Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (6 page)

“Yes.”

“The rain didn’t bother you?”

“Not much.”

“What are your impressions of the Lake District?”

“It’s green.”

The absurdity of trying to carry on a conversation with a man who wouldn’t talk finally got the better of her. Stopping on the second landing, she turned so abruptly he almost ran into her. “Is it me?”

“What?”

“Or are you this aloof with everyone?”

Confusion gave way to a frown. “I’m not aloof.”

She bit back a laugh. “No?”

“I’m just not much of a talker.”

“Yet you spoke eloquently enough on board ship.”

“That was different.” A reluctant tilt at one corner of his wide mouth. Not a full smile that showed teeth, or bunched his cheeks, or crinkled the corners of his dark blue eyes—he’d never given her one of those. But it was affecting, nonetheless, and made her feel she had won something to get even that. “We were talking about horses then.”

This time she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. They had that in common, at least. “Well, do try to be more talkative at dinner tonight,” she said, continuing up the stairs. “Vicar Bohm and his wife, Agnes, will be joining us, and if you don’t speak up, she will either regale us with the latest London gossip, or he will expound endlessly on the local forester’s attempts to curb the overpopulation of carp in the area’s fishing ponds. Personally, I would rather talk about horses. Here’s your room.”

She nodded to the maid fluffing the pillows on the large, canopied bed, and stepped aside so he could enter. “Shipley is sending up a footman to help you with your bath.”

At his look of alarm, she added, “Or not, if you’d prefer. We dine promptly at eight. Drinks in the drawing room before, if you’re interested. The items in your trunk have been pressed and are hanging in there.” She pointed to the wardrobe. “If there’s anything you require, have Mary, here, or the footman—”

“When can I see the horses?”

Despite his reticence, she could easily warm to this man. “Dawn comes shortly after seven.” Which was about the time she usually showed up at the stable. But she’d never had a guest willing to join her there at such an early hour.

“Not tonight?”

She glanced at the window. The day was fading and dinner was less than an hour away. “It’s late, Mr. Jessup. I’m not sure what you could see in the dark, but you are certainly welcome in the stables at any time.”

He nodded.

She turned to the door, then stopped, unsure how to speak without offending him. “I don’t know if you are aware, but we dress for dinner.”

“I’d hope so. Especially in this climate.”

She blinked, taken aback. Was he jesting? His chiseled face gave no clue. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “What I meant to say, Mr. Jessup, is that we dress more formally for dinner.”

“More formally than what?”

“Than . . . well . . . what you’re wearing.”

“Ah.”

The maid stifled a giggle.

His expression didn’t change, but the amusement in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she had meant and was teasing her. She didn’t know what to say to that, but was charmed nonetheless.

The footman’s sudden appearance gave her an exit . . . and a way to tease him back. “There you are, Fredericks. Just in time to help our guest undress for his bath. As you can see, he’s quite muddy. Scrub him well. Come along, Mary.” With a parting smile at the apprehensive American, she ushered the maid into the hall, calling gaily back as she shut the door, “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Jessup.”

She thought she heard raised voices behind her, but wasn’t certain if they came from downstairs, or Mr. Jessup’s room.

The green or the lilac?
she wondered, moving with a light step toward her bedroom in the west wing. If one must play the tart, it was important to look one’s best.

R
afe knew he shouldn’t be staring at her so much, but he had never seen a woman look as beautiful as Miss Cathcart did that evening. She seemed in high spirits, smiling often, her sleek brown hair catching the light of the dozens of candles spaced along the table. A different woman from the one he had met two weeks ago, when she had sat so rigidly beside him at the captain’s table.

What had changed? What had put that spark in her remarkable blue-brown eyes?

“What do you think?”

Startled, he glanced at Agnes Bohm, the vicar’s wife, seated on his right. She blinked eagerly back at him like a tiny gray hen poised to pounce on a dung beetle. She seemed to be awaiting an answer from him, but he could barely remember the conversation. Something about mourning and widow’s weeds.

