Chapter 1

"Why it can't be! Ashley loves me!" The news from the Tarleton twins of Ashley's imminent betrothal to Melanie Hamilton took Scarlett by surprise. She set off down the driveway, ignoring her guests who looked back and forth at each other with perplexed expressions on their faces.

"Did we say something to make her angry?" Stuart Tarleton asked his brother, Brent.

"I don't know. She was chirping along just fine, then she suddenly clammed up," Brent replied.

Mammy, who had poked her head out of an upstairs window, saw Scarlett take off down the drive and yelled to her: "Where are you going without your shawl with the night air fixin' to set in? Why didn't you invite those boys to supper? You have no more manners than a field hand!"

"I wish I were a field hand," muttered Scarlett under her breath. "Then, I wouldn't have these problems." That thought crossed her mind at the precise moment that the corner of the stables caught her eye. An idea popped into her head. She took off toward the stables where Tara's proud legion of horses was housed. She knew right where to go—a trunk tucked into the far back corner of the stable, near the blacksmith's shop, which held spare clothes for the boys who regularly became soaked to the skin when they washed down an ornery horse.

She quick pulled out some clothes then ran to the house, where she sneaked up the back, servant stairs and into her room. She pulled off her white ruffled dress and undid her hair from the ribbons that held the sides of her hair away from her face. She donned the ragged pair of pants and buttoned up the blue chambray shirt. She tucked it in and although the pants were big around her, the length was about right. She cinched in the waist with a rope that was tucked amid the clothing items. "There, that should hold them," she said. Her long hair hung down her back, so she twisted it into a tight chignon and pinned it securely on the top of her crown then, smashed a wide rimmed straw hat down onto her head, low enough to hide her face and her hair. She pulled on her own riding boots and took back off down the stairs, running to the stable. She skipped smoothly over a muddy trench that was being dug to allow water to run off during heavy storms, then turned suddenly and took notice of it. She walked back to the muddy makeshift creek, cast furtive glances to the left and right to see if anyone was looking, bent down and dirtied her hands in the mud. Bringing her hands up to her face, she rubbed them across her cheeks, chin and nose, which she wrinkled in disgust at the entire process. Apparently something foul was mixed into the mud for her hands and the mixture she had just smeared over her face emitted a terrible stench but she only shrugged. "Better safe than sorry." Then, she ran off toward the stable.

"How could Ashley marry that mealy-mouthed Melanie?" wondered Scarlett for the umpteenth time as she mounted Sumter, a new filly her father had just purchased, with ease, securing her left foot in the stirrup and throwing her right over the saddle before barging out of the stable at a gallop. She tore across the yard and jumped over the hedge. Not wanting to ride down the main drive, she took a back way that led to the main road, swerving amid the trees and bushes and hedges that impeded her path. She cleared the last barrier with ease and continued at a gallop through the pasture, over a slight rise and then down a ravine before she came upon the main road. She was just climbing out of the ravine and was beginning to pick up speed when the Tarleton twins nearly ran her and her horse down.

"What the hell!" shouted Stuart. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You can't come tearing out of the woods like that. You'll get yourself killed!" admonished Brent. "Wait a minute—" Stuart was still trying to regain control of his horse after the near miss collision, while Brent already had reined his in. He got a closer look at the careless rider and burst out laughing. "I thought you were some no count Cracker from down the road. That's a good one! Hey, Stu, come look at this," he called to his brother.

"What?" asked Stuart as he rode closer. Upon seeing Scarlett tilt her chin defiantly at him, he repeated again, "What the hell?" as he stared closely at Scarlett with more concentration than he ever had been able to muster when faced with a textbook.

"Hey, we were looking for you, Scarlett," Brent said.

"Just why were you looking for me?" she returned, choosing to ignore their startled looks and take control of the conversation.

"Your mammy invited us to supper, so we thought we'd come down the drive and look for you. Who knew you'd be dressed in that get-up tearing through the woods," Brent explained.

"Oh, God, where did you find those clothes? You positively reek," Stuart told her.

"Listen, boys, if we're to get on at all, you must forget you ever saw me," stated Scarlett.

"Your mother would be mad, I bet," guessed Brent.

"Mad isn't the word," Scarlett replied.

"Scarlett, no offense, but, golly, I've never known you to smell like this. Could you please move your horse down wind?" Stuart was taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to cover his nose.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I'll race you to Mimosa and the only thing you'll smell is my dust," she said, kicking her heels into the horse's flank, and then taking off at breakneck speed.

Neither Brent nor Stuart was prepared for a race. Both sat lazily in their saddles, still recovering from the shock of seeing Scarlett dressed as a pickaninny and smelling like a sow that had rolled around in its own swill. However, neither could refuse an invitation to a race and they, too, called to their horses, slapping them on their hindquarters until they took off down the red road, leaving only a cloud of dust behind. Why this is like the Scarlett of the old days, they thought, before she grew old enough to put her hair up and her skirts down.

