It wasn’t until she saw a deck steward turning down the oil lamps that she realized how late it was. “Mercy. I must have rambled on for hours.” She sat up.
He immediately rose and held out a hand to assist her.
It was a big hand, rough with calluses, his long fingers engulfing hers. Neither of them wore gloves, and the warmth of his skin against hers felt alien and intimate.
“I’m sorry you have to sell your horses,” he said, looking into her eyes, his hand still gripping hers. “But if they come into my care, I promise they’ll be treated well.”
“Your care? You’re the earl’s groom?”
A wry smile pulled his lips up on one side. “Wrangler. And I don’t mistreat animals.”
She saw the steadiness in his dark blue eyes, heard the conviction in his voice, and believed him. “I’m glad.”
He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then released them. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Miss Cathcart. Perhaps we’ll dine together again.”
“Perhaps.”
But she doubted it. Since this crossing was Father’s last chance to catch the attention of possible investors, or snare a husband for her, he would make certain they sat with different diners each night to make the most of the opportunity. And anyway, Mr. Jessup would be coming to Penrith soon. She would have many chances to speak to him there.
The idea lightened her mood.
Which underscored in a pathetic way how lonely her life truly was.
• • •
Thomas didn’t glance up from his book when Rafe returned to their cabin. Moving quietly so he wouldn’t disturb his reading, Rafe hung his coat on a peg in the closet, then flopped down atop his bed along the opposite wall.
Clasping his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, picturing Miss Cathcart’s face there, with the salty breeze tugging long tendrils of dark hair loose from the scarf tied around her head, and that shy way she had of looking up at him from beneath the long curve of her lashes. He’d been wrong about her. She wasn’t the flighty, high-stepper he had imagined. And she had a temper. He smiled, remembering how she’d struck Calhoun, and wondering what the man had done.
“You talked to her for a long time,” Thomas said.
Startled out of his reverie, Rafe looked over at him.
“The woman watching from the shadows.”
“You knew she was there?”
Thomas shrugged. “I am Cheyenne.”
Hoping to change the subject, Rafe nodded to the book in Thomas’s hands. “How’s your book?”
“I do not like it. And I do not understand why these white people fight each other over lands that are not theirs.”
“Probably for the same reason Indians fight other tribes over hunting grounds that aren’t theirs. Greed.”
The Cheyenne glared at him.
“Everybody wants more of something, Thomas. Food, land, wealth, women. Greed is what moves the world.”
“What is it you want, Rayford Jessup?”
Rafe thought for a moment. “Peace. And a patch of ground with good grass and water.”
“In Heartbreak Creek?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you fight for it?”
“I’ll buy it.”
“And who will you buy it from, ve’ho’e—white man?”
Seeing from the Indian’s expression that this discussion was headed into a dead end, Rafe gave up and held out his hand. “Sorry you don’t like the book. Give it back and I’ll try to find one more to your liking.”
Thomas shook his head. “I want to know who wins.” He started to say more when the door opened and Ash walked in.
Rafe could tell by his expression that something was troubling him. Sitting up, he swung his feet to the floor. “What’s wrong?”
“My wife. The lass says nothing is amiss, but I can see her food isna sitting well and she sleeps too much. Tricks is faring no better. Puir lad doesna like being cooped up in the hold. It was selfish of me to bring them along.”
The Scot paced the length of the narrow room, then back again. “Likely she’s upset to be going back. Being English, she has no great love for Scotland.” Stopping at the window, he stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet braced to compensate for the sway of the ship. “As soon as we dock, I’ll take her to London to see her publisher at the Illustrated London News. Perhaps if she sees the progress Chesterfield has made on the bound book he’s making of her photographs, she’ll come out of her melancholy. If not, I’ll take her to a doctor.”
He turned, his face grim. “Rafe, go on to Penrith as planned. I’ll come as soon as we’re finished in London. That will give you a chance to look over Cathcart’s stock and decide if any are worth having. Thomas, I want you with me. I must attend other business while in London, and I canna leave the countess with only Tricks and that gowk, Pringle, for protection.”
“There will be trouble?” Thomas’s eyes brightened in anticipation.
“One never knows. The English are a treacherous lot, so they are.”
Rafe frowned. “But aren’t Scotland and England part of the same country?”
“No’ in any way that matters.”
• • •
The remainder of the voyage passed slowly for Rafe. Because of the countess’s unsettled health, the Wallaces took their meals either in their stateroom or at a small, secluded table at the back of the first-class dining room. Since that left Rafe and Thomas on their own, they usually ate in their cabin, rather than go to the bother of changing into their fancy clothes just to eat dinner.
The one time they did dress up, Rafe saw Miss Cathcart seated at a prominent table with other wealthy travelers. That rigid expression was back on her face, although her eyes did light up for the moment their gazes met across the crowded room. At least, he thought they did. He saw no sign of her accoster, Calhoun.
Restless and bored, Rafe prowled the deck, hoping for another chance meeting with her, but never saw Miss Cathcart on the promenade again. He wasn’t sure why he was so intent on seeing her. Perhaps her distress over the horses had touched him more than he’d thought. Or maybe he simply missed the company of a pretty woman. Whatever the reason, it created a restlessness within him that kept him awake long into the night.
