Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (12 page)

More whisky. Shouts and laughter. War cries. Heat rising from the giant fireplace further blackened the ancient beams overhead, while a smoky veil coiled around the vast array of armaments displayed along the walls.

It was stirring and primitive, and made Rafe want to rush out and fight something. But that might have been the whisky talking.

Once the meal ended, a more somber mood fell over the gathering. Ash and Maddie went to stand below the Kirkwell crest, and with great ceremony, the people of Northbridge lined up to pay homage to their new earl and countess and offer well wishes for their babe. It was an amazing homecoming and explained a great deal about Ash.

 • • • 

The next morning, Rafe awoke with a pounding head—then realized it was someone hammering on the door of the room he shared with Thomas. With a groan, he rose and opened it to find Fain McKenzie grinning in the hallway.

“Guid morn tae ye,” he said, adding several extra
r
’s
to the second word. “Kirkwell will be busy wi’ the stewards today, and asked me tae show ye and the Indian aboot.” Scratching his bearded chin, he looked past Rafe at Thomas’s empty bed. “Do ye ken where the lad might be?”

“Anywhere.” Rafe stifled a yawn. “Thomas has a habit of wandering off whenever the mood strikes him.”

McKenzie gave a worried frown. “’Tis dangerous country, so it is.”

“He’ll be all right. Is there any food downstairs?” Maybe that would settle his rolling stomach.

“Aye. Bannocks and honey and
skalk—
a wee tot of whisky tae clear the sleep from yer head. Come along, lad. ’Tis well past dawn already.”

Several minutes later, they were huddled against a heavy mist, riding rough-gaited Highland ponies along the loch. The wind cut through Rafe with bone-chilling malevolence, and he envied the fat sheep in their thick coats of wool that scrambled out of their way. Here and there, picturesque stone and thatch huts dotted the long slope that led down to the water’s edge, their neatly walled gardens turned under for the winter and children waving from the porch.

It didn’t seem to be an especially prosperous place. Yet Rafe saw contentment in the smiling faces, and the houses looked to be in good repair. “Are sheep the main source of income around here?” he asked, wondering how many sheep it would take to keep his workers fed and still provide Ash with enough money to buy pure-blooded horses and build a grand home in Heartbreak Creek.

The Scot smiled proudly, showing gaps in his strong white teeth. Rafe guessed he was a bit of a brawler, as most of these Highlanders seemed to be. Including Ash. “Our wool is the finest in the Highlands. Northbridge ships take it straight tae weavers in Ireland, where they spin it intae cloth sae fine ’tis like silk against yer skin.”

“Kirkwell has his own ships?”

“Aye. Tew.” McKenzie held up two fingers. “’Tis easier tae avoid the tariff collectors when ye have yer own docks and boats, so it is. Those bloodsucking English would starve us oot, if they could.”

Judging by McKenzie’s robust frame, the enterprise was doing well. “Does he smuggle anything else?”

“Smuggle?” The bearded man reared back to glare at him. “We dinna call it smuggling. We call it staying free. If the English had their way, they’d have us off our land and toiling in their sooty factories like slaves. We willna do it.”

Rafe didn’t respond. Being more partial to cattle, he didn’t have much fondness for sheep and the harm they did to grasslands. But here, in this wet climate, the grass probably recovered quickly enough to prevent lasting damage.

“And then there’s the drink, o’ course.”

He looked over to see that sly look back on McKenzie’s face. “Drink?”

“Scottish nectar.” McKenzie gave a startling bark of laughter that made the horses sidestep and sent several fat ground birds into fluttering flight. “The Earls of Kirkwell have been making it for many years, so they have. And no’ that auld stuff that rots yer gut. Northbridge Scotch Whisky is as smooth and gentle as a kelpie’s kiss. And now that the earl is opening other markets in yer country, we’re all sitting grand.” His big grin faded into a scowl as he swung his bright blue gaze in all directions. “But ye dinna hear that from me, lad.”

Ash and smuggling and whisky. Rafe wasn’t surprised.