“They’re dark?”

“Exactly, Mr. Jessup! And far too somber, I think. It’s simply not good for the country. After all, it’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it?”

Rafe nodded, still not sure what she was talking about.

“See, Mr. Bohm?” The elderly lady leveled her bright blinking eyes at her husband, who sat across the table beside Miss Cathcart. “Even an American agrees. Certainly her devotion to Albert’s memory is commendable, but it’s time for dear Victoria to put aside her mourning. No one looks good in black. Especially at her age.”

Apparently she had forgotten that she wore the next best thing—gray.

“Yes, dear,” her husband said. “You’re right. As always.”

“But then,” she went on with a dreamy look on her kindly face, “it’s so gratifying to see a love that reaches beyond the grave, don’t you think, Mr. Jessup?”

Actually he thought it sounded ghoulish. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“You’re not married?”

Distrusting that avid gleam in her faded eyes, Rafe shook his head.

“Well.” Reaching over, she patted his arm with a gnarled, blue-veined hand. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

“Oh, dear,” her husband murmured.

Undeterred, the old lady went on, “We should introduce him to the Campbell twins. Lovely girls. And I doubt either of them would mind marrying an American.” Leaning toward Rafe, she added, “They’re quite tall, you see. And sturdy. Easily able to leave their mark in your Wild West, so to speak.”

Their host, seated at the head of the table and as far away from the other four as he could get, belched quietly and signaled the footman for more wine.

Miss Cathcart hid behind her napkin, her shoulders shaking.

Laughing? At him? Rafe sent her a “what’d I do?”
look
.

Her shoulders shook harder.

Beautiful shoulders, with rounded curves and delicate collarbones that drew his eye to the hollow at the base of her graceful neck, and from there, down to the gentle swells rising above her low neckline—swells that were quivering with her efforts not to laugh. Jiggling, actually. Pressing so hard against the thin fabric of her purple dress he could almost see—

“Where exactly did you say you were from?” the vicar asked, jarring Rafe back to attention.

The face. Focus on her face.
“Texas, mostly.”

“He was a lawman there,” Mr. Cathcart put in, his bleary gaze sliding from his daughter to Rafe. “A Texas Ranger.”

“Deputy U.S. Marshal,” Rafe corrected. “The Rangers were disbanded last year, although I suspect they’ll be reinstated soon.” The rampant corruption of their replacement, the newly formed State Patrol, was one of the several reasons he’d left Texas.

“What’s the difference between Rangers and Marshals?” Mrs. Bohm asked.

“Jurisdiction.” Rafe studied his empty plate, wondering if it would be rude to ask for seconds. “One is state, the other is federal.”

“This is Mr. Jessup’s first trip to our country,” Miss Cathcart said, having finally gained control of her amusement.

“Is it?” Mrs. Bohm beamed. “And how do you find it, Mr. Jessup?”

“Wet.”

Thankfully, the footmen stepped into the breach his comment caused, and began removing plates and serving dessert—another of those pudding things the English seemed to favor. Conversation wound through other topics and Rafe let his mind drift again, until he looked up from his admiration of Miss Cathcart’s bosom to find her glaring at him.

He pretended innocence, but didn’t think she bought it.

The remainder of the meal progressed with little conversation. Other than a nod or two when cornered, Rafe avoided further participation until their host stood and herded his guests into the drawing room for brandy or tea.

Rafe wanted neither. But it would be rude to refuse, and since he had already made enough mistakes for one night, he dutifully folded his long frame into a delicate, overly ornate settee he was half afraid would collapse beneath him. Sadly, it didn’t, and for the next hour, he sat sipping tepid tea from a tiny china cup and feigning interest in gossip about people he didn’t know and places he had never been.

It was apparent to him these people didn’t have enough to do.

To pass the time, he mused on possible ways to avoid future dinner gatherings and take his meals with the grooms, then realized if he did so, he would miss the treat of seeing the beautiful Miss Cathcart and her alluring attributes across the table each evening.

