Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (8 page)

Cathcart finished off his wine and belched. “You pamper him too much, girl. And he’s far too old to have a nanny. When I was his age, I had to put food on the table for my mam and two sisters. Crawling through the mines, breathing black death, and getting kicked in the arse if I didn’t move fast enough. No lullabies and nighttime kisses for me.”

“I know, but—”

“No!” Her father’s fist hit the table so hard his empty glass toppled. “You
don’t
know! Sitting there in your fancy dress, eating fine food with a silver spoon—you have no notion, girl, what it cost me to make this rich life you’re living today. You know nothing! Rogers, another bottle.”

As the footman rushed off to get another bottle of wine, Rafe calmly set his napkin beside his plate and rose. “Miss Cathcart, would you care to take a stroll through the rose garden?”

She glanced up, her eyes overly bright, her face overly pale. That rigid, remote expression was back. “I would, Mr. Jessup. Thank you.”

“You’re not excused,” her father slurred.

Rafe turned his head and looked at him.

The older man seemed to deflate. “All right. Go on, then,” he muttered, waving them toward the door.

Motioning another footman aside, Rafe came around and pulled back Miss Cathcart’s chair, then offered her his arm. Without a glance in the direction of the man slumped at the head of the table, he led her from the room.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mr. Jessup,” she said as he helped her into her coat in the entry. “He’s usually not so . . . difficult.”

Rafe didn’t respond. His teeth were clenched so tight he doubted he would have been able to, even if he’d thought of something to say.

The night had turned cool, which helped take the edge off his anger. He reminded himself it wasn’t his place to step into the middle of family arguments, but then an image of Josephine’s stricken face flashed through his mind, and he knew he had been right to get her away before her drunken father went too far.

Josephine.
He shouldn’t think of her by her given name. They weren’t familiars. They weren’t equals. She lived in a palatial estate—he preferred the stables. She was bound by the rules of a society that had little meaning for him—he just wanted to be left alone.

Or did he?

The time he’d spent in Heartbreak Creek had put a crack in that resolve. The honorable people he’d met there had shown him that not every town was like Dirtwater, Texas.

Nor was every female like Miranda.

He looked over at the woman walking beside him, head down in thought, her arms crossed against the chill breeze. He wondered what she was thinking. If she resented his interference. She was a prickly one, Josephine Cathcart, and fiercely protective of her ability to take care of herself. He didn’t want her thinking he had been coddling her again, even if that had been his intent.

“Thank you for getting me out of there,” he said, breaking the long silence. “I was afraid I might do something.”

“Do something?” Her head came up.

“I don’t take kindly to bullies.”

She continued to stare at him. In the dim starlight, he couldn’t see her face that well, but he could sense her confusion.

“It’s a weakness that’s gotten me into trouble before,” he explained. “I didn’t mean to make an awkward situation worse.”

She didn’t respond. They came around to the side veranda, where they often took breakfast, then down the steps and onto the path that wound through the garden. They were more sheltered from the breeze on this side of the house, and the still air was thick with the smell of late-summer roses. All was quiet but for a distant whinny from the stable below, where a single light shone in the small room where Hammersmith stayed with the cats.

“He has a point,” she admitted. “Jamie doesn’t need a nanny anymore. But I hate the idea of him spending so much time alone up in the nursery.” Bending, she plucked a weed from between the stones of the walkway and tossed it into the shrubbery. “Because of our situation, we rarely have callers. Other than Cook’s grandson, or the stable boys, or the occasional visit from one of the servants’ children, he has few playmates. Of course, Nanny Holbrick isn’t much of a playmate, being almost in her dotage. But she loves Jamie, and her being there provides a caring and stabilizing presence in his lonely life.” She gave a brittle smile. “Every child needs to be loved by someone other than his mother, don’t you think?”

“He has his grandfather.”

She didn’t respond to that.

Somewhere in the trees at the back of the garden, a night bird called out. A lonely, solitary sound that reminded him of a bobwhite. He wondered who it was calling to, and why there was no answer.

“Do you have family, Mr. Jessup?”

He shook his head.

“They can be a trial sometimes.” She paused to pinch a spent blossom from a long stalk, then continued walking, her fingers idly pulling the rose apart as she spoke. “My mother died soon after Father bought his first mine. I don’t remember her, or those hard early years, so he was right when he said I have no notion what it cost him to climb out of those black holes and make a life for me and Mother. He could have turned me out after my disgrace, but he didn’t. I’m grateful for that. And for all he’s given me and Jamie. But sometimes . . .”

She slowed to a stop, let the petals fall at her feet, then brushed her hands on her coat. The scent of roses was so strong Rafe could smell nothing else.

