Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (28 page)

As tradition dictated, each rider wore the colors of his horse’s stable. Cathcart had sent down an altered jacket for Rafe in the deep brown worn by his grooms, a pair of buckskin trousers that were a bit snug, a crisp white shirt, a necktie, and a hat, which Rafe didn’t even try on. The other riders wore jackets in green, blue, gold, scarlet, black, and a gold-trimmed gray for Brantley’s man that looked disturbing similar to a Confederate uniform.

Leaning against the aisle wall beside the stall where Pems waited, Rafe studied the horses that had already been brought out of their stalls, and the riders standing with them, receiving last-minute instructions from their employers. He hoped Cathcart wouldn’t try to offer any advice to him. The man knew as much about horses as Rafe knew about coal mining.

The owners seemed an amiable bunch, their high spirits heightened by several glasses of champagne at breakfast. Rafe could almost smell the greed in the air.

The riders seemed capable and friendly enough, except for the man wearing the gold jacket. Several times, Rafe had caught him staring his way as he quietly conversed with his horse’s owner. Both men had hard, cruel faces—the rider, even more so. His horse was a tall, long-legged sorrel with a nervous eye. Rafe noted the horse didn’t like anyone approaching from behind, a sure sign of a kicker. He would take care to keep Pems well out of range of those back hooves.

The rider in green was very young, and carried a hint of desperation in his eyes. Probably his first race. His bay was equally green and restive, although Rafe couldn’t tell whether the nervousness originated in the horse or the boy. They wouldn’t be a threat unless they inadvertently got in the way.

Brantley’s gray—the favorite—was a fine, sturdy gelding with a relaxed demeanor and the look of experience about him. Rafe guessed he was a bit past his prime, but in a race like this, experience would account for more than speed, except in the final sprint. Ash told him the gray had won the last two races here, so he was doubtless familiar with the countryside. A huge advantage over the other horses. Rafe decided he would position the stallion close behind him, figuring the gray would approach the jumps and hazards in a calm manner, which might help keep Pembroke calm, too.

The rest of the riders seemed confident and experienced. Good horsemen, with respect for their mounts. Competitors, yet not destructive about it.

But he would have to keep an eye on the nervous sorrel with the hard-eyed rider. Especially after he saw the horse’s owner slip a long thin object that looked more like a cane than a whip under the stirrup flap of his saddle.

“That isna good.” Ash stepped to Rafe’s side, his gaze narrowed on the rider in gold. “That’s no’ a normal whip. ’Tis more like a cane with a blade hidden inside. In rough terrain like this, a knife slash might no’ look so verra different from a cut caused by a protruding rock or tree limb.”

“I doubt he would dare such a thing. Nor would Brantley allow it.” From what Rafe had seen of their host, Lord Brantley seemed a fair-minded, honorable man, not a fellow easily drawn into underhanded dealings. Rafe liked him.

“Perhaps he doesna know. I should tell him.”

Rafe shook his head. “We could be wrong. Don’t worry. I’ll watch him.”

“So you should. Where’s Pems?”

“In his stall. Thomas is saddling him. I saw no need to get him agitated by all the gawkers wandering about.”

“Good lad.” The Scotsman looked around, then added in a lower voice, “The wager book is closed. By the look of it, you’ll win a great deal when Pems finishes first. The lass, as well.”

Rafe was surprised. “Josie placed a bet?”

“Aye. On Pems to win.”

Rafe smiled, touched by her faith in him. Now, he was even more determined to win. “When will the payout be?”

“Soon after the race. Assuming you win, I’ll put yours and the lass’s earnings in one of the trunks in the Kirkwell carriage, and post extra guards for the ride to the docks. Since you and the heathen will be going with Hicks, and I’ll be on horseback, the lass and bairn can ride in the carriage with the countess. Stevens and his wife, as well. Your baggage will go on the constable’s cart with Pembroke’s tack.”

“How far to the port?” Rafe wanted to be out of this place as soon as he could. He had an odd, itchy feeling that until they were on the ship sailing out of the harbor, something could still go wrong.

“About eight miles. They’ll be loading my horses soon. If we arrive before the tide turns, you can be away by late afternoon.”

“I hope so.” After a lifetime of wandering, Rafe was ready to settle down.

Pushing away from the wall, he followed Ash out the back door of the stable to check the sky one last time. Clouds were moving in, but weren’t threatening rain yet. The breeze was calm, the ground moist but not muddy. Good conditions for a run.