Not something he was ready to forgo.

But even with her sitting so close that he could smell her perfume—lilacs, maybe?—time dragged. Conversation moved from meaningless to inane and his efforts not to yawn grew desperate, until finally, the vicar asked for their buggy to be brought around.

Rafe bounded from the couch, thinking the evening was over at last and soon he would be free to visit the stables before he retired. Following the Cathcarts out onto the drive to see the elderly couple on their way, he saw that it had stopped raining and a light still showed in one of the stable windows.

His spirits rose.

Then the endless good-byes began.

His frustration must have shown. “Patience, Mr. Jessup,” Josephine Cathcart whispered by his shoulder. “It’s a virtue, you know.”

“Not with me.”

By the time the Bohms’ buggy finally departed, the stable window was dark.

Mr. Cathcart said his goodnights and weaved back inside, leaving his daughter and Rafe standing on the drive. When Rafe gazed longingly at the dark stable, she chuckled. “Let them sleep, Mr. Jessup. They’ll be there in the morning.”

He masked his disappointment. “Dawn is at seven, you say?”

“Half past. Or thereabouts. Shall I see you then?”

“If you’re up that early.”

 • • • 

She wasn’t. After a restless night, Josephine slept so late that by the time she arose, Jamie was already dressed and gone, and the sun was beginning to burn away the morning mist. Without waiting for her maid or a corset, she threw on her serviceable boots, a woolen work dress under her barn coat, tied a scarf around her unruly hair, and hurried down the path to the stables.

Halfway there, she came to a stop when she saw Rayford Jessup, hatless, his long open duster swaying at his heels, walking into one of the pastures below. A bag hung from his hand. Stopping several yards out in a grassy spot, he scattered the contents of the bag on the ground at his feet—from Josephine’s vantage point, it looked like bites of carrot or apple—then he put the empty bag into the pocket of his coat and stood quietly, arms relaxed at his sides. After looking around for a moment, he began to speak. She wasn’t near enough to hear his words, but the tone was slow and even. Every now and then, he gave a low, warbling whistle.

Speaking to whom? There was no one else in sight. Curious to see what he was about, she continued to stand on the path and watch.

He cut a striking figure—Heathcliff, wandering the moors around Wuthering Heights—mysterious, guarded, tortured. Although she suspected that Mr. Jessup’s reasons to be wandering about had more to do with horses than lost love. Still, there was something romantic about him standing motionless in the mist, tall and lean, the sturdy length of back and breadth of shoulder showing strength as well as grace. She could imagine him equally comfortable on a horse as on a dance floor.

Did he dance? She loved to waltz. The whirling, fluid freedom of it was almost as exhilarating as riding a horse. Sadly, she rarely found suitable partners, being as tall as she was. All that panting on her breasts was quite distracting.

Down below, Mr. Jessup continued to speak to the trees at the back of the pasture. A gentle breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair and sent mist swirling about his boots. She sensed he was waiting for something. Or someone. But she saw no one else and heard no other voices.

Then shadows moved through the trees. Big. Dark.

He whistled again.

Slowly the shadows emerged, taking on form and substance as they stepped hesitantly out of the mist and into the open.

The mares.

Heads up to test the air, they edged closer to this unknown intruder, their gangly foals close at their sides.

Mr. Jessup didn’t move. His voice remained calm, his occasional whistle cutting through the still morning air like a bird’s call.

Prissy, the bossy bay matriarch of the herd, snorted, then stepped hesitantly forward, ears pricked. The other mares and foals followed. She reached him first and for her courage received a scratching along her jaw and first chance at the treats on the ground. The other mares pushed in, crowding around him as they searched out every last morsel. Jessup gave each pats and scratches, murmuring all the time. After they had all sniffed his hands and gotten their praise and treats, he turned and walked away. The mares watched until he swung over the fence and disappeared into the stable, then dropped their heads to graze.

Bemused, Josephine continued down the path.

