Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02

by Where the Horses Run

  “You look magnificent,” Lady Kirkwell gushed, clasping her gloved hands in delight. “Don’t they look handsome, Ash?”

  “Thomas, why are you no’ wearing shoes?”

  The Cheyenne held up the knife he usually wore in a sheath laced to the outside of his tall leather moccasin. “I do not know where to put this.”

  “In the bluidy bureau. We’re going to dinner. No’ a buffalo hunt.”

  “Let me help you with that tie,” the countess offered, crossing to Thomas before mayhem erupted.

  While she retied the neckerchief the Cheyenne had mangled, the earl said to Rafe, “We’ll be dining at the captain’s table tonight. A British coal merchant named Horatio Cathcart, and his daughter, Miss Josephine Cathcart, will be there. I met him years ago when I was with the Hussars and we needed remounts. Back then, he had an excellent stable of thoroughbreds. But he was also quite a gambler, so I dinna ken if that holds true today. As I recall, he bought the horses for his daughter, who was reputed to be a fine rider. See if you can find out from her the condition of the Cathcart stable, while I talk with her father. We’ll compare notes later.”

  Rafe frowned. “You want me to talk to her.”

  “Aye.”

  “But I’m not a talker.”

  “Bollocks. You talk to my wife well enough.”

  “That’s different. She has a sweet spot for me.”

  Ash ignored that. “Ask her a few questions, then let her do the talking. That’s what women like best.”

  Rafe grinned, just to goad him. “Not with me. You must be doing something wrong.”

  Ash punched his shoulder then feigned innocence when his wife glared at him. “Just behave,” he muttered. “And mind that the heathen doesna stab or choke anyone. March.”

  With a sigh, Rafe fell in behind Thomas as the four of them left the cabin.

  First a fancy suit of clothes, now a fancy dinner and stilted conversation with the high and mighty. It promised to be a long, awkward evening. His collar already felt too tight and his hands were sweating.

  Maybe she’ll be plain and a giggler. With coal black hair instead of sun-streaked brown, and a cross-eyed squint rather than eyes the color of dark clover honey. Maybe he wouldn’t think of Miranda once all night.

  He was wrong.

  On all counts.

  Two

  Head high, her gait uneven as she battled the rolling motion of the ship, Josephine Cathcart descended with her father down the broad staircase to the Oceanic dining room. Her gloved palm left a damp smear on the brass handrail, her knees felt wobbly, and aversion burned like acid in her stomach.

  It was not to be borne. Being put on display once again. The impoverished Englishwoman, only slightly used but attractive enough to preside over any wealthy man’s table, and available to the highest bidder.

  It was the vilest of clichés.

  Father’s grip on her arm tightened, his blunt fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. “Smile.” A hint of his thick Cumberland coal miner’s accent shadowed the admonition as he dipped his head and added, “Chin up, love. It’s only business. Nothing more.”

  Josephine clung to the railing and struggled to even her breathing.

  The whole trip to America had been a waste. In addition to learning that the auger was unsuitable for mining in Cumberland, it seemed Father’s reputation for pushing questionable ventures had preceded him. Not that they were treated poorly—the American reputation for hospitality was well founded. But there were no new capital investments, and no offers of marriage. Nothing had changed, other than the loss of the substantial funds spent on this unsuccessful trip. Now, with only a few days left to parade his daughter past wealthy travelers and make new business connections in the gentlemen’s smoking lounge, Father was making the most of the opportunity.

  There was little chance of success as far as she was concerned. Rich Americans did not wed impoverished, untitled Englishwomen any more than sons of impoverished barons married coal miners’ naive daughters, no matter how much they professed to love them. She had learned that the hard way. But Father still couldn’t seem to understand that here on the surface, far above the black coal that had made him rich, an entirely new set of rules for survival applied.

  “Two men are joining us tonight,” he said. “I want you to pay special attention to them.”

  Josephine’s stomach twisted. Was her father now her procurer?