“But sometimes,” she went on, “I think he brought some of that darkness up with him. Or left the better part of himself down in those deep tunnels. It makes him cruel.”

“He could do better.”

She crossed her arms again and looked up at him, her head slightly tilted so that one dark curl fell across her cheek.

He wanted to brush it away. Feel the softness of her skin. Touch her in some small insignificant way. But if he did, he would only want more.

“We don’t get to choose the life we’re given, Mr. Jessup.”

Miranda’s face flitted through his mind—frozen smile on painted lips, empty eyes meeting his in the mirror over the saloon bar as a stranger ran his hand up her thigh. He forced the image away. “You’re right, Miss Cathcart,” he said more brusquely than he’d intended. “But we do get to choose whether we stay in that life or leave it.”

“And if one is not strong or brave enough to break away?”

“Then find someone to help.” How righteous he sounded. Like he had all the answers. Had he learned nothing from that fiasco in Texas?

Disgusted, he motioned toward the house. “Shall we go back inside? I can see you’re chilled. And the boy is waiting for his bedtime story.”

“Of course.”

They spoke no more until they parted in the entry. But as Rafe watched her go up the stairs, he felt something move through him. A hollow feeling. Like the pang of an empty belly. But higher up, in his chest.

The numbness of the last year was thawing. He was starting to feel things again. Want things.

And he didn’t like it.

“W
hat do you think of Mr. Jessup?” Josephine asked, watching in the vanity mirror as Henrietta brushed out curls she had pinned into her hair earlier.

“I like him better than Mr. Huddleston, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Josephine liked him better, too, and was heartily grateful their neighbor had given up his suit. Between the men she had met in America, Mr. Calhoun on the ship, and those Father had foisted on her here, she was becoming quite adept at repelling male advances. Too bad she had lacked that skill when she was sixteen.

“But Mr. Jessup . . .” Henny sighed. “Faith, and he’s ever so handsome. And smart.”

Josephine looked at her in the reflection. “Why do you say that?”

“One of the upstairs maids said he brought a whole trunkful of books all the way from America. Sure, and all the kitchen girls are half in love with him.”

Josephine smiled at the cheerful young Irishwoman whose high spirits and love of gossip kept the loneliness at bay, even during Josephine’s darkest days. “But not you, Henny?”

“Never say it.” A bright laugh, then the pretty redhead leaned down to whisper, “To be sure, I don’t mind passing my eyes over such a foine-looking fellow, but I’ve got me own beau, so I do.”

“Do you? When did that happen?”

“While you were in America. But please, miss, don’t tell Shipley.”

“Why not?”

“Because, well . . .” Henny’s rosy cheeks seemed to get rosier. “If he knew that we . . . what I mean is . . . consorting amongst the staff is not allowed.”

Josephine turned on the vanity stool to frown up at her. “Consorting?” Did Henny mean what Josephine thought she meant?

“If he found out,” the flustered maid said, the brush twisting in her grip, “we’d both lose our places. Then I’d have to go back to the farm and Gordon—”

“Gordon Stevens? The groom?”

The brush fell to the floor. Tears spilled over. “Oh, please, miss. Say you won’t dismiss us.”

“Hush, Henny. Of course I won’t dismiss you. Nor will Shipley.” Reaching into a vanity drawer, she pulled out a hanky and handed it to the weeping woman. “Now do stop crying and tell me why, if you’re so in love, you and Gordon simply don’t marry?”

“We can’t. Shipley doesn’t allow married couples on staff.”

Josephine reminded herself to have a talk with the tyrannical butler. This wasn’t the seventeen hundreds. Even servants had rights nowadays. “Then what do you plan to do?”

Henny dabbed her tears away, then let out a hitching breath. “Keep working until we can afford a livery somewhere. Gordon is ever so good with horses.”

Josephine reminded her that Father was selling horses, not adding any.

“But surely he’ll keep a few. For the carriage and such like.”

“Hammersmith will be able to handle that without help.”

“Then maybe Gordon could train as a footman?”

Josephine suspected Father would soon be letting footmen go, too. But rather than trigger another onslaught of tears, she broached a growing concern. “Are you being careful, Henny?” Seeing her maid’s look of confusion, she elaborated. “If you’re, em, consorting with Gordon . . . well, you wouldn’t want to make the same mistake I did. Not that I think of Jamie as a mistake, but—”

“Oh, no, Miss Cathcart! Jamie is a perfect angel. Faith, if I ever had a son, I would want him to be just like our Jamie. But I won’t be having a son anytime soon. Gordon makes certain of that.”

“How?” Admittedly, she was ignorant of such matters, but if such a thing were possible, surely William would have thought of it back when they were consorting.

Henny leaned in to whisper. “French letters. Or some use Dutch cups.”