“Because the freighter taking you and the horses is an older design,” Ash went on, finalizing the plans they had discussed earlier about the trip to America, “it will travel slower than the
Oceanic
did. But you should still arrive in Boston within two weeks. My American banker will meet you at the docks with railroad vouchers and extra men to help unload the horses and take them to the stable, where they can rest for several days before boarding the train.”

“How long will the rail part of the trip take?” Rafe wanted the horses let out for exercise at least once every day, even if they had to take a later train. Earlier, Ash had provided a list of rail yards that included holding pens.

“With frequent stops, it might take several weeks to reach Heartbreak Creek. Longer, if you think the horses need more rest. I leave that to your discretion. The vouchers are open-ended, so you’ll be able to load on and off whenever you feel the need. Thomas and Gordon and two more lads will ride in the drovers’ car behind the stock car to assist with that. You and your bride will have a private compartment.”

Rafe stopped and looked at him. “Bride?”

Ash’s grin spoke of mischief. “The captain of the freighter is a canny Scot and a friend. At my request, he’ll be marrying the two of you the night you board. With the bairn there, you’ll want to set a proper tone, so you will.” His grin broadened. “Unless, of course, you’d rather wait until you reach Colorado?”

After the previous night, Rafe had no intention of waiting another six weeks to make love to Josie again. “Will it be legal?”

Ash grinned and clapped his back. “Are you doubting me, lad?”

Not an answer, but Rafe didn’t care. “Okay. We’ll wed on the ship.”

“Aye. I thought so. That’s why I’ve arranged for a private berth on board both the ship and the train. The lad can share accommodations with Thomas.”

“Thomas agreed to that?” Although the Cheyenne seemed to like Jamie, he was probably looking forward to time on his own for a change.

“Aye, after I promised him the foal of his choice out of the first birthing next spring. Think of it as my wedding gift to you.”

Hearing the blast of a trumpet, they both turned to see people moving out of the stable toward the tents in front of the house.

“Time to get Pems, lad. The race starts in fifteen minutes.”

And if everything went well, an hour from now, he and Josie would be collecting their winnings and heading with Jamie to the docks.

Josie and Jamie, the countess, Gordon and Henny crowded the stable aisleway, offering smiles and well wishes. Luckily, neither Cathcart nor the baron were there to dampen the festive atmosphere.

When Thomas led Pembroke out of his stall, Rafe smiled to see an eagle feather stuck in the stallion’s dark mane. The Cheyenne had also woven half of Josie’s blue sash into the braided loop. Apparently, Rafe was supposed to wear the other half around his neck and tucked beneath his brown jacket. Josie was happy to tie it for him.

“You both look magnificent,” the countess said with a beaming smile, her hands resting on her rounded midriff.

Josie smiled, too, but Rafe could see the worry in her unusual eyes. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered in her ear. “I have grand plans for when we reach the ship.”

That pretty blush tinted her cheeks. “So do I.”

His imagination sparked, sending heat rushing through him.

“Mr. Rafe,” Gordon called, limping into the stable.

Sending the others on to join the crowd by the starting ribbon in front of the house, he waited for the groom, Thomas standing nearby with Pems.

“I’ve already loaded Redstone’s and your belongings onto the constable’s cart,” Stevens said, stopping beside him. His leg was healing well, but was obviously still painful.

“What about Josie and Jamie’s luggage?” Rafe asked.

“They’re tying it onto the Kirkwell carriage even now.” Gordon hesitated, then added, “I think we should post a guard. Earlier, after I loaded the cart, I went back to add my and Henny’s valises, and it looked as if someone had gone through your things.”

“Only mine?”

“It seemed so.”

Puzzled, Rafe nodded, wondering why anyone would search his trunk. It was probably nothing, but just to be safe, he suggested Gordon have Hicks move the cart close to the Kirkwell carriage. “Ask Ash’s men to keep an eye on it.”

“I will.”

“Good man.” Rafe appreciated Gordon’s attitude. They would work well together. And it would mean a lot to Josie to have Henny nearby.

The groom left. He and Thomas and Pems continued toward the house. As they approached the horses waiting nervously by the ribbon, another trumpet call announced five minutes until the start.

Thomas gave Rafe a leg up onto the flat racing saddle, then showed him the straps. “Slip your boots into these if you start to slide.” He pointed to the braid in Pembroke’s mane. “This will allow you to hang off to one side if you need to.”