“Good morning, Mr. Hammersmith,” she said when she saw the burly Scot coming out of the feed room in the center of the stable.

He tugged the brim of his cap. “Morning, miss. Looking for Jamie, are ye?”

“Have you seen him?”

“Aye.” He tipped his head toward the other end of the stable. “He’s yon with Mr. Jessup, feeding the barn cats. He keeps bringing them treats, they’ll stop mousing, so they will.”

“I’ll remind him,” she called back, hurrying along. The customary sense of welcome coursed through her as she moved past the long rows of split stall doors. Most of the top doors were open. In some, she saw horses nosing their feed boxes, hunting the last kernel of grain. Other stalls were empty, the occupants having been turned out into their paddocks so the grooms could clean up behind them.

The snuffle and stomp of horses, the muttered voices of men working in the loft overhead, the smell of manure and hay and leather oils, even the dusty taste of the air, all combined to give her a deep feeling of peace.

This was where she was happiest. Not in glittering ballrooms, or strolling the fashionable streets of London. Here, with Jamie and among her beloved horses, was where she belonged. How long before this joy was torn from her life forever?

Pushing that thought aside, she stepped around the rear opening, and saw Jamie talking earnestly to Mr. Jessup. The tall Texan stood at the paddock fence, one booted foot on the bottom rail, his arms folded along the top rail, and several rangy cats rubbing against the leg bearing his weight.

Jamie copied the pose—although being at least twenty-five years younger than his companion and a great deal shorter, his blond hair barely brushed the bottom of the third rail, and his interest was more on the man beside him than on the horse in the paddock.

Yet, for a moment, in the sudden glare as the sun broke through the mist to crown their blond heads with golden light, they looked so alike they might have been father and son.

Ignoring the catch in her throat, Josephine stepped forward. “There you are.”

Jamie whipped around with a welcoming grin. “About time, sleepyhead.”

Without taking his foot from the bottom rail, Mr. Jessup pivoted, one forearm still stretched along the top rail, the other coming down to rest low on his belt. “Miss Cathcart,” he said with a nod.

“Did you bring anything to eat?” Jamie asked, his hazel eyes bright with excitement. “I’m ever so hungry.” At seven years old, he invariably was.

“Cook gave you nothing?”

“A muffin. But since Mr. Jessup looked hungry, I gave him some of it.”

“That was kind of you to share.” She glanced up to find Mr. Jessup studying her, his speculative gaze dropping down to Jamie then back. She had no idea what he was thinking. Or why it would matter.

“Have you breakfasted yet, Mr. Jessup?”

He shook his head.

“Then we’d be pleased to have you join us.” She instructed Jamie to tell Cook that she and Mr. Jessup would be coming up shortly. “We’ll eat on the side veranda, now that the fog is lifting. You may join us.”

With a hoot, Jamie raced back through the barn.

In the awkward silence that followed, Josephine wondered why she felt the need to explain Jamie to this stranger. He would find out soon enough, since she had never kept Jamie’s existence a secret. She adored her son. Took pride in him. And had long ago decided not to live under a cloud of evasions and innuendoes, or pretend a shame she didn’t feel. Better he should hear that from her, rather than through the gossip mills.

Hiking her chin in challenge, she said, “Jamie is my son.”

He nodded.

Both confused and somewhat deflated by so lacking a response to her momentous declaration, she made certain he understood the whole of her sordid situation. “His father decided to marry someone else.”

This time he gave a shrug. “His loss.”

That was it? Two words and a shrug? No shock? Disgust? No speculative gleam in his eyes or even a spark of sympathy?

She should have felt relieved. Instead, his utter indifference stung.

“So when can I see Pembroke’s Pride?”

 • • • 

Rafe knew right off he’d made a mistake. He just didn’t know what it was. One minute they were talking, the next, she was stomping away, muttering to herself. Was this about him asking to see the horse? Or what she’d told him about the boy? Had he failed some test he wasn’t even aware had been put before him?