  “I’ve arranged for them to be seated near you,” he went on, his whisky-laced breath hot in her ear. “A Mr. Calhoun, who is unmarried and considered quite a catch. Something to do with lumber. And another man you met when you were seventeen, although you may not remember him. A Scot named Angus Wallace. He was with the Hussars then and came to look at our horses.”

  She had been so in love with William at the time, she had scarcely been aware of anyone else. But she did vaguely recall a tall man with dark hair and a strong Scots brogue. “What do you hope to achieve, Father?” she murmured. “I read he’s married now. What could he possibly want from us?”

  “Same as before. Horses.”

  Josephine stumbled. If she hadn’t had the handrail on one side, and her father on the other, she might have tumbled headlong down the stairs. “You’re selling our horses?”

  “Keep your voice down,” he growled through a strained smile.

  Her mind reeled. The horses . . . “Surely not Pembroke’s Pride, too?”

  “Since you’ve failed to snare a rich husband, what choice do I have?”

  He had always had choices. He had simply made the wrong ones.

  Pems. Dear heaven. The stallion and Jamie were the greatest joys in her life. “But he’s still recovering from his injury. He’s not ready.”

  “He looks sound enough. That’s all that matters. Now you’ll be nice, daughter,” he warned as they reached the landing. “He’s an earl now, and wealthy. You’ll paint him a fine picture so he’ll buy our horses at a dear price. It’s either that, or Huddleston, or putting on a grand smile for Mr. Calhoun.”

  Josephine wanted to scream at him. I’m not a whore! I never was, nor will I be one for you! Instead, she struggled to keep her voice bland, knowing a show of temper would only make him more truculent.

  “Father, please—”

  “We’ll speak of it no more, girl. Smile. Good evening, Captain,” he said in a jovial voice to the uniformed man approaching them. “Hope we’re not late.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Cathcart. Miss Cathcart. Welcome.”

  Numbly, Josephine nodded to the ship’s captain and the other diners staring back at her over the sumptuous table. She saw an empty place no doubt saved for her. On one side, rising at her approach, was a well-favored man with deep brown eyes and a knowing smile that sent prickles of awareness up her spine. On the other stood a tall, stern-faced man with eyes as expressionless as polished blue steel. Across the table, standing beside another empty chair, was a green-eyed man who looked vaguely familiar, except now he had gray hair and a beautiful woman at his side, who greeted Josephine with a bright welcoming smile.

  She felt like vomiting.

  • • •

  She would have drawn Rafe’s eye in any case. He might have been celibate throughout his long recovery, but he wasn’t dead, and he enjoyed looking at attractive women.

  But it wasn’t her fine features, or the richness of her deep brown hair, or the two bright spots of color on her otherwise ashen face that caught his attention. It wasn’t even her surprising height.

  It was her eyes—one brown, the other half-brown and half-blue, as if in infancy they had started to change, then had stopped partway through—and the emotion he saw reflected there.

  Memories sent his mind spiraling.

  He had seen that look before—in startled babies, trapped animals, in a doe bleeding on the ground, watch
ing the hunter approach. And a year ago, in that instant before she turned to flee, he had seen it in Miranda’s honey-colored eyes.

  Utter panic.

  He stood frozen until Ash’s cough broke the hold of the past. Clumsily, he nodded in welcome as the newcomers were introduced. Seeing the woman come around to the open seat beside his, he reached down to pull out her chair, but saw that the fellow seated on her left had beaten him to it. He pasted on a smile to cover his confusion.

  She didn’t even look at him, but sank stiffly into the chair, her face so lacking in animation, it seemed carved from stone.

  While introductions continued around the table, Rafe struggled to corral his scattered thoughts. It was disconcerting that after he’d blocked that memory for almost a year, a chance expression on another woman’s face should send it bursting into his mind. He looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed his discomfiture, and saw Thomas, seated diagonally at the other end of the table, watching him.

