Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02

by Where the Horses Run

  “That’s it?”

  Rafe turned.

  “You expect me to just give you the horse? He’s a valuable animal. Worth a lot of money.”

  “You’re right,” Rafe agreed. “But then, so is my training. With my help, you have a chance—a slim one, but still a chance—of making back what he’s worth plus a great deal more. Without it, you have a damaged horse that won’t even bring a decent stud fee considering all the problems in his past.” Rafe let that sink in, then added, “However, I concede your point. So in exchange for the horse—win or lose—I won’t charge you for the training. That way you’re only out the entry fee, but you have a chance of winning more than the horse is worth, both in the purse and any side bets. Would that be fair?”

  “You should pay the entry fee.”

  “Perhaps,” Rafe said with a smile. “But I won’t. You’ve heard my terms. Take it or leave it.”

  “Damn you.”

  Reading that as another “yes,” Rafe nodded. “Have the papers ready tomorrow. I’d like to get started as soon as they’re signed and in my hands.” He started for the door, then hesitated. “One other thing,” he said, facing Cathcart again. This time, he didn’t smile.

  “Until the race is over, I’d rather you didn’t send your daughter and grandson to Adderly. Unless that’s what she wishes, of course.”

  Cathcart blinked. Color rose in his cheeks. “The hell you say, Jessup! You don’t come in here and dictate to me about my own daughter! Get out! Now!”

  Rafe hated all this posturing. It brought out the meanness in him. “Does this mean our deal is off?”

  Cathcart’s bullish neck seemed to swell over the top of his tight collar.

  “If so,” Rafe went on calmly, “then of course, I’ll do as you ask and leave tonight. I’ll also wire the earl that you’re canceling your contract with him for the care of his horses. When should I tell him you’ll send reimbursement for the advance payment he made?”

  “You bloody bastard!”

  Realizing he might have pushed the man too far, Rafe softened his tone. “I’m not trying to be unreasonable, Mr. Cathcart. You know I care about your daughter. And you know she doesn’t want to marry a man who has abused her trust once already. Give me time to see if I can best Adderly’s offer. That’s all. Just until after the race. Besides, even if she was willing to accept the baron, he couldn’t marry her before then, anyway.”

  Cathcart glared at him, lips pursed so tight his mouth looked like a pale pink scar slicing across his face. Rafe could almost see the calculations spinning behind his eyes as he tried to determine what would work best to his advantage. Greed was so predictable.

  “Just until the race,” Rafe pressed, impatient to be gone before he did or said something he might regret. “That’s all. Then let her choose.”

  “You actually think she’ll pick you?” Cathcart’s laugh sounded forced and unsure—a coward’s attempt at bravado. “She might not care much for Adderly, but she’ll never pick a penniless horse wrangler over a wealthy baron. She’s not foolish.”

  “You’re probably right, so it’s not much of a risk, is it?”

  Silence, except for the drumming of Cathcart’s fingertips against the arm of his chair. “You’ll not move back into the house,” he finally said.

  Rafe didn’t respond.

  “And you’ll stay away from my daughter.”

  “That’s up to her.”

  Cathcart’s fist slammed on the armrest. “No! It’s up to me!”

  Rafe shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  For a moment, they glared at each other, then the older man let out an explosive breath that seemed to deflate half his bulk. “You’re a bloody bastard, Jessup. But since I don’t think she’ll stoop to align herself with a man like you, I’ll give you until the race. One month.” He picked up his papers, already dismissing the issue from his mind. “I’ll send the postdated Bill of Sale down in the morning. As soon as the race is over, win or lose, the stallion is yours, then I want you gone from my daughter’s life forever. Get out.” He waved a hand like he was shooing a fly. “And don’t come again unless you’re summoned.”

  Relieved to have the battle over, Rafe left. As he closed the door behind him, he saw Josephine coming from the direction of the conservatory. He stopped in the hallway to watch her approach, admiring the bounce in her step, the way curls bobbed against her shoulders with every stride, the lift in her stubborn chin. A woman of purpose. Beautiful, intelligent, strong enough to stand alone if she had to. With a woman like her by his side, a man could accomplish anything.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked when she caught sight of him in the shadows.

  “Talking to your father.”

  “About what?”

  “Training Pems. Walk me out.”

  As soon as they crossed through the front door, he closed it behind them and pulled her into his arms.

  She didn’t resist.

  Her lips were cool, her breath warm. She tasted of apples and cinnamon. Smelled like the flowers in the hothouse. Fit so perfectly against him, he couldn’t imagine holding any other woman in his arms. Gentling his kiss so that they barely touched, he learned again the contour of her mouth, traced the softness of her lips with his tongue.

  She was manna to him. All his hopes and desires brought together in this one beautiful, fearless woman. Everything and anything he would ever want.

  The kiss grew more urgent. He stroked his hand up to cup her breast. Felt her warm softness, the beat of her heart against his palm. Heard the catch in her breath when he drew the pad of his thumb across the hardened tip.

  “Josie . . .” he whispered, his body shaking, his mind thrown into chaos by emotions so powerful he didn’t know what to do with them.