On the last day of the crossing, they were all impatiently pacing the deck, desperate to reach solid ground again. Even Pringle braved the fresh air—assigned the task of walking Tricks—and was an amusing sight, being dragged helplessly along as the wolfhound raced along the railing, his nose to the wind.
But the countess showed less anticipation than resignation. And as the pale purple shadows of Ireland and England drew steadily nearer, Rafe noticed she seemed to withdraw into herself more and more. Remembering what Ash had said about her reluctance to return, Rafe hoped that was the cause of her melancholy, and not a return of her earlier illness.
“I explained to Cathcart that you’ll be arriving in Penrith alone,” Ash said to Rafe as they made another circuit. “And that the countess and I will follow after we conclude our business in London. When I told him you were traveling on horseback, he offered to take your trunk in his carriage. If that’s acceptable, have the steward deliver it to their stateroom before we dock.”
“Or I could send it with you.” Rafe had planned on traveling light. Anything he couldn’t do without he could roll in his duster and tie to the saddle.
“You’ll be expected to wear your new suit at dinner,” the countess reminded him with a look of sympathy.
“And talk,” Thomas added with that smirk.
There went his plan to stay at the stable with the other wranglers.
“Come, lad.” Ash gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Will it be so bad dining with the lovely Miss Cathcart?”
“And talking.”
Hell.
By the time the Oceanic docked and the mooring lines were secured, it was late afternoon, yet the port still teemed with sailors, travelers, and bustling stevedores unloading cargo from the many ships lined up at the wharves. Place smelled like a fish dump.
The earl had sent word of their arrival date on a fast mail steamer, asking his solicitor, Colin MacPherson, to meet the ship. Now, as they waited for the gangplank to be lowered, he scanned the faces onshore.
“There he is.” The countess pointed to a robust man wearing a dark suit and bushy red muttonchops who stood beside two coaches at the front of the line of waiting carriages. “He hasn’t changed at all in the four years I’ve been gone.”
“Colin was at university with me,” Ash explained to Rafe and Thomas. “MacPhersons have been the Kirkwell solicitors since my grandfather’s time.” Dropping his voice so that Pringle wouldn’t hear, he added, “He is also one of the few outside of Heartbreak Creek who know of my affliction.”
“It’s not an affliction,” his wife murmured, patting the thick arm she held. “It’s a slight difficulty with reading. No more.”
“Slight?” Ash grinned down at her. “’Tis like trying to decipher a plate full of wiggling worms.”
The countess swallowed weakly.
“Sorry, love. Forget I said that.”
As soon as they stepped off the gangplank, MacPherson approached, a big grin splitting his ruddy face. “Welcome home, Lord Kirkwell. Lady Kirkwell.”
“I thank you for meeting us, Colin.”
After introducing Thomas and Rafe and Pringle, Ash motioned them along as he steered his wife after MacPherson toward the two coaches. Men in fancy green livery were already loading their luggage onto the top of the plainer of the two carriages, while a coachman stood at attention beside the open door of the other—a black-lacquered, two-horse four-wheeler with a crest on the side.
“’Tis good to have ye home, milord,” the coachman said, tipping his hat.
“Thank you, John. How go things at Northbridge?”
“Verra well, milord. Your sister and the McKenzie are planning a grand welcome, so they are.”
“It may have to wait a few days. Do you mind if Tricks rides up front? He’s smelling a bit strong, and the countess is feeling poorly.”
“No’ at all, milord. I’ve missed the lad, and the fresh air will do him good. When we stop for the night, I’ll give him a good run.”
As the coachman helped situate Lady Kirkwell and Tricks, Ash told the solicitor about their altered plans. Resting a hand on Rafe’s shoulder, he added, “Since the lad, here, is traveling alone to Penrith, he’ll need a horse and map.”
“Of course. I’ll make arrangements at the inn where we’re staying tonight.”
Rafe, Thomas, and Pringle moved on to the second coach. Thomas arrived first and insisted on riding topside with the coachman. Rafe would have joined him had there been room. But when he grudgingly took his place inside with the ever-dour Pringle, he consoled himself that he would be on horseback soon, while Thomas would be stuck on a coach for a long while yet.
As they began to move, Rafe looked out the window to see his trunk being lashed atop a carriage that was even more elaborate than the one carrying the Kirkwells. Yet despite Cathcart’s show of wealth, men didn’t doff their caps and step aside the way they did when the earl walked by. Rafe sensed that sign of respect had more to do with the man than with wealth or status.
Miss Cathcart stood at the carriage door, looking regal and unapproachable in deep blue, her narrow waist set off by the tight-fitting jacket, and a jaunty hat set atop her sleek deep brown hair. Yet the expression she wore wasn’t that of a haughty miss leading a pampered life, but rather that of a woman who had suffered and now bore the scars of that hard experience like a coat of armor.
He curbed his curiosity to know why. She had wealth, position, beauty. Probably the greatest calamity she faced was a stain on her glove.