 • • • 

Pembroke’s Pride’s workouts continued. Josephine kept an eye on Hammersmith and Gordon Stevens, but the lessons in the round pen passed without incident and the stallion improved more every day.

Not so the relationship between Josephine and her father. Although there had been no additional discussion of her unmarried status after she told him about the incident with Mr. Calhoun and demanded he stop bandying it about that she was “available,” the tension between them remained high.

They rarely saw each other except at meals, and those settled into a chilly reserve that robbed Josephine of what appetite she could muster. Because drinking made Father cruel and argumentative, she no longer risked having Jamie join them for dinner. She would have avoided those tense meals, herself, had her father not insisted she attend. In stilted silence, they sat at either end of the long table, Father staring at her as he drank more than he ate, while she ignored him and thought of Rafe.

Tonight was no exception.

He had called her “Josie.” She’d not heard that name in a long time, not since they had left the tumbledown cottage in the village outside the mine where Father had toiled before fortune had lifted them into higher society. Back then, she had had friends, and neighbors, and other children with which to play. She had never felt as alone in that humble cottage as she did in this palatial home.

Then Rafe came into her life.

Did he think her too bold for kissing him?

He had seemed to respond, but it had been so long since she’d kissed a man she might have imagined it. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

Lining green beans in a row on her plate, she smiled at her own daring. That kiss had surprised her, too. Even before her Great Indiscretion, she had never been an impulsive person. And later, as her dreams had crumbled around her, she had stayed in the shadows, terrified to attract more attention to herself, draw more sneers and barbed comments—never spoken directly to her, but always within her hearing.

And then Rayford Jessup had come.

Uncomplicated. Incapable of guile or malice, he had seen through her hard-built armor and the pall of criticism that had shrouded her for so long. With him, she felt daring, and desirable, and worthy.

Without him, she could feel those old doubts creeping back into her mind.

Lost in thought, she chewed a piece of roast pheasant. Such a simple thing, a kiss. Such a commonplace act, to hold another’s hand. But to one desperate for a touch, a kind word, a caring smile, it was like the breath of life.

“Pembroke is doing well,” her father said from the other end of the dining table, startling her into a cough.

She cleared her throat. “He is.” Even though her father hadn’t sold Pems out from under her, she still didn’t trust him, so she quickly added, “But he remains skittish around water. I fear he always will.”

“He could be the key to our salvation. I wish you would understand that.”

She did understand. She knew the prospect of sliding back into poverty was intolerable to her father. Because she had Jamie to protect, she was able to ignore the sly looks, innuendoes, and snide remarks that followed wherever she went. However, Father had nothing to sustain him but his illusions of wealth and the sense of importance they gave him. Without them, he would perish. Or drag her and Jamie back into those black holes of despair with him.

“What about the money the earl paid for the horses?” she asked him.

“That bought us a bit of time. Nothing more.”

A chill pressed against the walls of her heart. “So what are you going to do, Father?” She knew, but needed to hear him say the words.

His red-rimmed eyes slid away. “I have no choice, daughter. If he wins, we stand to make a fortune.”

“He won’t win.”

“He might.”

Setting down her fork, she clasped her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see that they were shaking. “He will never jump water, Father. Even after all the work we’ve put into him, he will barely step into it now.”

He waved his free hand in dismissal. “He’s got six months to learn. The Grand National isn’t until April.” Setting down his goblet with such force wine spilled like blood over his fingers, he glared at her down the long length of the table. “I’m entering Pembroke’s Pride in the race. You’d best accept that. And when the time comes, girl, your horse will either make the jump or die trying.”

R
afe eyed the aging valet slumped at a table in the kitchen, a greenish cast to his whiskered face and “a wee tot” of whisky in his trembling hand. “Do you cut hair, Pringle?”

Wincing, the old man pressed a hand over his ear. “Stop shouting.”

“Will you cut my hair?” Rafe asked in a softer voice. “It’s starting to curl over my collar. Before long, I’ll look like one of these hairy Scotsmen.” He shot a grin at the eavesdropping kitchen helpers and received a giggle in response.

“No.”

Rafe bent down to look into the old man’s bleary eyes. “No, you won’t cut my hair? Or no, I won’t look like a hairy Scotsman?”

