Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (9 page)

Then, at the lawn party on her sixteenth birthday, that prince had galloped into her life, as dashing as she had dreamed. The Honourable William Bristol, heir to Baron Adderly. Trim, elegant, perfect in dress and demeanor, he was everything she thought she would ever want.

The months following that first meeting had been a whirlwind of parties and carriage rides and walks through the garden. And then one sultry evening, here among the ferns and ficus and dwarf tropical fruit trees, she had given her love and her body to the man who said it didn’t matter that she was a coal miner’s daughter and he was a baron’s son. He loved her. He wanted to marry her, and would, no matter what his father said.

Foolish girl. Like Father, she hadn’t understood the rules then. And when finally she did, and her prince walked away from her and their unborn child to marry the rich woman with a loftier bloodline that his father had chosen for him, it was here in this glass room where she had wept the bitter tears of a broken heart.

Hopefully, by bringing Mr. Jessup here—a man so different from William or Mr. Huddleston—she might supplant those unhappy memories with ones less hurtful, and the conservatory would once again become a place of reflection and relaxation.

As they entered the large glass room, Mr. Jessup slowed to look around. She guessed he had never been inside a cast iron and glass hothouse before, and enjoyed watching his reaction. Of course, being the restrained person he was, he didn’t say anything, but she could see the spark of interest in his dark blue eyes.

“Do you grow things in here year-round?” he asked as he took his seat across from her at the small cloth-covered table that Rogers, the head footman, had set up directly under the peak of the dome.

She nodded. “Flowers, for the most part. But Cook has an herb bed and a few stock vegetable plantings in the back alongside the orange trees.”

“How do you keep it warm?”

She indicated several small coal stoves along the outer walls, and the huge pots of water simmering on top of each. “In the summer, the sun heats it well enough. And if it becomes too hot, many of the higher panels can be opened.”

Rogers came in with a tray of eggs, ham, an assorted fruit plate, toast points, and marmalade. As he served them, Josephine studied the man across the table. His shoulders far outspanned the narrow back of the delicate ironwork chair. He had removed his hat, and a long lock of sun-bright hair fell over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark left by the band of his Stetson.

He needed a good grooming. His hair was too long, and a dark stubble of beard shadowed his square jaw and stubborn chin. And although he had rinsed his hands in the washroom off the kitchen, there was still mud on his boots and horsehair on his cuffs.

Yet when she looked at him, she saw beyond the disarray to the soft-spoken man she had watched in the paddock with Pems. Big. Confident. Unhurried. She remembered how gently those strong hands had stroked Pembroke’s neck, and found herself wondering what they would feel like on her own flesh.

Wanton thoughts. Such musings had gotten her into trouble before, and it would behoove her to put them aside now.

Still, despite good intentions, there was something about Rayford Jessup’s aloof manner and crooked smile that made her want to break through that armored reserve to the man beneath. In so many ways, he was a mystery to her.

“Nice place,” he said, pulling her from her troubling thoughts. “Thomas would like it.” Amusement danced in his eyes when he added in warning, “Don’t be surprised if you find him sleeping in here.”

“I’ll warn Shipley.”

They ate without speaking. As she watched Mr. Jessup mow through his breakfast with single-minded determination, Josephine found herself wondering if he gave that same intense attention to other appetites in his life. More wanton thoughts. And why for this man?

Why not?

Here in this secluded setting, with the ping of raindrops on the glass panels overhead adding a sense of intimacy, it was easy to see Mr. Jessup as a heroic figure. Mysterious. Protective. Strong. A man who was incapable of dissembling and who always meant what he said, he was the antithesis of the other men she had brought here. What would her life have been like had she met him first?

“When was Pembroke’s Pride injured?”

Chased once again from her errant thoughts, she saw that he had cleaned his plate, and now sat slouched back in his chair, hands folded over his belt buckle, watching her.

“I told you, last year at the—”

“No, before that,” he cut in. “Probably several years before.”