  She leaned into him, pressed her soft breast into his hand. “Come to my room.”

  Reluctantly ending the kiss, he dropped his forehead against hers and struggled to contain the heat arcing through him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet. Not until he had something to offer and a way to take care of her and Jamie. “I’m not allowed in the house.”

  “Then I’ll come to the stable.”

  Something in his chest twisted. Had he reduced her to this? Furtive couplings in a dusty loft? She deserved so much more. They both did.

  Taking his hand from her breast, he stepped back. “No.”

  She went still. In the faint light cast by the oil lamp beside the door, he watched tears rise in her beautiful eyes and knew he had hurt her. Again.

  “Josie . . . honey . . .”

  “You don’t want me?”

  He would have laughed had he been able. Instead, he pulled her body tight against his, let her feel the effect she had on him and how much he wanted her. “Can you doubt it?”

  Color darkened her face. But she didn’t pull away. “Then why? I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  “When?”

  “After the race.” Fearing if he stayed longer, he wouldn’t be able to leave her at all, he gave her a hard, quick kiss, then released her and opened the door. “Go to bed and dream of me.”

  With a deep sigh, she stepped inside.

  Reaching past her to grab his Stetson off the rack, he leaned in for one last kiss, then straightened. “By the way, your father said that he won’t send you and Jamie to the weasel. Not for a while, anyway.”

  “Send me?” One dark brow rose. “I should hope he wouldn’t try.”

  He grinned, liking this feisty side of her. “And he wants me to stay away from you.”

  “Then I fear he’ll be disappointed, since it’s not his decision, one way or the other.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “‘Get out.’”


  She laughed. Which he liked even more.

  “I’ll see you in my dreams tonight,” he told her with a grin. “Wear something pretty. Or not.”

  A month, he thought as he stepped out into the mist and headed down the hill. That was all the time he had to retrain a frightened horse, collect what advance pay he could from Ash, and lose as much weight as possible without making himself sick.

  With Josie as the prize, he’d find a way to do it.

  • • •

  The next morning, he awoke with a start from a lusty dream about Josie to find a figure sitting cross-legged in the dawn shadows, watching him.

  “Ho,” a familiar voice said.

  “Jesus!” Rafe lurched up onto his elbows, his heart kicking against his ribs. “Thomas, what are you doing?”

  “Waiting for your eyes to open.”

  “Hell.” Rafe fell back with a groan. “You’ve got to stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  Bells. Maybe shackles. Clappers on his heels.

  Once his pulse slowed, he sat up and swung his feet to the plank floor. A chill swept over him even though he wore unions and wool socks. He had thought Colorado was cold, but this constant dampness was worse. Reaching back for the thin wool blanket, he pulled it over his shoulders, then glared at the Indian in the corner.

  The Cheyenne had reverted back to his warrior ways, it seemed. Fresh feathers dangled from his temple braids, and new bits of carved antler were sewn onto his war shirt. Rafe could only imagine how he’d gotten them. “Well, now I’m awake. What do you want?”

  Thomas smirked. “If the woman knew this is how you greet the day, she would not look at you the way she does.”

  “Go to hell.” Rafe rubbed a hand over his face in an effort to clear the fog of sleep from his mind. He had already spent half the night fretting over, dreaming about, and wondering what he should do about that woman. He didn’t want to talk about her now. “Why are you here?”

  “I am ready to begin our book.”

  “Now?” Rafe yawned and scratched his head.

  “But I have decided it will not be about the legends of the People. It will be the story of a Cheyenne warrior’s journey.”

  “Journey where?”

  “From boyhood in the mountains, through a trail of broken treaties, to death at the hands of your George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of Washita River.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a very happy book.”

  “It was not a happy journey.”

  Rafe struggled to bring his thoughts into focus so he could understand what Thomas was trying to accomplish. “That isn’t what Chesterfield talked to you about. He may not like this new idea.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It is a story that must be told. Every day I hear things about the People that are not true. We are not noble, or savage, or uncivilized, or mystical, or red devils. We are different from the white man, but still the same. Yet we are told that unless we become more white, we will die. But if we discard our ancient beliefs, will that not be the end of the People anyway?”

  Rafe didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing.

  “I will tell the struggle of Chief Black Kettle. You will write it down. Then we will have on paper the true story of the People before it is lost forever in time.”

  “I thought you couldn’t speak the names of those who have died.”

  Thomas lifted his chin in challenge. “The Great Spirit knows what is in my heart. He will protect me.”

  “If he forgets, you can always borrow my dream snare.”

  Thomas wasn’t amused.

  So Rafe let it drop. “Since it’s not the story he asked for, Chesterfield may not publish it.”

  “I do not write it for him. I write it for the People. For me.” A smile warmed his dark eyes. “And for you, as well, nesene. So that you will understand the man who walks beside you.”

  Rafe suspected that, in a small way, he was writing it for Prudence Lincoln, too. “All right,” he said, stifling another yawn. “We’ll start on it tonight. But first, we’re going to have another talk about what happens to poachers in England.”