“Both. Either. I don’t care. Bad enough I’m banished to this wasteland of superstitious savages, I’ll not whore out my skills like a common servant.”

Across the room, the cook snorted.

Straightening, Rafe scratched his stubbled chin. “I could have Ash make you do it.”

This time, it was Pringle who snorted.

“Or Thomas.”

That got his attention. He frowned, then a crafty look came into his red-rimmed eyes. Lifting a shaking hand, he studied it for a moment, then smiled evilly at Rafe. “Certainly, sir. Do let me retrieve my sharpest scissors. And would you care for a shave with my straight razor, as well?”

“I would gladly cut it fer ye, sir,” a breathless voice said behind Rafe.

Turning, he looked down into the hopeful face of one of the maids who giggled incessantly whenever he and Thomas came into the kitchen.

“Well, ah . . .”

“I’ve sheared many a sheep, so I have,” she said, pressing her breast against his arm. “And hardly a nick, I’m proud to say. Shall we have a go?”

“Maybe later,” Rafe said, and fled.

In the end, Thomas cut it, using his long-bladed hunting knife like a saw. A bit uneven around the edges, but Rafe had had worse.

That afternoon, the countess sent word for Rafe and Thomas to join her and Ash in the sitting area off their bedroom.

Like the rest of the castle, the earl’s quarters were stark and cold and filled with masculine trappings left over from the previous earls, Ash’s older brothers, both of whom had died in recent years. In her bright blue dress, Lady Kirkwell stood out like the first bluebell in a barren winter landscape. Here and there, small feminine touches had been added, but she had yet to make the room her own. Or any of Northbridge, for that matter. Perhaps she didn’t want to do anything of a permanent nature lest she feel compelled to stay. Rafe hoped she wouldn’t. He couldn’t see a woman with such a gentle and vibrant spirit thriving in this austere place.

Curious as to why they’d been summoned, he and Thomas joined Ash and the countess in the chairs grouped around a crackling fire in the hearth.

“I’m so glad you came.” The Englishwoman beamed, her face alight with that bright smile Rafe associated more with Maddie of Heartbreak Creek than the Countess of Kirkwell. “I have news—Heavens, Mr. Jessup! What happened to your hair?”

“Thomas cut it.”

“With what? His hunting knife?” She said it with a smile, but when Rafe nodded, her expression changed to one of exasperation. “Honestly. It simply won’t do. After we finish here, I’ll have one of the maids cut it. You look like you’re wearing a thatched roof.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Happiness restored, she pulled an envelope from her skirt pocket. “As I said, I have news. Lucinda has written, and I thought you might like to hear all the latest from Heartbreak Creek. Shall I?” Without waiting for assent, she pulled several sheets of stationery from an envelope and began to read:

“‘Dearest friends,

“‘I received your letter and was happy to read that the crossing went well. I already miss you, and the town is so quiet it doesn’t seem like home anymore. Now that the bridge line is complete, even the Chinese have deserted us. I almost wish Ash was here to rend the silence with a lively Scottish tune.’”

“Aye.” A wistful expression came into Ash’s moss green eyes. “The pipes do have a way of lifting one’s spirits. ’Tis sorry I am that I left them behind in Heartbreak Creek.”

Maddie gave him a look, shuddered, then cleared her throat. “To continue . . .

“‘I’m delighted that you have recovered some of your energy, Maddie. My only disappointment is that you and I cannot go through our confinements together. Misery does love company, I hear. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to keep your secret? But I’m glad all is well.’”

“What?” Ash bolted upright. “You told a stranger about our bairn before you told me?”

“Luce isn’t a stranger,” his wife argued. “She and Tait are family. And if I had told you, you wouldn’t have let me come. Nor would you have made the trip without me. Now do hush, love, so I can finish the letter.”

Muttering under his breath, the earl settled back.

