Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (3 page)

He would find out soon enough, since he was sharing a room with the fellow on the voyage to Liverpool. And in a first-class stateroom next to the Kirkwells, no less. That way, Ash had explained when he’d given them their room assignment, it would be more convenient for Rafe to keep an eye on the Cheyenne, since “we canna let the savage wander around by himself in steerage.”

A convenience that came with a high price: being in first class meant he and Thomas were required to wear fancy clothes to dinner. Ash had them sewn by his own tailor in New York—which was another nursemaiding nightmare, trying to convince the Indian to let the terrified tailor fit him.

But finally, here they were. Stepping past his trunk that the steward had delivered to their stateroom earlier, Rafe studied the luxurious accommodations. Two tidy beds, a private lavatory with a tub that boasted hot and cold running water, an electric bell to summon the steward, bureaus, a built-in closet with a mirror, and a promenade deck right outside their window.

Impressive.

He had read the brochure that had come with the tickets, and knew that at only six months old, the
Oceanic
was the latest design in oceangoing steamships. In addition to the stateroom amenities and promenade deck, it also carried four masts for auxiliary sails, twelve boilers, a four-cylinder compound engine, and had an iron hull. They were traveling in style.

Thomas was less impressed. “Is that the only window?”

“Better than below deck in steerage with Pringle and the other single men. They don’t have any windows.” Opening the trunk, Rafe began transferring clothing and books to the bureau built into the wall beside his bed.

Thomas peered through the window at the chairs lined up along the open deck. “I will sleep out there.”

“Not allowed.” As he unpacked, Rafe watched the Cheyenne pace the small cabin. He knew it was difficult for the Indian to give up the freedom he was accustomed to, and could only guess at how difficult it must be to straddle two cultures. But Thomas had chosen to join the white world—which shouldn’t be too difficult with his greater height, slightly paler skin, and more refined features than most full-blooded Cheyenne—and Rafe was determined to make the transition as painless as possible, as much for himself as for Thomas. He didn’t want to listen to him pace all night. “I thought you wanted to act white.”

Thomas turned to look at him.

“I’m assuming you figure that will make you more acceptable to Prudence Lincoln.”

That shutter dropped over the swarthy face. “We will not speak of her.”

“All right, we won’t. But being white means sleeping indoors, and wearing proper clothes, and following the rules. Can you do that?”

Muttering in Cheyenne, Thomas slouched onto the bed against the far wall.

Ignoring the glare in those dark eyes, Rafe resumed unpacking. He respected Thomas. Liked the man’s steadfast loyalty and assured manner. But he had a feeling this whole “white” thing was destined to failure. What would happen to Thomas then?

A loud blast from the ship’s foghorn and an increase in pitch and yawl indicated they had cleared the shelter of the harbor and were heading into open seas. The movement beneath his feet felt odd to Rafe, but not troublesome. He wondered how Ash was handling it. The Scotsman’s earlier crossing, when he’d come to America seeking his runaway wife, had been difficult, coming so soon after the explosion that had ended his military career and left him plagued with dizzy spells. Hopefully the tin of ginger and raspberry tea that the doctor in Heartbreak Creek had mixed for him would make this crossing easier.

He glanced at Thomas. “Does the movement bother you?”

Thomas gave him a puzzled look.

“Never mind.”

After he emptied the trunk, Rafe set it in the closet, then stretched out on his bed with one of the books he’d brought—
Rob Roy
, a historical adventure novel by Sir Walter Scott. It was difficult to read because a lot of the dialogue was in Scottish dialect, and he frequently had to flip to the glossary in back to get the meaning of the words. But since he would be visiting Scotland, he thought it might be interesting to get a feel for the people.

“You brought many books,” Thomas said after a while.

Rafe nodded absently. Then an idea came to him and he lowered the book. “Can you read, Thomas?” Maybe if the Cheyenne had something to occupy his mind, he wouldn’t be so restless during the time they would be stuck at sea.

