Curious as to why they’d been summoned, he and Thomas joined Ash and the countess in the chairs grouped around a crackling fire in the hearth.
“I’m so glad you came.” The Englishwoman beamed, her face alight with that bright smile Rafe associated more with Maddie of Heartbreak Creek than the Countess of Kirkwell. “I have news—Heavens, Mr. Jessup! What happened to your hair?”
“Thomas cut it.”
“With what? His hunting knife?” She said it with a smile, but when Rafe nodded, her expression changed to one of exasperation. “Honestly. It simply won’t do. After we finish here, I’ll have one of the maids cut it. You look like you’re wearing a thatched roof.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Happiness restored, she pulled an envelope from her skirt pocket. “As I said, I have news. Lucinda has written, and I thought you might like to hear all the latest from Heartbreak Creek. Shall I?” Without waiting for assent, she pulled several sheets of stationery from an envelope and began to read:
“‘Dearest friends,
“‘I received your letter and was happy to read that the crossing went well. I already miss you, and the town is so quiet it doesn’t seem like home anymore. Now that the bridge line is complete, even the Chinese have deserted us. I almost wish Ash was here to rend the silence with a lively Scottish tune.’”
“Aye.” A wistful expression came into Ash’s moss green eyes. “The pipes do have a way of lifting one’s spirits. ’Tis sorry I am that I left them behind in Heartbreak Creek.”
Maddie gave him a look, shuddered, then cleared her throat. “To continue . . .
“‘I’m delighted that you have recovered some of your energy, Maddie. My only disappointment is that you and I cannot go through our confinements together. Misery does love company, I hear. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to keep your secret? But I’m glad all is well.’”
“What?” Ash bolted upright. “You told a stranger about our bairn before you told me?”
“Luce isn’t a stranger,” his wife argued. “She and Tait are family. And if I had told you, you wouldn’t have let me come. Nor would you have made the trip without me. Now do hush, love, so I can finish the letter.”
Muttering under his breath, the earl settled back.
“‘My guardian, Mrs. Throckmorton, was able to sell her Manhattan brownstone without difficulty, and is now happily ensconced in a suite at the hotel. She seems unbothered by Pringle’s absence (but really, who would be?). I hope he has not been too big a trial for Ash, although Tait finds the notion of the old butler becoming Ash’s valet vastly amusing. Mrs. T.’s retainers, Mrs. Bradshaw and Mr. Quinn, returned to Colorado with us, and Mrs. B. has graciously taken over management of the hotel. Mr. Quinn has taken a new position, as well. Making use of his background as a Pinkerton Detective, he is now Chief of Security for both the Denver & Santa Fe, as well as our own Pueblo Pacific Bridge Line. I only wish he would come up to snuff with Mrs. B. It’s clear they care for each other but for some reason Mr. Q. won’t commit. When you return, Maddie, we shall have to work on him.’”
“Lord help the lad.”
Ignoring her husband’s muttered comment, the countess read on.
“‘I’m also happy to report that Tait and Ethan Hardesty are in partnership to build a grand hotel near the site of the mineral spring in the canyon. Not at the spring, itself, since they’re aware that area is sacred to Thomas’s people. But lower down, where the spring empties into the creek. The plans look amazing.
“‘In sadder news, Audra Hardesty’s father died in a tumble down the stairs several weeks ago. A dreadful blow, but she continues to keep the newspaper going and seems to have recovered from her father’s death and the ordeal that vile murderer put her through. The new house Ethan designed for her is coming along well. As is yours, Maddie. I predict both will be ready for occupancy by the time you return.’”
“Aye, and well they should be. A hotel isna the place to raise a bairn.”
With a fond smile, the countess patted his hand. “You’re interrupting again, dearest.”
“Sorry, lass.” He nodded for her to continue.
“‘I am enclosing a letter from Pru. I sense she is growing homesick, despite becoming more and more involved with her school for freed men and women. She has also spent a great deal of time working on an education initiative with a local Negro preacher. I’m not sure what to make of it so I will say no more about it, and allow you to read her letter, yourself.’”
Rafe glanced at Thomas, but the Cheyenne’s face revealed nothing of his thoughts.
“‘The Brodies are still out at the ranch, but come into town on a regular basis. All seem to be doing well, and you will not credit how big the children are now. I think R.D. is already shaving! And I actually saw Brin in a dress and it wasn’t even a Sunday. Baby Whit is growing so fast I’m sure Declan will have him on a horse by his second birthday.
“‘I must close for now. Nurse Tait is insisting I take a nap, although I’m feeling much more energetic the more ungainly I become. Odd, that.’
“You know, it is odd,” Maddie said, looking up from her letter. “The bigger I get, the more . . .” When she saw the three male faces staring blankly back at her, she smiled. “Yes, well, never mind that. In closing, Lucinda writes, ‘I hope you continue in good health, dearest, and please give my well wishes to those in Scotland with you. Love, Lucinda.’”
With a tremulous smile, Maddie folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. “It seems so strange to be parted from them.”
“Now, lass.” Reaching over, Ash brushed his big hand against her cheek. “We still have time to go back, love, if that’s what you want.”