She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“When he popped a splint.”

“Popped a splint?” Now she was doubly confused. It had been several years since she had reluctantly relinquished Pembroke’s care to Hammersmith. Once the stallion had reached maturity and they began using him for breeding, he had become too strong and unpredictable for her to handle. But surely she would have known if he were hurt.

“It’s a common injury in young racing or jumping horses, especially if they’re worked too hard, too early. Ever notice that knot by his left shin? That’s where it healed.” Apparently seeing she still had no idea what he was talking about, he explained that splint bones ran along the inside of the lower leg and were attached to the cannon bones by ligaments. If young horses were worked too hard, those ligaments often ruptured and became inflamed.

“Eventually,” he went on, “the inflammation fuses the splints to the cannon bone, which strengthens the leg and helps prevent further injury. But it takes a long time, and it might be months before the horse healed well enough to be worked again.”

“But I would have remembered if Pems had been laid up that long.”

“Not if he was pin-fired.”

“What’s pin-fired?”

“A brutal practice.” For the first time since she’d know him, Mr. Jessup showed agitation. Stretching a long arm from his slouched position, he began idly rolling his unused knife back and forth on the table beside his plate, his expression one of distaste. “Sharp pins are heated, then pushed into the horse’s leg where the inflammation is.”

Josephine drew back in disgust. “Why?”

“To make the inflammation worse. Some think that will cause the bones to fuse quicker, so the horse can be worked sooner.”

“And you think someone did that to Pems?”

He looked up, those eyes boring into hers with an intensity that was almost intrusive. “I’m sure of it. I saw the white dots where the hot pins went in. When they heal, the hair grows back white.”

She was horrified. As disgusted as Mr. Jessup seemed to be. “But who would have done such a thing?”

He didn’t answer. The knife rolled back and forth.

“Surely not Mr. Hammersmith.”

“Not unless he was ordered to do so.”

Realizing what he was implying, she shook her head. “No. Not Father.” Father would never harm Pems. The stallion was his hope and pride. Besides, Pems was hers, not Father’s.

And yet . . .

Memories swirled in her head. There was that one time when Pems had pulled up lame after a hard workout. She remembered watching Hammersmith put cool compresses on the stallion’s front leg. Father had assured her it was only a slight sprain and the horse would be fine after a few days of rest. She and Jamie had left soon after for a lengthy visit to London. When she’d returned, Pems had seemed fine, although Father said he was giving him a break from his training for a while.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

Just thinking about it sent a sour taste into her throat. “Had I been aware of the practice, Mr. Jessup, I assure you I would never have allowed it.”

“I know you wouldn’t. It’s long healed, anyway. Luckily, horses are forgiving creatures.”

Setting his knife aside, he sat up, signaling an end to the conversation. “Sounds like the rain has stopped. When will Jamie be finished with his lessons? I promised to take him for a ride. If that’s acceptable with you, of course.”

“It is if I’m allowed to accompany you. I haven’t been out in ages.” At his nod, she rose. “We’ll meet you at the stable in an hour.”

F
orty minutes later, Rafe was hurrying down the path to the stables under a patchy blue sky.

It was his second trip down since leaving the conservatory. He had gone down right after breakfast to ready the horses, but when Hammersmith learned they were taking an outing, he had advised him to change clothes.

“We’re just going for a ride,” Rafe had protested.

“Aye, lad. But going for a ride is verra different for society folk than for working men like us. And ye’d best shave, as well.”

“Hell.”

Other than his work clothes—he was only a wrangler, after all—Rafe had his regular Sunday suit, and the fancy dress suit Ash had insisted he needed. After a quick wash and shave, he donned the Sunday suit, a collared shirt, and a narrow tie. He had only his formal shoes and boots, so he wiped the mud off his boots and pulled them back on, decided to forgo the damp Stetson, but buckled on his gun belt. After slicking back his hair, he hurried to the stable.

“Will this do?” he asked Hammersmith, who was supervising the stable boys in saddling three horses and a pony tied in the aisle.

