the roses he sent match your complexion.”

The remark warned that James would report to his boss about this encounter. Moreover, a Negro shouldn’t speak that way to a white woman. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

His head bent in farewell.

As he led Mujar away, she remembered Orlando Gordon. She started after James, to demand he take her to Mr. Gordon or at least answer some questions. Her father’s voice stopped her.

“Little filly!” he called.