Hoping it wouldn’t come to that, Rafe nodded his thanks.

Thomas stepped back. “You will do well,
nesene.
You ride almost as good as a Cheyenne.”

“Hell, who doesn’t?” Grinning, Rafe put two fingers to the brim of the Stetson he wore despite English tradition, then nudged the stallion toward the other horses lining up at the ribbon.

The time had come to put all that training to the test.

R
afe took a position on the outside, two horses down from Brantley’s gray. The young rider in green was in the center, flanked by two experienced riders, and the nervous sorrel with the gold-liveried rider was at the other end of the line by a man in blue on an older gelding.

The ribbon fell.

With a cheer from the onlookers, the horses lunged forward, dirt and grass flying from their hooves.

Rafe didn’t push Pems, but let him move into the third position, two lengths back from the gray.

The boy raced into the lead, pushing too hard off the start. His horse would be winded long before he reached the final sprint. Following the yellow flags that marked the course, the boy raced into a lane beside the entry gates and came into the first jump too fast. Luckily it was a low fence, but still, his bay balked, almost unseating his rider. As the other horses surged around him, the animal collected himself and went at the jump again and made it.

Pembroke cleared it easily and continued at a relaxed gallop.

After the first mile, and three more easy jumps, the field began to string out. The horse in front of Pems tired and fell back. At the fifth jump—a low rock wall—Pems passed him and settled in behind the gray. The rider in gold kept pace at the far side of the rough lane, his attention divided between the course, Pems, and Brantley’s gray.

The sixth obstacle was a narrow stream with a steep downward approach. Rafe edged Pems to the outside and left of the gray, but close enough to see the other horse take the jump.

Out of fear, Pems overreached, clearing the water by several yards and coming down hard, but he recovered quickly and charged up the opposite slope on the heels of Brantley’s horse.

The course funneled into a narrow draw. The gold rider angled his sorrel toward Pems, then shied away when the boy in green surged up between them. Two other horses crowded behind Pems and he lurched forward until Rafe brought him back down to a steady gallop. He settled, still moving well, his neck slick with sweat, but not yet foamy, his wind holding.

Over a rail fence and another rock wall, then they whipped past the halfway flag, hoofbeats rolling like thunder, dirt clods flying as the draw opened into a wide field. Several riders sent their horses racing ahead, vying for the lead position. But Rafe held Pembroke back, remembering from his reconnoiter with Ash that the next jump had a lower landing side than the takeoff side, and needed to be approached cautiously.

When the lead horses bunched up, Brantley’s rider reined his horse to the left to avoid the tangle. Rafe followed, clearing the ninth obstacle a pace behind the gray. As they headed into the tenth jump—another water hazard—the boy was in the lead again, then the gray, with Pembroke a close third. The gold rider stayed in the trees on the right side of the course.

Pems refused to cross the water. If Rafe hadn’t expected the balk and locked his feet under the straps Thomas had added to the saddle, he might have come off. Without letting the stallion think about it, he brought him around and sent him forward again. This time he made it.

Grinning, Rafe leaned forward to praise him, then flinched when something slammed across his back. Gasping in pain, he twisted to see the gold rider swinging his cane whip at him a second time.

He ducked to the side. The whip whistled past, narrowly missing his head and knocking his Stetson into the brush.

Reining Pems hard into the sorrel, Rafe kicked out, catching the gold rider in the hip and almost driving him out of the saddle.

The horse veered away.

Pems raced ahead.

Teeth clenched against the throbbing in his back, Rafe hunched low, alert and ready, knowing the gold rider would try again.

The next jump came up before they were ready. Two horses were close behind them, and rather than cause a collision by stopping Pems, Rafe bent low over the stallion’s neck and let him go.

Huge muscles bunched beneath him as the horse lunged up and over the wide tangle of downed trees. His back hooves clipped the last log when he came down, but he didn’t stumble. The two horses behind them did, then the rider in blue plowed into them and they all went down.

Four racers left. The gray had taken the lead from the boy, then Pems, with the bastard on the sorrel a close fourth.

An easy jump, then another open stretch.

Rafe stroked the stallion’s neck to settle his nerves. The biggest test was coming up around the next turn . . . the river.