There was a long pause before the Indian answered. “When Black Kettle was my chief, white missionaries came to our village with a book about your Christian god. They offered to teach us to read it. I tried. But I was young, and thought the lessons were boring, so I stopped going.

“Then later, the bluecoats came with papers they called ‘treaties.’ They said the papers would keep the People safe. We soon learned that the words written there were false. The killing has not stopped, and with every passing season, the number of Cheyenne grows less. Then Prudence Lincoln came.”

He looked toward the window, sadness pulling down the lines of his face. “When I saw how important books were to her, I tried to learn again. I was a much better student with her as my teacher.” He shrugged and faced Rafe again. “But none of her books spoke of the People. So I have not read since she left.”

“But you did learn your letters?” Rafe persisted.

“And numbers. But because I have no interest in such things, it is hard.”

Rafe rose from the bed and went to the bureau. After studying the titles, he pulled one from the stack—
The Last of the Mohicans
,
by James Fenimore Cooper. “You might like this one.” He handed the book to Thomas. “It’s about an Indian of the Mohican tribe and a white scout who fought together against the French many years ago.”

“Did they win?”

“Read it and see.”

Grudgingly, Thomas took the book.

Twenty minutes before the dinner hour, a knock sounded on their door. Rafe opened it to find Lord and Lady Kirkwell standing in the hall.

They were both finely attired. The countess wore a purple ruffled gown with narrow shoulder sleeves, and a low, square neckline that Rafe worked hard not to admire. The earl was dressed in similar fashion to Rafe and Thomas—black trousers with an open waistcoat, a winged collared dress shirt, and a white neckerchief, which Ash called a cravat.

“You look magnificent,” Lady Kirkwell gushed, clasping her gloved hands in delight. “Don’t they look handsome, Ash?”

“Thomas, why are you no’ wearing shoes?”

The Cheyenne held up the knife he usually wore in a sheath laced to the outside of his tall leather moccasin. “I do not know where to put this.”

“In the bluidy bureau. We’re going to dinner. No’ a buffalo hunt.”

“Let me help you with that tie,” the countess offered, crossing to Thomas before mayhem erupted.

While she retied the neckerchief the Cheyenne had mangled, the earl said to Rafe, “We’ll be dining at the captain’s table tonight. A British coal merchant named Horatio Cathcart, and his daughter, Miss Josephine Cathcart, will be there. I met him years ago when I was with the Hussars and we needed remounts. Back then, he had an excellent stable of thoroughbreds. But he was also quite a gambler, so I dinna ken if that holds true today. As I recall, he bought the horses for his daughter, who was reputed to be a fine rider. See if you can find out from her the condition of the Cathcart stable, while I talk with her father. We’ll compare notes later.”

Rafe frowned. “You want me to talk to her.”

“Aye.”

“But I’m not a talker.”

“Bollocks. You talk to my wife well enough.”

“That’s different. She has a sweet spot for me.”

Ash ignored that. “Ask her a few questions, then let her do the talking. That’s what women like best.”

Rafe grinned, just to goad him. “Not with me. You must be doing something wrong.”

Ash punched his shoulder then feigned innocence when his wife glared at him. “Just behave,” he muttered. “And mind that the heathen doesna stab or choke anyone. March.”

With a sigh, Rafe fell in behind Thomas as the four of them left the cabin.

First a fancy suit of clothes, now a fancy dinner and stilted conversation with the high and mighty. It promised to be a long, awkward evening. His collar already felt too tight and his hands were sweating.

Maybe she’ll be plain and a giggler
. With coal black hair instead of sun-streaked brown, and a cross-eyed squint rather than eyes the color of dark clover honey. Maybe he wouldn’t think of Miranda once all night.

He was wrong.

On all counts.

H
ead high, her gait uneven as she battled the rolling motion of the ship, Josephine Cathcart descended with her father down the broad staircase to the
Oceanic
dining room. Her gloved palm left a damp smear on the brass handrail, her knees felt wobbly, and aversion burned like acid in her stomach.