Scarlett was annoyed. She knew her secret was safe with the twins, but she did sorely miss the time she wanted to be alone. Time to ponder Ashley and the unfairness of it all. He loved her, she just knew he did. Why did the Tarletons have to ruin her solitary ride? She wanted to race against the wind, burn off her frustration the only way she knew how, being utterly free of society's do's and don'ts; free to do as she wanted, just like a man—without a corset to cage her in. Well, she'd enjoy what little time she had racing down the road to Mimosa. She had left them far behind and she'd also enjoy her ride home; she'd challenge them to another race and that way, she'd be able to enjoy a solo ride home as well. She heard someone calling out in the distance and assumed it was Brent or Stu in one of their attempts to fool her into thinking their horse was lame or there was some other problem, just to get her to slow down, then they would overtake her. So, she paid the voice no heed.

It didn't stop. The voice kept calling and finally, Scarlett recognized it as coming not from her rear, but from the crossroad that she was fast approaching.

"Boy! Boy!" shouted a man in a carriage at the intersection. "Boy! I'm needing directions." He yelled but Scarlett ignored his cry and hand waving, until she couldn't ignore him any longer. He had curbed his carriage directly in front of her path, cutting her off. She could either plow her horse through a newly sowed field, which was frowned upon in the county, or she could launch herself head first into a long row of shrubbery that bordered the road. The horse reared up as she pulled up on the reigns to make a sudden stop.

"Boy! You're riding like a reckless fool! You could have hurt someone, not to mention yourself," admonished the man who Scarlett recognized immediately to be Frank Kennedy, a fussy man if she ever saw one, who was half-heartedly courting her sister, Suellen. Scarlett kept her head down, but knew her ruse was up. She couldn't conceal her face much longer from Frank and the stranger who rode alongside him in the carriage.

"Well, speak up boy! What do you have to say for yourself?" asked Frank, as he stroked his ginger-colored whiskers. He was nicely dressed but always looked rumpled, thought Scarlett. She didn't know how old he was, but she guessed that he wasn't that much younger than her father judging from his looks. Finally, Scarlett had no choice but to answer him. She did it with a proud tilt of her chin and noticed that sitting alongside Frank Kennedy was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on. He was swarthy with jet black hair and a closely-clipped black mustache. He was impeccably dressed with a white suit with a white Panama hat on his head. His handsomeness made her feel more than a little conspicuous and she pulled the brim of her hat further down over her face.

Before she could respond to Frank, the exchange was interrupted by wild whoops of laughter and yells as the Tarleton twins barreled down upon them.

"Hey, Scarlett! You thought you were going to win, but we'll see to that!" Brent called over his shoulder as he passed her.

"What's holding you up?" Stuart yelled, as he, too, passed the carriage up before turning back to see what was the matter.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kennedy," Scarlett said, knowing full well that there was no reason to continue with her masquerade in light of the twins' obvious blunder.

"Why…Why…It's Miss O'Hara!" exclaimed Frank, who recognized the name spoken by the twins. "What are you doing? Is there something wrong at Tara?"

"Not at all, Mr. Kennedy. I'm just out for a ride."

"Well…well, Miss O'Hara," he began, flustered but then suddenly paternal. "I'm afraid you've put yourself at great risk, riding as you have done today. I'm afraid I feel compelled to speak to your parents."

"That will do you no good," she replied with restraint, having preferred to hurl one of Gerald's favorite oaths at the fussy old main in britches, but she held her tongue. "My father is the one who asked me to exercise this horse. However, my mother prefers that our stable boy handle this chore, but unfortunately, my father does not trust him with this particular filly. So you see, Mr. Kennedy, by bringing this up to my parents, you'll not only embarrass my father, but well…Surely you can see how awkward it would be?" she lied smoothly.

"Ahh, yes…I…I…see," Frank stammered. "But…but…I still feel that…"

"Let it go, Frank," suggested the man seated in the carriage in a voice that carried a distinct Charlestonian accent. His eyes hadn't left the young figure on the horse. He continued to scrutinize her up and down to the point that he thought he detected her squirming slightly in her saddle under his gaze. He had spent part of the previous evening and all day with Frank Kennedy, starting when they met in Jonesboro last night. He was led to believe that the man had contacts in this area of Georgia that would help him procure as much cotton as his money could buy, for Rhett Butler was nothing if not a man with a plan.

The war was to start any day now and he figured when the south met its ultimate demise, he would be a wealthy man if, and only if, he could buy up as much cotton as he could afford, run it to England on his newly purchased boats, store it there until the end of the war at which time, he could name his own price. This ultimate prize had been worth putting up with Frank Kennedy as his conduit to the wealthy planters in Clayton County. Last evening, he had murmured the appropriate responses that kept the man talking ad nauseum. As a result, Rhett knew quite a bit about the locals that he was scheduled to meet and hoped to woo into opening their wallets over the next couple of days. They were, in fact, on their way to meet with a one Gerald O'Hara, the Irish immigrant owner of Tara, a well-to-do plantation in the area. Last evening, over several whiskies (induced by Rhett over Frank's objections; he preferred tea, thank you) Frank had regaled Rhett with tales of the families in the county and because they were meeting with O'Hara the next day, he spoke at length about the man, how he came to own Tara, his wife and notably, his three daughters.