Remembering that on the approach there was a two-foot drop down to the water, Rafe slowed the stallion in the turn so he could see it coming. Instead, they almost crashed into the boy on the bay, who was fighting the bit and dancing tight circles along the bank’s edge.

“Move,” Rafe ordered the boy.

The young rider gaped at him, his eyes round with fear. “I can’t swim.”

“Your horse can. Let him do the work.” Pems hopped and twisted. Rafe could sense his fear building.

Halfway across, where the river had cut a narrow, deep channel, Brantley’s gray sank until only his head and part of his neck rose out of the sluggish water. Head bobbing, he began to swim across the current.

The man in gold raced past and sent his horse into the water.

“Jump or move!” Rafe shouted at the boy. “You’re blocking my horse.”

“What if I fall off?”

“Hold on to his mane. Stay off his head and away from his legs. Now get out of the damned way!”

Pems shoved past and, at Rafe’s kick, leaped down into the shallow water. He tried to turn back. Rafe urged him on, water splashing up from the churning hooves, dampening his boots and trousers.

Rafe heard a splash behind him as the boy sent his bay into the water.

Pems was starting to panic. Reaching down, Rafe gripped the crest of his neck, squeezing hard to remind him to drop his head and think.

The stallion struggled on.

Then the bottom dropped from beneath his hooves.

Rafe leaned forward, letting his body float partially out of the saddle, one hand clutching the loop Thomas had braided into the stallion’s mane, the other gripping the horse’s neck. He spoke into the animal’s ear, keeping his voice calm, his tone relaxed. “You can do this, boy. Just a few more feet. I’m here with you. You’re almost there.”

Downstream, the gold rider’s sorrel struggled out of the river and up the muddy bank. Soon he was racing after the gray into the trees.

The stallion’s breathing was a hoarse rasp. The muscles in his shoulders pumped too fast, fueled by fear.

Rafe kept talking, trying to reach through the panic, then felt a jarring bump when the stallion’s front hoofs hit bottom again. Sinking back into the saddle, he let go of the loop and gathered the reins.

Pems lurched forward, hind legs digging for purchase, front legs slipping on the muddy bank. With a final lunge, he scrambled onto solid ground, then stood shaking, his sides heaving.

The bay clambered up the bank behind them, so winded his head hung and every breath sounded like a raspy cough.

No sign of the boy.

Hell.

Rafe looked back and saw him bobbing in the current, arms beating the water. With a curse, he rode downstream, tracking the young rider.

The boy grabbed frantically at a passing shrub, but the current pulled him back into the deeper channel. Rafe jumped off Pems, looped his reins over a downed log, and leaped, boots first, into the water.

When he reached the deep channel, the boy sank, rose coughing, then sank again. Reaching down into the murky water, Rafe grabbed a handful of hair and yanked him back to the surface.

“Don’t fight me,” he shouted, batting away the flailing arms.

After what seemed an endless struggle against the current, he felt firm ground beneath his boots. He dragged the boy up onto the bank and dropped to his knees beside him, his lungs on fire as he gasped for air.

After a moment, the boy stopped coughing and sat up.

Rafe struggled to his feet and staggered over to where he’d left Pems. “If I find your horse,” he called back, “I’ll tie him by the trail.”

He was relieved to see the stallion had relaxed enough to eat snatches of grass poking up around the log where he was tied. The bay stood nearby, still trembling and breathing hard. Rafe quickly tied him.

After making sure the stallion’s girth was secure and tight, he vaulted into the saddle and raced down the trail marked with yellow flags.

Precious time had been lost. But the field was down to three horses now and only two jumps left before the long final sprint. If they could make up half the distance they had lost by the time they reached the straight run, Pems might still have a chance.

The first jump posed no problem. Pems was calming down again, his stride losing the jerkiness of panic and settling into a smooth, fluid rhythm. The last obstacle was trickier because of its height, but at Rafe’s signal, the stallion collected, then lifted off, clearing it without difficulty. A bit of a hard landing, but he never broke stride.

Ahead was the home stretch. It was now or never.

Bending his knees so he could slip his boots into the higher straps Thomas had made, Rafe crouched above the saddle, shifting his weight off the stallion’s back and distributing it evenly along his sides. In addition to anchoring Rafe more solidly to the horse, the straps also allowed him to bend low over the horse’s neck, creating less of a wind barrier for the animal to overcome. A modified race rider’s saddle. But since a hunt course was rougher terrain than a flat course, balance was more precarious, so Rafe held the reins in one hand, and slipped his other through the braided loop. Now safely anchored by the straps and the loop, he leaned over the stallion’s neck and urged him to a faster pace.