Another reminder to Rafe that he was an outsider in an unfamiliar world—one of privilege, rigid protocol, and a very different set of standards than those back home. A wrangler and battered ex-lawman had no place here, and wouldn’t be welcomed into elite circles. He would have to watch his step.
And dress up for dinner.
Hell.
Four
Round shafts of sunlight shining through the bullet-pocked door. Voices calling in the street.
With a groan, Rafe leaned up on one elbow to peer over the sill of the shattered window. He couldn’t see them, but he heard them. Inching closer.
He slumped back, willed away the spots circling behind his eyes. “Leave,” he said to the woman huddled in the corner. “They’re coming.”
When she didn’t move, he waved weakly toward the rear door. “Go, Miranda. Now.”
Weeping. Terror in her honey brown eyes. “I didn’t expect him to do this, Rafe. How was I to know?”
He didn’t want to hear it. “Just go.”
A last, lingering look, her eyes wide with fear, then she whirled and dashed through the door.
Boot heels thudding on the boardwalk. One set. Three. Maybe four.
Pressing his free hand over the seeping hole in his chest, he lifted the Colt. Aimed at the doorway. Fought to keep his hand steady.
The door burst open.
With a cry, he rose up, teeth clenched, his hand jerking as he squeezed the trigger again and again and—
The shouts stopped. The smell of blood and spent powder wafted through his mind, then faded. Silence.
Sensing a presence, Rafe twisted to see a man standing over him. He blinked in confusion. Thomas.
“Wh-What are you doing?” Rafe demanded in a wobbly voice, wondering why he was sitting upright in the bed, his hand raised.
“You called out.”
“I did? I was . . . I thought . . .” He looked at his empty hand. At his chest. Around the unfamiliar room. No gun, no blood, no bodies twitching on the floor.
He sagged back, his mind in chaos, his heart drumming in his chest. Not Dirtwater, Texas. The inn in Liverpool.
Dreaming. That’s all.
“What is wrong?” Thomas asked, stepping closer.
“N-Nothing.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “A bad dream. That’s all.”
“It has happened before.”
“It has? Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I once suffered such dreams. This will help.” He held up a strip of leather from which hung a twig bent in the shape of a hoop. Across the inside of the hoop was a web of fine threads, and attached along the outside were dangling feathers and beads and carved bits of antler.
It looked like something a big cat might have coughed up. “What is it?” Rafe asked, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor.
“Ianbla gmunka. A dream snare.” Thomas thrust it into Rafe’s hand. “Good dreams move through the holes in the web, down the feathers, and into your sleep. Evil dreams are too big and stay trapped in the threads until the light of the rising sun kills them.”
Rafe recognized some of the beads and carvings from Thomas’s war shirt. “You made this?”
Thomas shrugged. “Hang it over your bed. It will protect you. And give better rest to those stuck in the room with you.”
Seeing the Cheyenne’s rare smile eased some of the tension. “Thanks.”
A loud knock, then Ash’s voice called, “Muster. Twenty minutes.”
Thirty minutes later, they were all gathered outside the inn while the earl issued his final instructions. Commands, was more like it. The Scotsman might never again wear the uniform, but he would always be military. “Dismissed,” he concluded, waving the others toward the coaches as a groom brought out a saddle horse for Rafe. “And Pringle, for the love of Saint Andrew, quit hovering. Go assist the countess if you lack something to do!”
“Ho. Do you miss me already, white man?”
“When Ash takes Maddie to visit her publisher, go with them. Ask him if he has books about American Indians. Especially books dealing with tribal legends.”
“What is ‘legends’?”
“Stories passed down through the years that explain the beliefs of your people. Those that are shared around the campfire, or used to teach your children. Like the one about the dream snare. You have a lot of stories like that?”
Thomas nodded.
“See if Mr. Chesterfield has a book about them. If he doesn’t, ask him if he wants one.”
Excitement lit the Cheyenne’s dark eyes. “There is such a book?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping he’ll ask you to write one for him.”
“Me? Write a book?”
“Why not? Just tell the stories as you know them. I’ll help you write them down.” When the Indian didn’t respond, Rafe pressed harder. “You’re not afraid to ask him, are you?”
Thomas snorted at the notion.
“And when you go see him,” Rafe hurried on, seeing the coachman of the earl’s carriage snap the whip over his matched bays, “be sure to look like a Cheyenne warrior.”
“I am a Cheyenne warrior.”
“Wear your war shirt. Take your axe and knife and anything else you have that marks you as a Dog Soldier. You cut quite a figure in your native clothing.”
“I know.”
The earl’s carriage rolled out of the yard.
“Are you coming or not?” the driver of Thomas’s coach called down.
The Indian gave him a glare that took the color from the coachman’s face, then he turned back to Rafe. “I will think about what you have said, Rayford Jessup. Sleep well, hovahe.”
Rafe had heard Thomas use that word in Heartbreak Creek and was pleased to see he’d moved from ve’ho’e—white man—to hovahe—friend. “Travel safe, Thomas.”
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