The Scotsman looked him over, then nodded. “Aye. But best leave the gun. This isna Ireland.”

“No.”

The groom sighed. “Then put it in here.” He opened the flap of a small bag tied to the English-style saddle on a leggy chestnut gelding.

“Stevens will accompany you.” The older man nodded toward a groom dressed in a deep brown jacket similar to those worn by the Cathcart coachmen. Rafe wondered if he was accompanying them as protection, or a chaperone.

As Rafe began to lower the stirrups on the chestnut’s saddle, Jamie ran into the stable, followed more sedately by his mother. They were both dressed in fine fashion—Jamie in a dark blue suit and his mother in a velvet riding habit with a long split maroon skirt and fitted black jacket. White lace spilled over the lapels and cuffs, and perched atop her tightly pinned hair was a small black hat with a narrow brim and a jaunty maroon feather. From the polished leather boots to her fine kid gloves, her clothes probably cost twice as much as all the clothes Rafe had brought with him from America.

Another reminder of the vast divide in their stations. Not in class. Social status meant nothing to him. But they were worlds apart in wealth and expectation and experience. He could no more picture her in a small cabin in Heartbreak Creek—no servants, no formal dinners, no place to wear all her fine gowns—than he could see himself suffering a lifetime of meals with the vicar.

While Hammersmith assisted Miss Cathcart, Rafe gave Jamie a leg up onto his pony—a stout roan with the drooping muzzle of an older horse—then swung up onto his big chestnut. With Jamie riding between his mother and Rafe, and Stevens following several yards behind, they started down the long drive to the front gates.

“We’re going to Penrith.” Jamie grinned with excitement. “And Mother says I may have a strawberry ice.”

“I hope you don’t mind stopping in town,” his mother said. “I’ve a few items to purchase, and I thought we could take luncheon while we’re there.”

“Sounds fine, ma’am.”

“You needn’t call me ‘ma’am,’” she admonished. “You’re a guest, not a servant.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Miss Cathcart would be fine. But since I consider us friends, I would prefer Josephine.”

An odd concession. Using first names might be common in Heartbreak Creek, but Rafe knew the English were more formal than that. Was she indicating she was open to other concessions, as well? Intrigued by the notion and willing to see where it led, he nodded. “Then call me Rafe.”

“Can I call him that, too?” Jamie asked.

His mother smiled down at him. “No, you may not. He’s your elder and should be addressed as Mr. Jessup.”

“But he’s your elder, too.”

“That’s different.”

“But—”

Seeing this conversation was headed nowhere, Rafe broke in. “What’s your horse’s name, Jamie?”

Grinning, the boy reached down to pat the pony’s neck. “Boots. Because of his black hooves. Yours is named Wellington because of his big nose. He likes to snatch bites of grass, so you’d best watch him.”

Rafe matched his serious tone. “I will. Thank you. You’re very knowledgeable about horses.”

“Yes, I am.” The boy straightened even more in the saddle. “I’ve been riding ever since I was little, you see.”

“You’re very good at it. Did Mr. Hammersmith teach you?”

“No, sir. Mother did.”

“Did she?” Lifting his gaze over Jamie’s blond head, Rafe met Miss Cathcart’s—Josephine’s—beautiful eyes. “She did a fine job.”

“She says I’m a natural. But she’s ever so good, too.” The boy grinned proudly. “Mr. Hammersmith says had she been born a boy, she could have made a fine race rider.”

“That would have been a shame.” Still holding her gaze, Rafe smiled. “I like that she’s a girl.”

“Me, too.”

Color bloomed on her cheeks, which made Rafe grin, and which for some odd reason, heightened her color even more.

“Hie to the gate,” she called and, without waiting for an answer, nudged her gray into a canter.

Jamie and his pony tore after her, but Rafe hung back. While he waited for Stevens to catch up to him, he watched the two race ahead.