The blow came out of nowhere, almost knocking him from the saddle. Before he could recover, another blow hit him across the shoulders. He looked to the right to see the gold rider sliding a long, thin blade from his cane. His arm swung back. But instead of coming at Rafe, the blade swooped low, toward Pems.

Rafe struggled to turn the galloping stallion.

The tip of the blade caught the stallion’s chest. Another swing narrowly missed the horse’s face, but sliced into his neck.

Reaching down, Rafe frantically dug for the leather bat that Ash had slipped beneath the skirt. Yanking it free, he raised it just in time to deflect another swipe of the blade.

“You bastard! What are you doing?”

The sorrel veered in, close enough for Rafe to see the vicious grin on the rider’s face as he drew his arm back again.

His boots still anchored in the straps, and holding on to the loop with his left hand, Rafe leaned as far toward the other horse as he could. With all his strength, he whipped the flat side of the leather bat across the gold rider’s face.

With a cry, the man tipped to the side, barely hanging on as the sorrel bolted through the brush.

Pems ran on.

Rafe righted himself and looked back, but saw neither the sorrel nor his rider. But he didn’t slow, knowing they were still out there somewhere.

He couldn’t tell how badly Pembroke was hurt. Blood covered his neck, splattered Rafe’s trousers and jacket. He couldn’t see the cut on his chest, but the stallion wasn’t limping. The gash in his neck was bleeding badly, but not spurting as it would have if an artery had been cut. Rather than pulling Pems in and giving the gold rider another try at him, Rafe let him run.

The gray was closer now, clearly visible through the trees.

They still had a chance.

Sound dimmed. Vision narrowed to the light at the end of the trees where pennants atop the tents fluttered in the morning sun. They inched nearer to Brantley’s horse. Dirt kicked up by the gray’s hooves pelted Rafe’s face.

Pems stretched out, his muscles bunching and reaching in long, churning strides. Wind whipped through Rafe’s sweat-and-blood-dampened hair. He could almost reach out and touch the gray’s haunches. Then his rider. With every stride, the gap narrowed. He could hear the gray’s breathing, the shouts of his rider urging him on. Flecks of foamy sweat flew back into Rafe’s face.

Above the pounding hooves, he heard the shouting of the crowd grow louder. They were almost there. Nearly blinded by the sudden glare of bright sunlight, they burst out of the trees.

Nose to nose now. Necks straining. Ahead, the ribbon stretched above the grass like a flat yellow snake.

“Go!” Rafe shouted over the screams of the crowd.

Pems dug in and, a second later, bounded past the watchers.

It was over. Done. The sudden release of tension was so great Rafe’s arms shook as he gradually pulled Pems back to a lope, then a trot, and finally to a walk. The shouts of the crowd grew dim. Movement slowed. Panting, he sagged in the saddle, his body shaking.

“You did it, boy,” he murmured to the spent horse. “Everything I asked.”

Dimly, he heard the hoofbeats of an approaching horse. Whirling, he saw Brantley’s rider coming toward him.

“Excellent run,” the man said, stopping the winded gray a few feet away. “Outstanding horse.” His affable expression changed to horror when he saw the blood. “Good God, man! What happened?”

Fury made Rafe’s voice shake. “The gold rider had a blade in his whip.”

“A blade? He cut your horse?”

Rafe nodded, too enraged to speak. His body trembling again but for a different reason, he turned Pems back toward the tents. He would kill the bastard. Break his neck. Snap his bones with his bare hands.

Thomas met him before he reached the crowd, Ash close on his heels, Gordon limping behind. Rafe slid down. “Take Pems to his stall,” he told Thomas. “And Josie, too.” He didn’t want her to see what he was about to do. “Gordon, see if Brantley has a horse doctor. If so, send him to the stable as soon as you can.”

“What the bluidy hell happened?” Ash demanded.

“The bastard cut him.” Rafe shoved past the Scotsman and charged toward the sorrel just crossing the ribbon. Without a word, he yanked the rider from the saddle and slammed his fist into his face. A crunch as teeth broke. “You son of a bitch!” Another swing, another crunch as the nose flattened beneath Rafe’s knuckles. Before he could swing again, Ash and several other men pulled him back from the man bleeding on the ground.