  As usual, the Cheyenne’s face revealed nothing of his thoughts, and folding his arms across his broad chest he resumed staring straight ahead, obviously having no interest in the goings-on around him.

  “Excuse me,” a soft voice in a British accent murmured.

  Rafe turned to see Miss Cathcart looking past him at Thomas. “Is that man an American Indian?”

  Rafe was glad to see that the frantic look was gone from her eyes, although her expression of weary defeat wasn’t much of an improvement. “Yes. He’s a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. Or was.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  Rafe wasn’t certain how to answer. In Heartbreak Creek, he had heard rumors about the leather pouch Thomas had once worn beneath his war shirt that had purportedly contained the blunted bullet that had killed his wife and son. The Cheyenne had vowed to return it to the trapper who had fired it . . . by shoving the piece of metal into the man’s beating heart.

  Vengeance. Rafe was familiar with it. Revenge was something he’d seen often as a U.S. Marshal. No one knew if Thomas had carried out that threat, but one day the pouch was gone. When questioned about it, he had simply shrugged.

  “He can be,” Rafe finally said.

  He was saved from further discussion by the arrival of their first course. Happy to eat rather than attempt conversation, Rafe picked up his fork. Then noting that none of the other diners had begun eating, he set it back down.

  “He’s traveling to Scotland with you and Lord and Lady Kirkwell?” Miss Cathcart asked.

  “Yes.” Rafe watched her remove her gloves, one finger at a time, and saw that despite the slight tremble, there was surprising strength in her hands. Then he remembered what Ash had said about her interest in horses. Realizing this was his chance to learn more about the Cathcart stable, he said, “I believe we’ll be visiting you and your father in Penrith on our way.”

  “So I hear.” Picking up her fork, she stabbed with unnecessary vigor at a shrimp curled on a bed of greens. “Although I doubt you have as much interest in visiting us as in assessing the quality of our stable.”

  Hearing the rebuke in her tone, Rafe dropped the subject.

  The meal progressed through the early courses. In no mood for further rebukes, Rafe kept his head down, half listening to Ash’s discussion with Mr. Cathcart about the thoroughbred’s ability to adapt to rough terrain, and wondering when the woman beside him would finish chatting with the man on her left, so he could start a conversation with her.

  Idle chitchat wasn’t his strong point. And after spending most of the last year inside his own head, he had lost the knack for it. It wasn’t that he was shy—he was simply more of an observer than a talker. Which was probably why he was good with animals. He took the time to study them, learn what they feared and liked and disliked. If he was patient and waited long enough, they would eventually show him what they wanted and needed, too. Sometimes, all it took was a touch.

  Same with women. Except once a comfortable level of understanding was reached, they wanted to talk about it. Endlessly. Complicating a simple thing by beating it to death with words.

  He figured the woman beside him would be more complicated than most. He sensed she was angry. And afraid. And maybe if he waited long enough, she would tell him why, then he’d know what to do. Probably offer advice on the cut of her dress or some other such nonsense. In his experience, pretty women done up as fine as Miss Cathcart was worried more about clothes and doodads and gossip than anything substantial.

  It wasn’t until the lull before the meat courses arrived that Miss Cathcart finally turned to speak to him. “What are your plans for them?”

  Rafe looked at her. And couldn’t look away. Those astonishing eyes trapped him, pulled him in. Made him forget what she’d asked him.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  “Your eyes are different colors.” Hell. Had he actually said that aloud?

  “Indeed?” Without taking her gaze from his, she slid a dainty forkful of something green into her mouth.

  Did all women’s lips do that when they chewed? Purse, relax, then purse again, as if contemplating—no, preparing for—a kiss? How had he never noticed that before?

  She swallowed, further scattering his thoughts. “I never noticed.”

  Realizing his blunder, he tried to cover it. “I saw a horse once with different-colored eyes.” Worse. Wiping his sweating palms on the napkin draped over his thigh, he cleared his throat. “He was very smart.”