Her small pointed chin came up. “Absolutely not. Northbridge is where all the Kirkwell heirs have been born. Our son will be born here, as well.”
“Or daughter.” The smile Ash gave her was so charged with emotion Rafe had to look away. Despite his brash ways, the man was devoted to his wife.
“Shall I read Pru’s letter?” she asked, pulling another missive from the envelope on her lap. But her smile died when she looked up and saw Thomas disappearing through the doorway.
“Perhaps later,” Ash said, staring after his friend with a troubled frown.
• • •
Time passed slowly for Rafe. After the first week, the raw, misty beauty of the Highlands began to wear thin, and he found himself longing for the dry, crackling heat of the American Southwest just before a thunderstorm swept out of the sunbaked sky. This constant half rain that kept everything soggy and slick with moss gave him a chill he couldn’t seem to shake, and at night, his old wounds throbbed with a dull ache that left him plagued with troubling dreams.
One morning after an especially restless night, when he and Thomas left the room and went down the long stone staircase, the Cheyenne asked him where the dream snare was that he had made for him.
“I forgot and left it in my room at Cathcart’s.” He glanced over at the frowning Indian. “Have I been keeping you awake?”
Thomas shrugged. “Is she dead?”
“Miranda?”
“If she is dead, that is why she haunts your sleep. The People believe it awakens bad spirits to speak the name of one who has died.”
“She’s not dead. At least, I don’t think she is.”
Leaving the main structure, they crossed the bailey to the kitchen, located in a separate stone building. There, the usual oatcakes and honey awaited them, as well as several giggling maids. They ate, begged some suet from the cook, and left.
No rain for a change, Rafe was pleased to see, and the clouds were moving away to the east. Maybe they would finally have a sunny day. After saddling the ponies assigned to them, they stopped by a storage building against the inner curtain wall, gathered long poles and twine, then rode away from the cast
le.
“You will tell me what is wrong,” Thomas said when they turned off the long drive toward the loch. “And I will decide if I must put my knife in your throat to release you.” At Rafe’s look of alarm, he flashed a broad grin. “I must do something. I am weary of hearing you call out in the night.”
“Put a feather in your ear.”
When they reached the loch, they tethered their horses to bushes by the shore, then walked out to sit on a flat outcrop hanging over the water.
After rigging his pole with a length of twine, Rafe tied on a hook baited with suet and let his line sink into the dark, icy depths. Overnight, the howling wind had died down. The surface of the loch was as glassy as the mirror behind the bar in the saloon where Rafe had seen Miranda for the first time.
“Speak now, nesene, of this woman who troubles your sleep.”
Rafe wasn’t sure where to begin. Drawing on memory, he pictured the dusty street, the warped boardwalk, the heat shimmers rising off the rooftops the day he rode into town. He had been full of hope back then, and flush with pride over the Deputy U.S. Marshal badge pinned on his vest—even though his task in Dirtwater had been more mundane than heroic—to take the 1870 census.
But he soon learned that the rough Texas town wasn’t one that welcomed scrutiny, especially from a representative of the federal government. And the powerful Amos Gault had much to hide. Although nothing had ever been proven, he was suspected of murder, robbery, importing foreign women for purposes of prostitution, and cattle rustling. The townspeople—from the local sheriff down to the newest offering in Gault’s brothel—were terrified of him.
Miranda was no exception.
“The first time I saw her was in a saloon,” Rafe finally began. “She was standing by the bar, studying her reflection in the tarnished mirror behind the liquor bottles, while a drunken cowboy pawed her like she was a lapdog.”
“She allowed this?”
“She didn’t stop him.” Rafe flicked his wrist, felt a bump against the line, and flicked it again. Nothing. Surface ripples settled back into a mirror gloss. “She was beautiful. Eyes the color of clover honey. Had one of those innocent, wounded faces that made a man think she needed saving, and only he could do it.” And like a trout chasing a mayfly, he had risen to his own destruction.
“You could not save her,” Thomas guessed.
“I tried, but she went back to the man who put her in that life. Amos Gault. Ever heard of him?”
Thomas shook his head.
“No matter. He’s dead now.”
“You killed him?”
“Him and three others.”
The Cheyenne thought for a moment. “That is how you got those bullet scars on your chest?”
Rafe nodded.
“Then you fought them well.”
But for what? Nothing changed, except for four new graves in the town cemetery, and a weary disenchantment with his job, women, and his own judgment.
“What happened to the woman?”
“Never saw her after Gault died. I was laid up for a long time. When I got back on my feet, she was gone. Heard she went to San Francisco.”
“If she is gone, why does she still trouble you?”
“She hasn’t. Not for a long time. But lately . . .”
“Ho.” Thomas nodded in understanding. “You have found another woman to save and do not know if you should.”
Rafe reared back to glare at him. “You’re loco.”
Thomas smirked.
But Rafe couldn’t deny the pull Josephine had on him. She was in a bad situation, too, but this was different. For one thing, he could do nothing to help her unless she left England and came back with him to Heartbreak Creek. He didn’t see that happening. They were too different. Too far apart in too many ways. Plus, he had nothing to offer her compared to what she would be leaving behind. Oh, it might work for a while. But when reality took root, resentment would grow.