It was not to be borne. Being put on display once again. The impoverished Englishwoman, only slightly used but attractive enough to preside over any wealthy man’s table, and available to the highest bidder.

It was the vilest of clichés.

Father’s grip on her arm tightened, his blunt fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. “Smile.” A hint of his thick Cumberland coal miner’s accent shadowed the admonition as he dipped his head and added, “Chin up, love. It’s only business. Nothing more.”

Josephine clung to the railing and struggled to even her breathing.

The whole trip to America had been a waste. In addition to learning that the auger was unsuitable for mining in Cumberland, it seemed Father’s reputation for pushing questionable ventures had preceded him. Not that they were treated poorly—the American reputation for hospitality was well founded. But there were no new capital investments, and no offers of marriage. Nothing had changed, other than the loss of the substantial funds spent on this unsuccessful trip. Now, with only a few days left to parade his daughter past wealthy travelers and make new business connections in the gentlemen’s smoking lounge, Father was making the most of the opportunity.

There was little chance of success as far as she was concerned. Rich Americans did not wed impoverished, untitled Englishwomen any more than sons of impoverished barons married coal miners’ naive daughters, no matter how much they professed to love them. She had learned that the hard way. But Father still couldn’t seem to understand that here on the surface, far above the black coal that had made him rich, an entirely new set of rules for survival applied.

“Two men are joining us tonight,” he said. “I want you to pay special attention to them.”

Josephine’s stomach twisted. Was her father now her procurer?

“I’ve arranged for them to be seated near you,” he went on, his whisky-laced breath hot in her ear. “A Mr. Calhoun, who is unmarried and considered quite a catch. Something to do with lumber. And another man you met when you were seventeen, although you may not remember him. A Scot named Angus Wallace. He was with the Hussars then and came to look at our horses.”

She had been so in love with William at the time, she had scarcely been aware of anyone else. But she did vaguely recall a tall man with dark hair and a strong Scots brogue. “What do you hope to achieve, Father?” she murmured. “I read he’s married now. What could he possibly want from us?”

“Same as before. Horses.”

Josephine stumbled. If she hadn’t had the handrail on one side, and her father on the other, she might have tumbled headlong down the stairs. “You’re selling our horses?”

“Keep your voice down,” he growled through a strained smile.

Her mind reeled.
The horses . . .
“Surely not Pembroke’s Pride, too?”

“Since you’ve failed to snare a rich husband, what choice do I have?”

He had always had choices. He had simply made the wrong ones.

Pems. Dear heaven.
The stallion and Jamie were the greatest joys in her life. “But he’s still recovering from his injury. He’s not ready.”

“He looks sound enough. That’s all that matters. Now you’ll be nice, daughter,” he warned as they reached the landing. “He’s an earl now, and wealthy. You’ll paint him a fine picture so he’ll buy our horses at a dear price. It’s either that, or Huddleston, or putting on a grand smile for Mr. Calhoun.”

Josephine wanted to scream at him.
I’m not a whore! I never was, nor will I be one for you!
Instead, she struggled to keep her voice bland, knowing a show of temper would only make him more truculent.

“Father, please—”

“We’ll speak of it no more, girl. Smile. Good evening, Captain,” he said in a jovial voice to the uniformed man approaching them. “Hope we’re not late.”

“Not at all, Mr. Cathcart. Miss Cathcart. Welcome.”

Numbly, Josephine nodded to the ship’s captain and the other diners staring back at her over the sumptuous table. She saw an empty place no doubt saved for her. On one side, rising at her approach, was a well-favored man with deep brown eyes and a knowing smile that sent prickles of awareness up her spine. On the other stood a tall, stern-faced man with eyes as expressionless as polished blue steel. Across the table, standing beside another empty chair, was a green-eyed man who looked vaguely familiar, except now he had gray hair and a beautiful woman at his side, who greeted Josephine with a bright welcoming smile.

She felt like vomiting.

 • • • 

She would have drawn Rafe’s eye in any case. He might have been celibate throughout his long recovery, but he wasn’t dead, and he enjoyed looking at attractive women.