  “Ah. Well.” She tilted her head slightly, as if to allow the eye with the blue splash to study him better. “That makes all the difference.”

  Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

  She didn’t. “I’ve never before been compared to a horse.” One corner of her mobile mouth lifted into a comma of a smile. “I rather like it.”

  Relieved—and resolved never to speak again—Rafe picked up his fork.

  “So what are your plans for the horses?” she pressed.

  Realizing the cursed conversation would continue, he put down his fork again. “Lord Kirkwell is building a thoroughbred stable in Colorado Territory.”

  “For what purpose? Racing?” Anger vibrated in her voice.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Oh?” A brittle smile. “That is some comfort, I suppose.”

  “You don’t approve of horse racing?”

  “I don’t mind a good run.” She frowned down into the round, unblinking eye of the baked trout the server set before her. “But I will never approve of any sport that routinely causes injury, or even death, to horses.”

  “Nor would I.”

  “Then you must be the exception.” With a look of distaste, she poked at the fish with her fork as if to assure herself it was dead. “I have yet to meet a man who isn’t a steeplechase enthusiast, regardless of the toll it takes on the fine animals forced to participate.”

  Rafe waited for the server to set his plate in front of him before he spoke. “I’ve never seen a steeplechase race. But if it’s as dangerous for the horses as you say, then I doubt I would ever have a liking for it.” Swiveling toward her, he stuck out his right hand. “Rayford Jessup. The exception. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Cathcart.”

  She stared at his hand. Dark brown brows furrowing into a frown, she lifted her gaze until those striking eyes met his. Rafe sensed it was the first time she had looked directly at him, rather than through him. He wondered what she saw.

  But before he could find out, the man on her left recaptured her attention, leaving Rafe to continue his meal in blessed silence.

  • • •

  With a deep sigh, Ash settled into the leather armchair across from Rafe’s in the gentlemen’s smoking lounge. “Well?”

  Rafe eyed the Scotsman’s glass. “Shouldn’t you be drinking your tea instead of whisky?” The earl trav
eled with his own brew—Northbridge Scotch Whisky, a rare and potent blend that could set a man on his heels in no time.

  “There’s tea in here. No’ enough to ruin the flavor, of course, but ’tis there. So what did you learn from Miss Cathcart?”

  Rafe sipped from his own glass, pausing to let the alcohol lay a warm trail down his throat. “She hates steeplechase races, and she doesn’t like fish served with the head still on.”

  “That’s it?”

  Rafe thought for a moment. “One of her eyes is both brown and blue, and she’s got a nice smile. Strong hands, too.”

  Ash stared at him.

  “She did wonder if Thomas was dangerous, which I thought was pretty astute. And she’s angry about selling the horses.”

  “Bluidy hell.”

  “I told you I wasn’t much of a talker.”

  Laughing, Ash waved the comment aside. “The horses are hers, no’ Cathcart’s. If she’s angry, he must be selling them off without her blessing, which might mean he’s desperate enough for money to accept a reasonable offer. You did well, lad.”

  Then why did he have a vague feeling that he’d betrayed a confidence?

  “Did she say aught about their stallion, Pembroke’s Pride?”

  Rafe shook his head.

  “I heard he’d been injured. If he’s still usable, I’d like to have him. He was only a colt when I was through Penrith before, but he showed great promise.” They sat in silence for a time, then Ash looked around. “Where’s the savage?”

  “Reading.”

  “Thomas? Reading? Isna that carrying this white thing a bit far?”

  Rafe knew about the Scotsman’s difficulty with reading and writing, and the “affliction” that scrambled the letters on the page into gibberish. He could sense the frustration it must cause a man as intelligent as Wallace. One of Rafe’s duties on this trip was to look over any sales contracts or written materials before the earl signed his name. A mark of trust from a man he admired. It made up for a lot of the self-doubt Rafe has suffered over the last year.