The dog—a wolfhound, judging by the size and rough coat—bounded forward to do its own assessing, sniffing Rafe from every angle. When he offered no menace, Rafe reached out and rested a hand on the big, rough-coated head. The dog accepted it, gave a quick lick, then flopped in the dirt by Rafe’s boot.
“That’s Tricks,” Hendricks said, walking up. “This is his owner, Angus Wallace, although he says most call him Ash because of his hair. Ash, this here’s Rayford Jessup, the man I told you about.”
“The wizard with horses.” Wallace spoke with a strong Scottish accent, offering a firm handshake and a broad smile. “You’ll be needing magic, so you will, to deal with the lad tearing up the barn.”
“Ash is looking to start a horse-breeding ranch up in Colorado,” Hendricks explained. “Heard at the fort I had mustangs, so he and the wife came by to see what was available.”
Rafe didn’t have much admiration for Hendricks’s horses. Mostly scrubs. All the decent mustangs had been rounded up years ago, except for a few small herds that roamed back and forth across the border between Texas and Mexico. If the Scotsman was thinking to build a stable with these pickings, he wasn’t as knowledgeable about horses as Rafe had surmised.
Hendricks flinched when he heard a guttural whinny followed by a series of loud thuds and men yelling. “Well, come along,” he said, waving them toward the barn. “Best see if there’s anything you can do.”
As they walked, Hendricks explained that two sage rats had brought in the mustang several days ago. “Nice-looking stud horse. Or was. Animal’s tore up good and mad at the world. We barely got him locked in the stall before all hell broke loose. For two days, he kicked and screamed and snapped at anyone who dared open the stall door to throw him food. Wouldn’t eat or drink. Still won’t eat. Quieted down some yesterday, so I figured we’d try again.” He gave a snort of disgust. “You can hear how well that’s going.”
When they moved out of the glare of the midday sun and into the barn, the air cooled and grew thick with the odors of hay and sweet feed and manure. Comforting, familiar smells that reminded Rafe of his early years on the farm in Missouri. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw two men standing well back from a stall at the other end of the open center aisle. The stall had a divided door, but as they approached, Rafe could see splintered wood in the bottom half, and blood smears on the upper half where the door hung askew on a broken hinge.
Another shriek, more thuds rattling the timbers and sending puffs of hay dust sifting down through the gaps in the planked loft floor overhead.
“Don’t get too close,” Hendricks warned. “He’s already taken a bite out of one of my men. Vamoose,” he said to the two Mexican watchers. “See if any more new foals dropped today.”
As the ranch workers left, Rafe stepped up to the broken door. Staying out of kicking or biting range, he peered into the darkened stall.
Crazed eyes stared back.
The animal was a mess. Blood on his mouth where he had gotten splinters from biting chunks out of the door. Scraped knees, hind legs skinned, pasterns red with blood. It was a wonder the horse hadn’t shattered a hoof kicking the walls. Having seen enough, Rafe stepped back, almost bumping into Wallace, who had moved up beside him.
“Puir beast,” the Scot muttered, pulling the curious hound away from the bloody stall door. “I dinna think he’ll last much longer.”
Rafe didn’t, either. “What are your plans for him?” he asked, turning to Hendricks.
“Figure to breed him to my mares. Or sell him, if I can get a good price. But I can’t do either unless he’s at least broke to halter. That’s why I sent for you.” He met Rafe’s frown with a shrug. “Heard you could break a green colt without raising a hand. Thought maybe you could settle this one.”
Rafe doubted it. The mustang was too mature, too accustomed to running wild to ever be biddable. As for breeding, neither his conformation nor his attitude would make him a decent stud. Some horses were best left alone. This was one of them. Reaching into his vest pocket, he fingered the few half-eagles he’d brought with him. “How much do you want for him?”
Hendricks named a price that was more than double what the mustang was worth. Even if the animal survived being broken, Rafe doubted he would attract many buyers.
“I’ll pay you half that,” Wallace cut in.
Rafe looked at him in surprise, wondering if the man knew he was offering top dollar for a poor animal. He had thought the Scotsman had horse savvy, but apparently he didn’t. Frowning, he stepped back as the two men negotiated.
A wasted trip. He had hoped to pick up enough money to head north, maybe sign on with one of the big ranches along the Chisholm Trail, or find work at the stockyards in Abilene, Kansas. Then once he had enough set by, he’d look for a patch of land in Wyoming Territory where he could plant his stake and start over. Now that he was recovered and strong enough to do hard labor again, he was anxious to put Texas and all the bad memories behind him.
“You’ll stay for supper?” Hendricks asked Rafe as he walked past toward the front doors, several eagles and half-eagles clinking in his palm.
Rafe shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”
“Tell my wife we’ll be leaving, too,” the Scotsman called after him. “I’ll be in directly to help her pack her equipment.”
Seeing Rafe’s curious look, he grinned proudly. “That’s her wee wagon by the house. I drive her around in it so she can take her pictures. A.M. Wallace. She’s a famous photographer. You’ve heard of her, no doubt.”
Rafe hadn’t, but rather than admit it, he asked Wallace what he intended to do with the mustang. “He won’t go easy.”
