Free Gabriel's Horses by Alison Hart

the summer kitchen, a small, slat board building behind the Main House. I haven’t seen Annabelle since I been back from Lexington, but I know she’s heard all about my winning the race. So when Old Uncle shuffles into the kitchen, I follow with a swagger.
    The room’s fire-hot and smells like fresh bread. Ma and Annabelle are pounding dough. Cook Nancy’s pulling a warm loaf from the brick oven. Jackson’s in the middle, sitting court, his legs stretched out in front of him.
    â€œWhy, we jest in time.” Old Uncle sniffs the air. “Smells like Christmas in here.”
    Annabelle gives me a sour look. Flour covers her cheeks, chin, and hair. “Did a strutting rooster follow you in here, Old Uncle, or is that Gabriel behind you?” she asks.
    â€œIt’s Gabriel, all right, the fine jockey,” I brag.
    â€œYou two quit sassing each other and listen to this,” Ma says. Wiping her hands on her apron, she pulls an envelope from her pocket.
    I was right. It
is
a letter from Pa!
    I pull up a chair for Old Uncle and then perch on a stool. Annabelle and Cook Nancy sit at the table with Jackson. Ma stands in the center of the kitchen, clears her throat, and reads, “Dear Lucy and Gabriel, I miss you with all my being.” Looking up, she grins as wide as a new moon.
    I grin, too. “Ma, when did you learn to read?”
    â€œAnnabelle’s been teaching me.” Her cheeks redden under the splotches of flour. “’Sides, I’ve read that first part so many times I know it by heart. Come on, Annabelle.” She gestures for Annabelle to rise. “You finish readin’. The rest of the words are too hard.”
    Annabelle takes the letter and begins again:
Dear Lucy and Gabriel,
    I miss you with all my being. I’ve been at Camp Nelson for one week. It’s as big as a city, with a hospital, warehouses, a blacksmith shop, and a sawmill. The camp supplies goods for the Union armies fighting in the war. Wagons travel in and out daily. I’ve been mustered in and will soon begin training. Barracks are crowded but the food is plentiful.
    I’ve met so many colored recruits that I’ve lost count. Most are as homesick as I. Reverend Fee has been most helpful in raising spirits and writing letters, including mine to you.
    I hope all is well at Woodville. Every day I pray for you, my sweet Lucy. Keep your faith that we will soon meet. Gabriel, please forgive your father for leaving without a proper goodbye. Care for the horses as if I was there. God bless you all.
    Your loving husband and father,
    Isaac Alexander
    â€œOh my.” Ma has tears in her eyes and she blows her nose in her apron. Cook Nancy gives a wistful sigh, and even Annabelle’s eyes are misty.
    The letter makes me miss Pa more than ever.
    Old Uncle whaps the table with his palm. “Where dose blackberries you picked dis morning, Miss Annabelle?”
    â€œRight here, Uncle.” Annabelle spoons the berries out into wooden bowls and pours a little cream over them, then hands us each a bowl. For a few moments, my only thoughts are of sweet berries.
    When Jackson eats his fill, he clears his throat. “I have an announcement, too.”
    I prick up my ears. Could it be news about Saturday’s race?
    â€œI’m planning on leaving Kentucky,” he says. “Goin’ up North.”
    â€œWhat?” I almost fall off my stool. “You’re leaving? Jackson, you can’t!”
    â€œI don’t have a choice. Mister Giles got Flanagan riding for him. There ain’t enough other work at Major Wiley’s. It’s time to move on.”
    â€œBut Jackson,” I protest, “Woodville needs you. Flanagan can’t ride worth a flip.”
    â€œIt ain’t just that, Gabriel. Sometimes a man just knows when it’s time to go. ’Sides, I hear there’s a resort town in New York state where horses race almost daily, even during these