They were both good riders. Even though Josephine rode sidesaddle, she seemed relaxed and well balanced, her back straight but supple, her hands light on the reins. Jamie rode in the same quiet manner, head up, reins in gentle contact with the snaffle, legs still. He definitely was a natural and should be graduating to a bigger horse soon.

The groom reined in beside him. “Sir?”

“Do you expect trouble in town, Stevens?” Rafe asked.

“No, sir. Penrith is usually fairly quiet.”

“Usually?”

When Rafe continued to study him, the groom shifted in the saddle and looked away. “Well, sometimes things are said.”

“Things?”

“About the boy.”

Rafe tried to keep his expression pleasant. “
About
the boy? Or
to
the boy?”

“Both. But there’s never any real trouble, sir. Not with me there.”

“Good man. Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep an eye out, too.” Putting heels to Wellington’s sides, Rafe galloped to catch up with the pair racing ahead.

He remembered Penrith from his earlier visit on his way to the Cathcart estate. A typical English market town, situated in a broad valley at the confluence of three small rivers, it had been cloaked in mist when he’d ridden through the first time. But today, the clouds were clearing off, and he could see most of the Eden Valley and the surrounding fells—the local term for the uncultivated stretches that were less mountain than rolling green hills—which were dotted here and there with Rough Fell sheep and upland ponies.

“That’s Beacon Hill.” Jamie pointed to a high round ridge. “If you go up there and squint your eyes real hard, you can see the peaks of the Pennines far away.”

“Penrith flourished in the early coal mining days,” Josephine said later as they rode down the main thoroughfare of small shops, pubs, and open market stalls. “But as the coal fields played out, it went into decline. It’s only in the last few years that things have begun to flourish again. Tourists, for the most part. Penrith has many prehistoric sites and is home to several local castles and ruins.”

“One of them is haunted!” Jamie’s hazel eyes were round with animation. “Mother promised this year I might see it.”

“Another day perhaps,” his mother said, reining in outside a dry goods store. “Unless you gentlemen want to help me pick out ribbons, and needles, and threads for the housekeeper, I suggest you wait for me at Benderhoff’s Tea Room. I shall only be a few minutes.”

Before Rafe could offer to escort her, Stevens swung down and assisted her off her mare. “I’ll keep an eye on her, sir,” the groom said to Rafe in a low voice as he handed up the reins to his and Josephine’s horses. “We’ll be along shortly.”

With a nod, Rafe led the horses after Jamie toward a tall, narrow building with several small tables and chairs on the stone terrace out front. “Why don’t we take one of the outside tables,” Rafe suggested as they dismounted. “So we can watch for your mother.”

After tying the four horses to a rail on the side of the building, they returned to the terrace and took seats at one of the sunny tables out front.

Rafe looked around. Other than a few architectural differences, Penrith looked like many small American towns, especially those in the Northeast. Narrow lanes, crowded storefronts with painted signs hanging over the doors, and worn cobblestone streets, all stewing in the stink of too many people and animals crowded into too small an area. Rafe was definitely not a city person. He needed more sky and space, and a lot less noise. Still, for a town, Penrith wasn’t that bad, especially on a sunny day. “Is this where you’ll go to school, Jamie?”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Oh?”

The boy shrugged and began bouncing the heel of his boot against the metal leg of his chair. “Mother says I’ll be safer at home.”

Safer?
An odd choice of words.

Across the street, three boys a little older and larger than Jamie stopped rolling a hoop to stare at them. One said something to the others and they all laughed in that overly loud, forced way that boys use when being cruel.

Jamie looked away.

Rafe continued to watch them. “Those boys friends of yours?”

“No. Mother says to stay away from them.”

“Good advice.”

The boys gave up trying to get a reaction from Jamie and moved on to bedevil a three-legged dog darting down an alley.

Jamie continued to bounce his foot. “What’s a bastard?” he asked after a long silence.

Rafe stiffened. “Where’d you hear that word?”

No response.

“A bastard is someone without a father,” Rafe said. “Those boys call you that?”