But it wasn’t her fine features, or the richness of her deep brown hair, or the two bright spots of color on her otherwise ashen face that caught his attention. It wasn’t even her surprising height.

It was her eyes—one brown, the other half-brown and half-blue, as if in infancy they had started to change, then had stopped partway through—and the emotion he saw reflected there.

Memories sent his mind spiraling.

He had seen that look before—in startled babies, trapped animals, in a doe bleeding on the ground, watching the hunter approach. And a year ago, in that instant before she turned to flee, he had seen it in Miranda’s honey-colored eyes.

Utter panic.

He stood frozen until Ash’s cough broke the hold of the past. Clumsily, he nodded in welcome as the newcomers were introduced. Seeing the woman come around to the open seat beside his, he reached down to pull out her chair, but saw that the fellow seated on her left had beaten him to it. He pasted on a smile to cover his confusion.

She didn’t even look at him, but sank stiffly into the chair, her face so lacking in animation, it seemed carved from stone.

While introductions continued around the table, Rafe struggled to corral his scattered thoughts. It was disconcerting that after he’d blocked that memory for almost a year, a chance expression on another woman’s face should send it bursting into his mind. He looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed his discomfiture, and saw Thomas, seated diagonally at the other end of the table, watching him.

As usual, the Cheyenne’s face revealed nothing of his thoughts, and folding his arms across his broad chest he resumed staring straight ahead, obviously having no interest in the goings-on around him.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice in a British accent murmured.

Rafe turned to see Miss Cathcart looking past him at Thomas. “Is that man an American Indian?”

Rafe was glad to see that the frantic look was gone from her eyes, although her expression of weary defeat wasn’t much of an improvement. “Yes. He’s a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. Or was.”

“Is he dangerous?”

Rafe wasn’t certain how to answer. In Heartbreak Creek, he had heard rumors about the leather pouch Thomas had once worn beneath his war shirt that had purportedly contained the blunted bullet that had killed his wife and son. The Cheyenne had vowed to return it to the trapper who had fired it . . . by shoving the piece of metal into the man’s beating heart.

Vengeance. Rafe was familiar with it. Revenge was something he’d seen often as a U.S. Marshal. No one knew if Thomas had carried out that threat, but one day the pouch was gone. When questioned about it, he had simply shrugged.

“He can be,” Rafe finally said.

He was saved from further discussion by the arrival of their first course. Happy to eat rather than attempt conversation, Rafe picked up his fork. Then noting that none of the other diners had begun eating, he set it back down.

“He’s traveling to Scotland with you and Lord and Lady Kirkwell?” Miss Cathcart asked.

“Yes.” Rafe watched her remove her gloves, one finger at a time, and saw that despite the slight tremble, there was surprising strength in her hands. Then he remembered what Ash had said about her interest in horses. Realizing this was his chance to learn more about the Cathcart stable, he said, “I believe we’ll be visiting you and your father in Penrith on our way.”

“So I hear.” Picking up her fork, she stabbed with unnecessary vigor at a shrimp curled on a bed of greens. “Although I doubt you have as much interest in visiting us as in assessing the quality of our stable.”

Hearing the rebuke in her tone, Rafe dropped the subject.

The meal progressed through the early courses. In no mood for further rebukes, Rafe kept his head down, half listening to Ash’s discussion with Mr. Cathcart about the thoroughbred’s ability to adapt to rough terrain, and wondering when the woman beside him would finish chatting with the man on her left, so he could start a conversation with her.

Idle chitchat wasn’t his strong point. And after spending most of the last year inside his own head, he had lost the knack for it. It wasn’t that he was shy—he was simply more of an observer than a talker. Which was probably why he was good with animals. He took the time to study them, learn what they feared and liked and disliked. If he was patient and waited long enough, they would eventually show him what they wanted and needed, too. Sometimes, all it took was a touch.