“Aye. He’s a wild one, so he is.” As he spoke, the Scotsman led the wolfhound inside an empty stall, locked the door, then returned to the stallion’s. Watching the horse warily, he reached for the slide bar on the battered stall door. “Mind your feet, Jessup,” he warned in a calm voice. “He’ll come out fast.”
“You’re turning him loose?”
“He’s too proud to bend, and I’ll no’ break a horse I dinna need. He’ll find his way home. Stand clear.”
Rafe stepped out of the horse’s pathway to escape.
Wallace slid the bolt, eased open the top and bottom doors, then stood against the wall and waited.
At first, nothing. Then a snort.
Then the mustang burst out of the stall at a dead run, kicking up straw and dirt clods as he raced toward the light at the open end of the barn. A moment later, he was tearing through the brush, tail up, head raised in a triumphant whinny.
Free. Unencumbered. As he was meant to be.
It was a moving sight. One that made Rafe want to race along with him, just to feel the wind in his face and see what was over the next rise. He watched in silent envy until the horse topped the ridge, then turned to Wallace, who stood beside him with his newly freed dog. “You did a good thing, turning him loose.”
Those green eyes studied him. “You would have done differently?”
“No.”
“I thought not.” With a chuckle, the Scotsman threw his arm across Rafe’s shoulders and steered him toward the house. “So, lad. Where now? Back to the family?”
“No family. North, probably.”
“As free as the wind, are you?”
Wallace made it sound exciting and purposeful, rather than the aimless flight of a man trying to outrun a past too painful to face. “Mostly looking for work.”
“If ’tis work you seek, I can offer it. As Hendricks said, I’m putting together a herd.”
“Of mustangs?”
“Thoroughbreds.”
Rafe stopped so abruptly the Scotsman’s arm slid off his shoulder. “In Colorado?” Thoroughbreds were magnificent animals. He’d seen less than a handful of them this side of the Mississippi.
“Aye. I
n a wee mountain town called Heartbreak Creek. But first, I need a wrangler to go with me to get them.”
“Go where?”
“To God’s own heaven.” A rumble of laughter and a flash of pure delight in those moss-colored eyes. “To Northbridge, in the Highlands of Scotland.”
“Scotland? The country?”
“Is there any other? We’ll start in England. I’ve already contacted several stables there. But first, we’ll go to Heartbreak Creek so you can see the stable I’m building. Then we head east, leaving out of New York in four months. If you care to learn more, you can ride along with me and the countess as we head home.”
He must have seen Rafe’s surprise. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I carry a Scottish title. Earl of Kirkwell. The lass is my countess. We avoid the titles when in America, but since we’ll be going to Britain . . .” He shrugged, a crafty grin showing a wealth of white teeth. “I ken it’s a bother. But it gets me free drinks, so I dinna complain. And I can play my pipes at ceremonial events.”
“What am I supposed to call you?” Rafe wouldn’t “my lord” any man.
“In America, Ash. My wife will tell you to call her Maddie—she hates pretense. In public, just Kirkwell for me, and Lady Kirkwell for her.” That assessing look again. “So, are ye coming with me, lad? I’ll pay ye well.”
Steady work, steady pay, and thoroughbreds. How could he not? “Seems you’ve got yourself a wrangler.”
• • •
SEPTEMBER 1871, MANHATTAN
What the Scot didn’t tell Rafe was that in addition to his wife—a nice lady that Rafe liked right off—accompanying them to England would be the wolfhound, a foul-tempered manservant named Pringle, who had as much contempt for his employer as his employer had for him, and a Cheyenne Dog Soldier named Thomas Redstone. Rafe had met them all during his time in Heartbreak Creek when he had worked with several of the local men to track down a murderer terrorizing the town.
The Indian had been a late addition to their traveling group. Initially, he was only to take the train as far as Indiana, where he planned to stop off to see a woman named Prudence Lincoln. But something happened between the two of them, and without explanation, he had reboarded the train just as they were leaving and continued on with them to New York.
Generally, Rafe didn’t have a problem with Indians, especially ones who didn’t drink or steal. But he did have a problem nursemaiding one. Upon arrival in New York, the Scot had asked Rafe to keep an eye on the Cheyenne until their steamer sailed . . . a more difficult task than Rafe had anticipated, since the redskin had a tiresome habit of wandering off whenever the mood struck him.
One-quarter white and three-quarters savage, Redstone had a dry sense of humor and a smile that women seemed to admire. And he had presence. Perhaps it was the utter confidence in the way he spoke and moved and looked at the world. Heads would always turn when he came into a room because, without saying a word, he dominated it. Like Ash and the other men Rafe had met in Heartbreak Creek, the Cheyenne was a strong, resourceful, intelligent man. But with Thomas, there was something more. An unknown element. One never quite knew what he would do if pushed too far.
Definitely a law unto himself. And even after Thomas ordered a barber in New York to cut off his topknot so he would look more white, anyone who looked into those dark eyes knew Thomas Redstone was a man to reckon with. Rafe was curious to see how folks in England and Scotland would deal with the Dog Soldier. Or how Thomas would deal with them.
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 stu
ck 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.
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