Josephine vaguely remembered mention of such things in one of her romantic novels, but hadn’t understood how a letter could stop the arrival of a baby. And she knew nothing about a Dutch cup.

The maid must have read her puzzlement. “They’re preventatives. Baby preventatives.”

“How do they work?”

A wave of color almost drowned out Henny’s freckles. “The French letter is a thing . . . like a glove, but with only one finger, that fits over a man’s . . . part.”

“Part? You mean his . . .”

“Exactly. I have one in my cubby. I’ll show you.” She swept out the door.

By the time she returned, Josephine was in her gown and robe, warming herself beside the small coal stove set inside the marble fireplace.

“Sure, and Gordon’s not fond of them.” Henny pulled an odd flat thing out of a small box bearing the name
Dr. Power’s French Preventatives
. “He says they’re uncomfortable. Probably because they’re made of vulcanized rubber, rather than gut. The Dutch cup fits over the opening into a woman’s womb. I shudder to think how it gets there. You can have this one, if you’d like.”

“My word.” Loath to touch the thing, she opened the drawer for Henny to drop it in. Why hadn’t William known of these preventatives? It would have saved them both from scandal and disgrace—although the latter was mostly on her part, not his. But then, if he put one on his . . . part, there would be no Jamie.

But still. How liberating. And how shocking to have such a thing in her possession. She wondered if Rayford Jessup had ever heard of a preventative.

 • • • 

Over the next several days, Rafe rode Pembroke’s Pride in the round training pen, working him at all gaits—in circles, figure eights, backing up, stops and starts. The horse responded well, changed leads when he was supposed to, and accepted Rafe’s commands without pulling or fighting the bit.

Rafe praised him often and, after each session, rubbed him down for a long time, speaking to him constantly. The horse quickly became accustomed to his scent, his touch, the sound of his voice. The stallion was also beginning to lose some of his stiffness, and as he went through his gaits, his stride grew smooth and fluid as muscles strengthened and became more defined.

Rafe kept the sessions short. Knowing Pems was intelligent and would easily grow bored with the same monotonous routine, he varied his activity by having Hammersmith work the stallion on a longe line each afternoon while Rafe watched from the fence.

On the fifth morning, Rafe awoke to heavy gray clouds and an ache in his old shoulder injury that foretold rain. Knowing this was his chance to put Pems through his next test, he threw on his clothes, grabbed his hat and duster, and hurried to the stables.

“You’re taking him out today?” Hammersmith questioned when Rafe came out of the tack room with the stallion’s halter and lead rope and a carrot. “Looks like rain, so it does.”

“I hope so.” Plucking a curry brush from a peg, Rafe slid the bolt on Pembroke’s stall door and stepped inside.

The horse whinnied in welcome. Having seen Rafe in his hat and duster several times, Pems wasn’t as concerned by Rafe’s altered appearance as he was the carrot in his hand. Rafe let him finish his snack, then buckled on the halter and led him out the rear stall door into his paddock. Stopping in the center of the open area, he took out the brush and began talking to the animal as he curried him.

Pems stood quietly, enjoying the attention as well as the brushing.

Until the rain began.

It started with a thick drizzle then progressed into regular rain. Not a Texas frog-strangler, but heavier than the misty soup Rafe had ridden through from Liverpool almost two weeks ago. He could feel the horse tense as water collected on his back and began to run down his sides. Stepping back to give him space, Rafe continued to talk calmly to him.

The stallion stomped, shook his head, snorted.

Because the paddock was mostly beaten-down dirt with a few patches of grass, the rain began to puddle here and there.

Taking a snug grip near the halter ring, Rafe took a step, keeping pressure on the lead until Pems moved forward. Praise, a pat, words of encouragement, then another step. And another.

The horse did well until they came to the first puddle, then he balked.

Rafe continued to urge him forward, speaking all the while.

The stallion snorted, eyes showing white, but Rafe talked him through it until eventually Pems stepped hesitantly over the puddle. Same with the next, and the next.

The puddles grew larger, running together into small pools. When they came to one that was too wide to step over, Pems refused to cross. Rafe backed him up and came at it again and again until, finally, the horse put one front hoof into the water. Then Rafe had him stand there.

The horse trembled, his nostrils flaring as his breathing accelerated.

Rafe spoke quietly, rubbing the crest of the stallion’s muscular neck until the horse began to relax enough to drop his head. He snuffled at the puddle, tossed his head, and stepped back.

Again, Rafe massaged the horse’s neck until he calmed, then brought him up to the puddle again. When the horse had both front hooves in the water, Rafe asked him to stand quietly while he stroked him and told him how well he was doing. Eventually the shaking stopped. The stallion’s head dropped as he relaxed.