  • • •

  As ordered, Josephine dreamed of Rafe that night. Restless, troubling dreams that had her kicking off the counterpane and awakening to the night chill, her mind and body filled with feverish longings and nameless fears.

  America. So very far away. And so dangerous. She had heard about the hazards of the Wild West. Indian attacks, snakes, wildfires, scorpions, hairy spiders, and even poisonous lizards there that grew as long as Jamie was tall.

  But Lady Kirkwell was also an Englishwoman, and she seemed completely enamored with America, especially the small town in Colorado where the earl was building his thoroughbred stable. In their brief conversations before they left for Scotland, the countess had spoken often of the beauty and vastness of the mountains, the forward-thinking people who lived practical, useful lives and didn’t frown upon a woman for pursuing her own dreams.

  “The freedom of it!” the countess had added with that beaming smile. “I didn’t wear a corset for months, and lace gloves only to church. And I learned to shoot a gun, and traveled about in a gypsy wagon with only a dear old man as a chaperone.” Her smile faded. “Of course there were difficult times, as well. I had a terrifying night alone in the woods, battling wolves over the remains of my chaperone, and I had to shoot a man in Denver. But”—she brushed aside those astonishing revelations with a wave of one dainty hand—“of course he deserved it. I was only protecting my husband, after all.” A look of nostalgia came into her lovely brown eyes. “My time in America was most liberating. I do hope you have a chance to visit someday.”

  It now seemed she might . . . if all of Rafe’s plans bore fruit, and if she was willing to uproot her son and walk away from everything they had ever known and loved.

  Aware that Rafe would be spending as much time as possible with Pems, she didn’t distract him by going down to the stables except when she came with Henny each day to bring lunch. He looked weary, and she wondered if he had as much trouble sleeping as she did. He seemed distracted, too, and his appetite had lessened.

  “I’m worried about Mr. Jessup,” she told Henny one afternoon as they left the stable with the empty luncheon plates. “He seems to be losing weight.”

  “It’s because of the race, miss. He fears he’s too heavy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” After handing Rafe’s empty plate to her maid, Josephine marched back down the slope. She had learned more about the race from Hammersmith, and knew that strength was more important in this race than weight.

  She found him talking to Mr. Redstone outside Pembroke’s stall. “Might I have a word, Mr. Jessup,” she said, advancing on them.

  Mr. Redstone faded out the back of the stable in that astonishing habit he had of disappearing without a sound.

  Rafe’s crooked smile lifted the weary planes of his chiseled face. “We’re back to Mr. Jessup, now?”

  “You don’t have to lose weight,” she said without preamble. “Talk to Hammersmith.”

  “I have.”

  “Then he doubtless explained that this race is less about speed, than the ability to withstand punishment. Do you know what a melee is?”

  “A medieval brawl.”

  “Just so. Think of a melee on horseback with a race thrown in. You’ll be whipped, bumped, kicked by other riders, knocked off in any way possible.” She allowed her utter disgust to show. “It’s brutal, for both the horses and their riders. The only reason there has not been a public outcry against it is because most of the bettors and participants are from the highest level of society and only those invited even know when and where the race is to be held each year.” She frowned, her blue-brown eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because now I know how
Pems can win.”

  Eighteen

  Rafe set a rigorous routine for Pembroke that included endurance exercises, sprints, jumps, and of course, water training. Thomas was a huge help, accompanying them on their daily rides, astride Barney, a calm gelding Pems knew well. Luckily, the stallion had been thoroughly trained the year preceding his entrance in the Grand National hunt race, so he already knew his pacing.

  Other than getting him over his fear of water, it was a matter of building up his endurance and wind with increasingly longer runs up and downhill, then using short full gallops to enhance muscle strength. He was already an experienced jumper, so those exercises were as much to reinforce his previous training as to train Rafe, since he had never entered in a steeplechase race.

  The rest of the time was spent in water training. Their daily trips to the brook went from standing and grazing, to stepping into the water, and finally, hopping over the brook at Rafe’s command while on a lead. From there, Rafe progressed to hurdles in the pen on a lead, then hurdles in the pasture under saddle, to hopping the brook under saddle.

  It was a long and arduous process, characterized by almost as many steps backward as forward. But Rafe persisted, and Pems slowly made progress. In fact, he seemed to enjoy having a task to perform, and grew more confident with each small achievement.

  And all the while, a vision of the future grew in Rafe’s mind.

  After making his bargain with Cathcart, Rafe had written to Ash, explaining about the race and why he needed an advance on his pay. He ended with the hope that the earl might come for a visit to see how the warmbloods had settled in and advise him on training Pembroke. “And be sure to bring the countess,” he had written in closing. “I know Miss Cathcart would be happy to see her. She so seldom has visitors, and greatly values your wife’s friendship.”

  Actually, he was hoping for an ally. He had seen the alarm in Josie’s eyes when he’d mentioned America, and knew she needed reassurance. And who better to dispel her concerns than a gentle, warmhearted woman who had not only survived the Wild West, but seemed to have thrived in it?