It crowned a rise overlooking a green incline of pasture, with the fields on one side and on the other a dark line of pines and water oaks that marked the course of a nearby creek. A lane flanked by cedars provided access from the main road. Behind the mansion stood the smokehouse, kitchen, carriage house, stables, spring house, and the ruins of the old log blockhouse where Daniel Horan and his family had lived in the early years. A fire had partially destroyed the blockhouse. Relentless weeds and vines were claiming the neglected remains. When he first laid eyes on Blackwood, Delgado McKinn decided that Daniel Horan had done a more than fair job of bringing the Old South to the raw Missouri frontier. The curving drive was filled with carriages and saddle horses. Poor weather—slashing rain this morning, now reduced to a steady drizzle—had deterred no one from attending one of the events of the season. The guests spilled out onto the veranda, the gentlemen in fawn- and mustard-colored trousers, lace-fronted shirts, fitted coats of blue and dark green and black, the older women in their dark, staid silks, the young women in brightly colored crinolines and taffetas.