Snickering with a bashful look on his face, Frank had admitted that he was smitten with the middle daughter, Suellen. At the time, Rhett had wondered what kind of girl would go for a man like Frank Kennedy, who was fussy and slightly effeminate to a fault. He figured she couldn't possibly be the belle of the county or why would she settle for old Frank. Now, he had his answer. If the older sister was any indication of what Suellen looked like, the middle O'Hara girl didn't exactly have a full dance card.

"Hello, Mr. Kennedy," nodded Brent before turning to the dirty figure on the horse. "C'mon, Scarlett, let's go!"

"Good to see you again, Mr. Kennedy," added Stuart, before he, too, turned his attention to the rider at his side. "Yes, Scarlett, let's go. We can still get our ride in before supper."

Scarlett. Rhett rolled the name around on this tongue. It was slightly decadent, obscure, sensuous and yet bold and brazen. What an unusual name for such a common creature, he thought. Rhett was obviously puzzled as both boys jostled for the girl-boy's attention, each trying to angle their horse in a prime position where she would be most likely to give them preferential treatment. Now Rhett was confused. This girl, if he could believe that she was indeed a female, had a pointed chin and square jaw, which wasn't indicative of a great beauty. Physically, the build was slight and small. But she did have a quality—something he could only define as charm of some sort that certainly drew these boys like a moth to a flame. If only he could see the rest of her face. Damn that hat! But obviously that was her intention. She didn't want to be recognized. If only…if only…the breeze would flutter that brim up and away from her face, but it didn't. But, from what he did see, taking away the grime and the odious smell, he deduced that Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charms as the Tarleton twins were. They were obviously captivated by her. He had seen enough men make fools of themselves over a woman to know when a man was thinking with his loins and not his head. But this just didn't make sense. How could they be so enraptured, the both of them, with such an obvious tomboy? Was it her charm? She-he certainly had spirit, he had to admit. She-he rode a horse as well as any man and had cleared that last hedge like a champion. Finally, Rhett concluded that they must be childhood friends. That explained the relationship; it wasn't based on attraction, but on camaraderie. He surmised that neither boy would be dancing with this girl any time soon and for a brief moment, he imagined himself entering the Saint Cecilia Ball in Charleston with this little piece on his arm. "Wouldn't my father like that," thought Rhett, and chuckled to himself at the absurdity of the idea. But it still intrigued him in a malicious way. It would be wonderful to thumb his nose as Charleston's blue bloods, and particularly this father, by attending a social function with such an unsuitable creature.

"I just need directions before you go," said Frank. "We've a meeting with your father this afternoon and I'm not clear on which is the road to Tara."

"Follow me then," sighed Scarlett, disappointed that her ride was cut short by this ill-timed meeting. "I'll lead you to the main drive and indicate with a wave where you should turn in. You can follow the Tarletons here, just don't follow me. I'll be heading around back to the stables."

"Thank you, Miss O'Hara. But…ummm, I have to say again, I feel that I should say something—"

"Mr. Kennedy," Scarlett interrupted. "I understand your obvious concern and I am flattered. However, by speaking to my parents you will unwittingly place my father in a rather uncomfortable situation," she explained in a sugary sweet tone as she surveyed both Frank and then, Rhett, in the carriage. "If you're looking to do business with him, you wouldn't want to maneuver him against a wall in front of his wife, would you?"

"Frank, she's got a point," Rhett interjected. "You don't want to start off on the wrong foot with Mr. O'Hara." He directed his suggestion at Frank, but cast a quick glance at Scarlett and gave her wink of assurance, followed by a quick smile. He wasn't exactly sure what it was about her that made him want to befriend her. But his initial opinion of her was changing. She certainly was well spoken, which was at odds with her attire. She was not the daughter of an illiterate backwoods planter. While her father may have immigrated from Ireland, he recalled Frank saying something about her mother being a Robillard of Savannah. The name struck a chord of familiarity. He did not immediately recall where he heard the name, but figured that the girl's mother had imparted to her daughter some manners and her voice was obviously cultured.

Rhett thought that he caught sight of a slight smile bestowed his way in return for his suggestion, but it was too fleeting to be certain. "Yes, yes, I suppose you're right," Frank grudgingly admitted, combing his fingers through his whiskers again. Then, suddenly as if he just awoke to his own omission, he quickly moved to correct his error. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss O'Hara. Let me introduce my companion, Mr. Rhett Butler from Charleston. Rhett, this is Gerald's eldest daughter, Miss Scarlett O'Hara."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Hara," said Rhett, extending his hand to her.

"My pleasure, Mr. Butler," replied Scarlett, ignoring his hand and turning quickly, she clucked to the horse and set off at a rapid pace. Rhett withdrew his hand, turning it over and looking at his palm, then up the road at the vixen tearing down the road. He shook his head and brushed his hand on his pant leg. It took a moment for Frank to regain his bearings and when he did, they set off behind Scarlett O'Hara and the twins, choking on their red dust.

TBC…

Author Note: Pimpernel Princess provided my sentence

"Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught

by her charms as the Tarleton twins were."

Time period: the barbecue at Twelve Oaks or before.

POV: a beau of Scarlett's