“‘My guardian, Mrs. Throckmorton, was able to sell her Manhattan brownstone without difficulty, and is now happily ensconced in a suite at the hotel. She seems unbothered by Pringle’s absence (but really, who would be?). I hope he has not been too big a trial for Ash, although Tait finds the notion of the old butler becoming Ash’s valet vastly amusing. Mrs. T.’s retainers, Mrs. Bradshaw and Mr. Quinn, returned to Colorado with us, and Mrs. B. has graciously taken over management of the hotel. Mr. Quinn has taken a new position, as well. Making use of his background as a Pinkerton Detective, he is now Chief of Security for both the Denver & Santa Fe, as well as our own Pueblo Pacific Bridge Line. I only wish he would come up to snuff with Mrs. B. It’s clear they care for each other but for some reason Mr. Q. won’t commit. When you return, Maddie, we shall have to work on him.’”

“Lord help the lad.”

Ignoring her husband’s muttered comment, the countess read on.

“‘I’m also happy to report that Tait and Ethan Hardesty are in partnership to build a grand hotel near the site of the mineral spring in the canyon. Not at the spring, itself, since they’re aware that area is sacred to Thomas’s people. But lower down, where the spring empties into the creek. The plans look amazing.

“‘In sadder news, Audra Hardesty’s father died in a tumble down the stairs several weeks ago. A dreadful blow, but she continues to keep the newspaper going and seems to have recovered from her father’s death and the ordeal that vile murderer put her through. The new house Ethan designed for her is coming along well. As is yours, Maddie. I predict both will be ready for occupancy by the time you return.’”

“Aye, and well they should be. A hotel isna the place to raise a bairn.”

With a fond smile, the countess patted his hand. “You’re interrupting again, dearest.”

“Sorry, lass.” He nodded for her to continue.

“‘I am enclosing a letter from Pru. I sense she is growing homesick, despite becoming more and more involved with her school for freed men and women. She has also spent a great deal of time working on an education initiative with a local Negro preacher. I’m not sure what to make of it so I will say no more about it, and allow you to read her letter, yourself.’”

Rafe glanced at Thomas, but the Cheyenne’s face revealed nothing of his thoughts.

“‘The Brodies are still out at the ranch, but come into town on a regular basis. All seem to be doing well, and you will not credit how big the children are now. I think R.D. is already shaving! And I actually saw Brin in a dress and it wasn’t even a Sunday. Baby Whit is growing so fast I’m sure Declan will have him on a horse by his second birthday.

“‘I must close for now. Nurse Tait is insisting I take a nap, although I’m feeling much more energetic the more ungainly I become. Odd, that.’

“You know, it is odd,” Maddie said, looking up from her letter. “The bigger I get, the more . . .” When she saw the three male faces staring blankly back at her, she smiled. “Yes, well, never mind that. In closing, Lucinda writes,
‘I hope you continue in good health, dearest, and please give my well wishes to those in Scotland with you. Love, Lucinda.’”

With a tremulous smile, Maddie folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. “It seems so strange to be parted from them.”

“Now, lass.” Reaching over, Ash brushed his big hand against her cheek. “We still have time to go back, love, if that’s what you want.”

Her small pointed chin came up. “Absolutely not. Northbridge is where all the Kirkwell heirs have been born. Our son will be born here, as well.”

“Or daughter.” The smile Ash gave her was so charged with emotion Rafe had to look away. Despite his brash ways, the man was devoted to his wife.

“Shall I read Pru’s letter?” she asked, pulling another missive from the envelope on her lap. But her smile died when she looked up and saw Thomas disappearing through the doorway.

“Perhaps later,” Ash said, staring after his friend with a troubled frown.

 • • • 

Time passed slowly for Rafe. After the first week, the raw, misty beauty of the Highlands began to wear thin, and he found himself longing for the dry, crackling heat of the American Southwest just before a thunderstorm swept out of the sunbaked sky. This constant half rain that kept everything soggy and slick with moss gave him a chill he couldn’t seem to shake, and at night, his old wounds throbbed with a dull ache that left him plagued with troubling dreams.

One morning after an especially restless night, when he and Thomas left the room and went down the long stone staircase, the Cheyenne asked him where the dream snare was that he had made for him.

“I forgot and left it in my room at Cathcart’s.” He glanced over at the frowning Indian. “Have I been keeping you awake?”