Jamie nodded. “They said I was a whore’s bastard.”

Hell.
Rafe looked after the boys and fought the urge to go knock some manners into them. “They’re wrong.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Sometimes people say mean things because of envy. You live in a grand house, wear fine clothes, and eat all the food you want. Plus, you have your own horse. They think belittling you will make them bigger. But it doesn’t work that way.”

“Mother says to pay them no mind.”

“She’s right.”

Down the street, Josephine walked out of the dry goods store, Stevens close behind her, carrying her parcel. She walked with a jaunty step, the feather in her hat bobbing with each stride, head up, back straight. She stepped into the jewelry store, came back out a few minutes later, and continued toward them. No one spoke to her. Two women whispered behind their gloves and turned their backs as she passed by. A man leaning in the doorway of a tavern stared blatantly.

Rafe felt simmering anger build into a hot, hard knot in his belly. It took monumental effort to keep his expression from betraying the emotions surging through him when she walked up to their table. “Thank you for waiting,” she said, ruffling her son’s blond hair. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Then let’s see what the fare is today, shall we?”

 • • • 

Lunch passed pleasantly, and they returned in early afternoon. After changing back into his work clothes, Rafe went down to work Pembroke’s Pride. There were still a few puddles in the round pen, so he took the stallion there and put him through his paces on a longe line. At first, the horse resisted stepping into the puddles, but Rafe kept at it until the animal made it all the way around several times without balking.

Pleased with the progress the horse had made, Rafe took him back to his stall. He had almost finished brushing him when a voice said, “Ho,” startling him so badly he dropped the brush, which in turn, startled the stallion.

Whipping around, Rafe glared at the man grinning in the doorway. “Damnit, Thomas, quit sneaking around that way. You almost got me stomped.”

“I do not sneak.”

“I should put bells on you.” Rafe picked up the brush and dropped it into the bucket beside the door. “Ash here, too?”

Thomas nodded. “That is a handsome horse.”

Rafe felt a swell of pride. “Yeah, he is.”

“Is this the one the Scotsman wants?”

“One of the ones.”

Hammersmith came down the aisleway, a slight falter in his step when he saw Thomas. “They be looking for ye up at the house, lad,” he said to Rafe, giving the Cheyenne careful study.

Rafe introduced them, then motioned Thomas along as he headed up the path to the veranda. “There’s a boy here named Jamie. He’ll probably pester you with questions. Be nice to him.”

“I am always nice.”

“Then be extra nice. You kill Pringle yet?”

“No. But I think about it every day.”

Rafe chuckled. “How was London?”

“It is a place with no sun, where white people speak a language I do not understand. It smells like a latrine.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to Maddie’s publisher?”

Thomas nodded. “It is as you said. He has no books that tell the story of the People. He wants me to make him one.”

Grinning, Rafe clapped him on the back. “That’s wonderful news, Thomas.”

The Indian didn’t smile back. “I am not sure. It took me a long time to read the book you gave me. I think to make a book would be harder than to read one.”

“I’ll help you. Others will, too. How is Maddie? Did Ash take her to the doctor?”

Thomas snorted. “White people. You complicate even the simplest things.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Scotsman will tell you.”

They were crossing the veranda when the door burst open and Jamie darted out, then came to a dead stop when he saw Thomas. “Is that him?”

Rafe nodded. “Thomas, meet Jamie Cathcart. Jamie this is Thomas Redstone, the Cheyenne Dog Soldier.”

Jamie gaped, his eyes so wide white showed all around the hazel irises. Then he whirled and raced back inside. “Mother! He’s here! I saw him!”

Thomas sighed.

“It’ll be all right,” Rafe consoled. “Just don’t show him your scars.”

They found the others gathered in one of the front parlors—the yellow salon?—the house had so many rooms Rafe couldn’t keep all their names straight. The countess was looking better, he was relieved to see, and the earl seemed in high spirits. When he saw Rafe and Thomas, he crossed toward them.