They sat for a long time without speaking. Or catching any fish. Rafe had hoped their quarry might seek the sun-warmed water near the surface, but the fish stayed in the murky depths. Probably afraid of that bright shiny thing in the sky.
A shadow drew his gaze up as a huge bird floated past on silent wings. An eagle, or maybe a vulture, or some large Scottish waterbird. He watched it glide just above the surface of the lake, then suddenly throw out its taloned feet and snatch a fish from the water. Its great wings pumping against the added weight, it carried its dripping prey toward the far side of the loch.
“I think I will not put my knife into your neck,” Thomas decided. “Instead, I will make you another dream snare. But heed me, white man, it will be the last one.”
They caught no fish that day. Or the next. And the morning after that, he and Thomas were back on the train, heading south.
• • •
“The post rider came today,” Josephine’s father informed her over dinner two weeks after their argument about entering Pems in next year’s Grand National. “Brought a missive.”
Rafe? Was he on his way back? Josephine looked down at her plate, lest her sudden interest give her away. “Oh? From whom?”
Father motioned the footmen from the room. Always a bad sign. More so when accompanied by that sly smile. “Your old swain, William Bristol—now Baron Adderly since his father’s death these two years past.”
The floor seemed to shift beneath Josephine’s chair. Once she caught her balance, she looked up to find Father’s smile had changed to a look of speculation. “What did he want?”
“To ask if he might come for a visit.”
“A visit? Here?”
Her first thought was that Father had summoned him, perhaps hoping William would renew his pursuit of her now that he was free. But she quickly discarded the notion. It was too soon. Decency dictated a mourning period of at least six months. Besides, she was a ruined woman. And even though William had been the cause of it, she doubted his pride would allow him to align himself with a woman of her sordid reputation. “Why would he visit us?”
“Not us, girl. You.”
An unseen hand closed around her throat. “But why?”
He shrugged. “He gave no explanation. Although he did ask if Jamie would be here. He wants to meet him. It’s not unusual that a man would want to see his own son, is it?”
Fury took her breath away. She slapped her napkin beside her plate. “It is when he so vehemently denied him for all these years. I won’t see him.”
“You will.”
“I will not!”
“You’ll do as I tell you, girl!” He dragged a hand through his hair. His expression changed, softened into that cajoling smile he used whenever he sought to bend her to his will. “Now, love. What would it hurt to find out what he wants? Keep your enemies close—isn’t that what they say?” He laughed without mirth, his lips and tongue stained red by the wine. “Besides, girl, aren’t you the least bit curious about him?”
“No.”
“They say he’s lost that pretty face to hard drink and rich living. Yet you’re more beautiful than ever. I’d think you would want to show him what he once spurned.”
She rose. “Good night, Father,” she said and swept from the room.
But the seed had been planted, and over the next few days it flourished in her mind.
How had William changed since she had last seen him? Had he truly grown stout and dissolute? Did he ever spare a thought for the heartbroken creature or the son he had left behind? She doubted it. But more worrisome was her fear that he would have the same effect on her he’d had eight years ago. Would she still feel that breathless anticipation when he looked at her in that special way?
She thought not. She was no longer the naïve ninny she had been when he’d seduced her. Disgrace and ostracism had hardened her, even as Jamie had opened her heart
to a joy she had never known.
There was nothing to fear. In denying Jamie, William had relinquished all claims to her son. And in his abandonment of her, he had killed any lingering susceptibility to his charm. She had finally grown up.
“When is Adderly coming for his visit?” she asked Father at dinner two nights later.
“You’ve decided to see him?”
“I have. But I’m not yet certain I’ll allow Jamie to do so.”
“The boy is his son.”
“The boy is my son. And I, alone, will decide if Adderly meets him.” Seeing that mulish expression come over her father’s face, she moderated her tone. “Let us see what he wants, Father, then go from there. Have you received word when he will arrive?”
“Thursday. In time for dinner. And I expect you to be there.”
She smiled despite the twist in her chest. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
• • •
Three days after leaving Northbridge, Rafe and Thomas arrived at the warmblood stable outside Edinburgh. By dawn, they were off again, herding Ash’s Hanoverians, and an older gelding Rafe had bought, to the railway yards. There, they loaded them into stock cars, then boarded the drovers’ car coupled behind it. Barring any delays, the train would arrive at Carlisle in midafternoon, which would leave them ample time to drive the horses on to the Cathcart stables before dark.
With each mile closer to their destination—to Josephine—Rafe’s sense of anticipation and confusion built.
That kiss had changed things.
He wasn’t sure what it meant or what he was supposed to do now. Hard experience had stolen most of Josephine’s trust. Yet she seemed to trust him—with both her son and her wounded horse. Had that kiss been a simple thank-you? A good-bye kiss? Or something more?
He didn’t lack experience with women. But because he’d never felt the urge to settle down, he had avoided ladies, relying on paid women to satisfy his needs. And since that one night with Miranda, which had almost cost him his life, he hadn’t been with a woman at all.
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