Rafe led him to the next puddle and did it all again. When the horse was able to stand quietly in an inch of water, Rafe figured he’d accomplished enough for one day, and led him back into his stall and out of the rain.

Miss Cathcart was waiting by the open doorway, grinning like a kid with new shoes. “You did it! I was watching. He did beautifully, didn’t he? Can I give him a carrot?”

Rafe nodded, charmed by the sparkle in her blue-brown eyes. He had rarely seen her in such high spirits, and her smile made him smile. Stepping back so she could give the horse his treat, he noticed Hammersmith grinning over her shoulder.

“Good work, lad. Ye’ll make him into a kelpie yet, so ye will.”

Rafe wasn’t sure what a “kelpie” was, but heard the praise in the Scotsman’s voice and felt a surge of pride in the horse. “He did it himself, not me. Be sure to keep his paddock door open so he can go out if he wants. If it’s still raining this afternoon, I’ll take him out again.”

“Aye. The rain will continue for a while, anyway.” The groom rubbed his knuckles. “These auld hands tell me so.”

“If he does well this afternoon, I’ll take him to the training pen tomorrow.”

“It’ll be full of puddles, so it will.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Hammersmith left to scold the stable boys for being slow to muck out the stalls, but Josephine stayed, watching as Rafe rubbed down the wet horse with a piece of burlap. “He looks better every day. You’ve done wonders with him.”

“He’s a good horse.”

“You’re a good trainer.”

Rafe kept his head down to hide how much her words pleased him. “Where’s Jamie?”

“At his lessons. He’s been badgering his tutor about Cheyenne Indians ever since he learned Mr. Redstone will be visiting. He’s never met an Indian before, much less a Dog Soldier.”

“Thomas is an interesting man.”

“Do you think he’ll mind if Jamie asks him questions?”

Rafe straightened, dropped his rag into a bucket holding brushes and combs and hoof picks, then searched out a dry spot on his trousers to wipe his hands. “Have Jamie take him on a walk. Thomas is a lot more approachable when he’s outdoors.”

She moved aside when he opened the stall door, then fell into step beside him as he carried the bucket of brushes back to the tack and feed room.

He thought she looked especially pretty today, although she was dressed in her usual brown dress and black boots. Maybe it was her smile, or the way curls were already sliding free of her scarf and showing bits of straw stuck in the dark strands. He almost reached over to brush the straw loose, but caught himself in time.

“Will Jamie be safe with him?” she asked as he scooped a tin of grain and headed back to the stallion’s stall.

“Safer than he’d be with any other man, I suspect.”

“Except you.”

Another rush of heat into his face. “He’ll always be safe with me. Both of you will.”

“I know.”

Leaning over the half door, he emptied the grain scoop into the wooden feed trough attached to the wall, grabbed the horse’s water bucket, then straightened, almost bumping into her. “Thomas is patient with children. He can teach the boy a lot.”

“About what?”

This time she dogged his heels to the feed room to return the scoop, then on to the water trough outside, where he rinsed the bucket, filled it, then carried it back to the stallion’s stall.

“Living. Surviving. Understanding the world around him.”

It rattled him the way she kept following him around. Reminded him of Jamie, except she was prettier and smelled better, and he never thought about kissing Jamie like he did the boy’s mother. Irritated that he’d let that thought into his head, he set the bucket beside the horse’s feed trough, then turned to face her. “Something I can help you with, Miss Cathcart?”

“What? Oh.” She stepped back, that flush rising up her neck. “I’m bothering you.”

Irritation faded. It wasn’t her fault he let his mind wander where it shouldn’t. “Not at all. But I’m getting hungry. I’d be pleased to treat you to one of Cook’s muffins. They’re really tasty.”

The laugh that burst out of her took him completely off guard. He couldn’t help but smile back. “I say something funny?”

She laughed harder. “I don’t know when you’re jesting or being serious, Mr. Jessup. You’re a terrible tease.”

“I don’t mean to be.”

“Of course you don’t.” The roll of her eyes belied the statement. “Come along, then,” she added, slipping her arm through his in a gesture so familiar and unexpected it left him at a loss for words. “I’m sure I can get you something more substantial for breakfast than a muffin. I know the cook personally, you see.”

Docile as a spring lamb, he allowed himself to be towed along, that tiny rift in his resolve widening a fraction more.

 • • • 

Since the rain prevented them from dining on the veranda, and Mr. Jessup wouldn’t go into the dining room dressed in his work clothes, Josephine reluctantly had a footman set up a table in the conservatory.

She hadn’t entered the glass-domed hothouse since Mr. Huddleston’s awkward advances. When she was an adolescent, the humid world of exotic plants had been her favorite place other than the stables. Here, the seasons never changed, and the perfume of thousands of blossoms scented the air, and she was the lonely princess awaiting her prince.