Same with women. Except once a comfortable level of understanding was reached, they wanted to talk about it. Endlessly. Complicating a simple thing by beating it to death with words.

He figured the woman beside him would be more complicated than most. He sensed she was angry. And afraid. And maybe if he waited long enough, she would tell him why, then he’d know what to do. Probably offer advice on the cut of her dress or some other such nonsense. In his experience, pretty women done up as fine as Miss Cathcart was worried more about clothes and doodads and gossip than anything substantial.

It wasn’t until the lull before the meat courses arrived that Miss Cathcart finally turned to speak to him. “What are your plans for them?”

Rafe looked at her. And couldn’t look away. Those astonishing eyes trapped him, pulled him in. Made him forget what she’d asked him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“Your eyes are different colors.”
Hell.
Had he actually said that aloud?

“Indeed?” Without taking her gaze from his, she slid a dainty forkful of something green into her mouth.

Did all women’s lips do that when they chewed? Purse, relax, then purse again, as if contemplating—no,
preparing
for—a kiss? How had he never noticed that before?

She swallowed, further scattering his thoughts. “I never noticed.”

Realizing his blunder, he tried to cover it. “I saw a horse once with different-colored eyes.”
Worse.
Wiping his sweating palms on the napkin draped over his thigh, he cleared his throat. “He was very smart.”

“Ah. Well.” She tilted her head slightly, as if to allow the eye with the blue splash to study him better. “That makes all the difference.”

Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

She didn’t. “I’ve never before been compared to a horse.” One corner of her mobile mouth lifted into a comma of a smile. “I rather like it.”

Relieved—and resolved never to speak again—Rafe picked up his fork.

“So what are your plans for the horses?” she pressed.

Realizing the cursed conversation would continue, he put down his fork again. “Lord Kirkwell is building a thoroughbred stable in Colorado Territory.”

“For what purpose? Racing?” Anger vibrated in her voice.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Oh?” A brittle smile. “That is some comfort, I suppose.”

“You don’t approve of horse racing?”

“I don’t mind a good run.” She frowned down into the round, unblinking eye of the baked trout the server set before her. “But I will never approve of any sport that routinely causes injury, or even death, to horses.”

“Nor would I.”

“Then you must be the exception.” With a look of distaste, she poked at the fish with her fork as if to assure herself it was dead. “I have yet to meet a man who isn’t a steeplechase enthusiast, regardless of the toll it takes on the fine animals forced to participate.”

Rafe waited for the server to set his plate in front of him before he spoke. “I’ve never seen a steeplechase race. But if it’s as dangerous for the horses as you say, then I doubt I would ever have a liking for it.” Swiveling toward her, he stuck out his right hand. “Rayford Jessup. The exception. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Cathcart.”

She stared at his hand. Dark brown brows furrowing into a frown, she lifted her gaze until those striking eyes met his. Rafe sensed it was the first time she had looked directly at him, rather than through him. He wondered what she saw.

But before he could find out, the man on her left recaptured her attention, leaving Rafe to continue his meal in blessed silence.

 • • • 

With a deep sigh, Ash settled into the leather armchair across from Rafe’s in the gentlemen’s smoking lounge. “Well?”

Rafe eyed the Scotsman’s glass. “Shouldn’t you be drinking your tea instead of whisky?” The earl traveled with his own brew—Northbridge Scotch Whisky, a rare and potent blend that could set a man on his heels in no time.

“There’s tea in here. No’ enough to ruin the flavor, of course, but ’tis there. So what did you learn from Miss Cathcart?”

Rafe sipped from his own glass, pausing to let the alcohol lay a warm trail down his throat. “She hates steeplechase races, and she doesn’t like fish served with the head still on.”

“That’s it?”

Rafe thought for a moment. “One of her eyes is both brown and blue, and she’s got a nice smile. Strong hands, too.”

Ash stared at him.

“She did wonder if Thomas was dangerous, which I thought was pretty astute. And she’s angry about selling the horses.”

“Bluidy hell.”

“I told you I wasn’t much of a talker.”