Thomas shrugged. “Is she dead?”

“Miranda?”

“If she is dead, that is why she haunts your sleep. The People believe it awakens bad spirits to speak the name of one who has died.”

“She’s not dead. At least, I don’t think she is.”

Leaving the main structure, they crossed the bailey to the kitchen, located in a separate stone building. There, the usual oatcakes and honey awaited them, as well as several giggling maids. They ate, begged some suet from the cook, and left.

No rain for a change, Rafe was pleased to see, and the clouds were moving away to the east. Maybe they would finally have a sunny day. After saddling the ponies assigned to them, they stopped by a storage building against the inner curtain wall, gathered long poles and twine, then rode away from the castle.

“You will tell me what is wrong,” Thomas said when they turned off the long drive toward the loch. “And I will decide if I must put my knife in your throat to release you.” At Rafe’s look of alarm, he flashed a broad grin. “I must do something. I am weary of hearing you call out in the night.”

“Put a feather in your ear.”

When they reached the loch, they tethered their horses to bushes by the shore, then walked out to sit on a flat outcrop hanging over the water.

After rigging his pole with a length of twine, Rafe tied on a hook baited with suet and let his line sink into the dark, icy depths. Overnight, the howling wind had died down. The surface of the loch was as glassy as the mirror behind the bar in the saloon where Rafe had seen Miranda for the first time.

“Speak now,
nesene
, of this woman who troubles your sleep.”

Rafe wasn’t sure where to begin. Drawing on memory, he pictured the dusty street, the warped boardwalk, the heat shimmers rising off the rooftops the day he rode into town. He had been full of hope back then, and flush with pride over the Deputy U.S. Marshal badge pinned on his vest—even though his task in Dirtwater had been more mundane than heroic—to take the 1870 census.

But he soon learned that the rough Texas town wasn’t one that welcomed scrutiny, especially from a representative of the federal government. And the powerful Amos Gault had much to hide. Although nothing had ever been proven, he was suspected of murder, robbery, importing foreign women for purposes of prostitution, and cattle rustling. The townspeople—from the local sheriff down to the newest offering in Gault’s brothel—were terrified of him.

Miranda was no exception.

“The first time I saw her was in a saloon,” Rafe finally began. “She was standing by the bar, studying her reflection in the tarnished mirror behind the liquor bottles, while a drunken cowboy pawed her like she was a lapdog.”

“She allowed this?”

“She didn’t stop him.” Rafe flicked his wrist, felt a bump against the line, and flicked it again. Nothing. Surface ripples settled back into a mirror gloss. “She was beautiful. Eyes the color of clover honey. Had one of those innocent, wounded faces that made a man think she needed saving, and only he could do it.” And like a trout chasing a mayfly, he had risen to his own destruction.

“You could not save her,” Thomas guessed.

“I tried, but she went back to the man who put her in that life. Amos Gault. Ever heard of him?”

Thomas shook his head.

“No matter. He’s dead now.”

“You killed him?”

“Him and three others.”

The Cheyenne thought for a moment. “That is how you got those bullet scars on your chest?”

Rafe nodded.

“Then you fought them well.”

But for what?
Nothing changed, except for four new graves in the town cemetery, and a weary disenchantment with his job, women, and his own judgment.

“What happened to the woman?”

“Never saw her after Gault died. I was laid up for a long time. When I got back on my feet, she was gone. Heard she went to San Francisco.”

“If she is gone, why does she still trouble you?”

“She hasn’t. Not for a long time. But lately . . .”

“Ho.” Thomas nodded in understanding. “You have found another woman to save and do not know if you should.”

Rafe reared back to glare at him. “You’re loco.”

Thomas smirked.

But Rafe couldn’t deny the pull Josephine had on him. She was in a bad situation, too, but this was different. For one thing, he could do nothing to help her unless she left England and came back with him to Heartbreak Creek. He didn’t see that happening. They were too different. Too far apart in too many ways. Plus, he had nothing to offer her compared to what she would be leaving behind. Oh, it might work for a while. But when reality took root, resentment would grow.