He sat beside her, leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs, his big hands clasped between his bent knees. He was near enough that their hips almost—but not quite—touched, and even seated, he seemed to loom over her. Yet despite his size, and being in this secluded place with a man she scarcely knew, she wasn’t afraid.
Plucking a dried stalk from the grass at her feet, she began pinching off tiny bits of the long blade. “I’m not exactly sure what happened. From where we watched at the rail, everything seemed fine. Pems approached well. But as he gathered for the jump, the horse next to him shied and threw his rider into his shoulder. Pems faltered, yet collected himself and made it over the jump. But he landed poorly, half in the brook. As he struggled to climb out, the riderless horse came in on top of him. Both horses fell back into the water. Our race rider managed to leap clear even as more horses came over and piled on top of those already down. Suddenly there were several horses flailing in the water. With Pems on the bottom.”
She didn’t realize she had shredded the stalk until Mr. Jessup reached over and gently pulled it from her shaking hands. Then he took her hand in his and rested it on his knee.
He didn’t speak. Asked no more of her than to sit quietly beside him in the dappled shade beside the babbling brook, while birds flitted through the branches overhead and the past unwound around them.
His shoulder brushed against hers. She smelled horses, sun-warmed cloth, the coffee he had taken with breakfast. “I don’t need coddling,” she said, desperate to maintain some distance.
“I know.”
The vibration of his voice moved through his shoulder and into hers. She wanted to lean into it. Rest her head against his solid strength. Just for a while.
“Finish.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know how long he was under the water. Most of the horses scrambled up right away and ran off in wild disarray. But one had been kicked in the head and was slow to rise. Pems was under him.
“By the time we got him out, he was shaking, his sides heaving. I remember gulping at air along with him as if that might help him breathe easier. He could scarcely stand, yet he fought anyone who came near. Even me. I’ve never seen an animal’s eyes show so much white.” She shuddered at the memory. “It took five men on ropes to get him off the course. It was two months before he calmed down enough to accept a rider. Even then, he shied at the slightest noise. I fear he’ll never be the same again.”
“He will.”
She looked up at him, a bit irritated by his calm assurance in the face of such a horrid tragedy. “How do you know that?” she challenged.
“I’ll take away the fear.”
Anger rolled through her. “You think we haven’t tried to do that? We’ve done everything we could to get him to cross water, stand in water, let water run over his back. He becomes hysterical every time.”
“So you stopped trying?”
“What else could we do? Nothing worked and everything we did seemed to make it worse.”
“That must have upset you.”
“Of course it did! I raised him. Tended him. Loved him.” Horrified to realize she was starting to cry, she yanked her hand from his and swiped it across her eyes. “It broke my heart to see him fail time and time again.”
He didn’t respond.
Which only made her angrier. “What? You think that’s why? That I was too close to him and let my emotions get in the way?”
He shrugged.
She wanted to strike him. Did he think it was easy watching an animal suffer that way? Officious ass. Crossing her arms over her chest, she watched water bugs dip and soar above the brook as memories played over again in her mind.
She knew that horses were herd animals. As part of their survival instinct, they were highly attuned to the emotions around them. Like fear. If one ran, they all ran, even if they didn’t know what the danger was.
Slowly the anger faded. Could he be right?
She glanced over at the man beside her. He was staring off into the meadow, idly chewing on a long blade of grass. Had she done more harm than good in helping Pems? Had her worry only made the horse’s fear worse?
“What would you have done differently?” she asked him.
He thought for a moment, then pulled the grass from his mouth and dropped it between his feet. “I wouldn’t have stopped. I wouldn’t have cared when he failed. I’d have kept at it until he accepted that my will was stronger than his. Then I would have rebuilt his trust.”
“How?”
“With a lot of patience.”
He seemed so sure. So resolved. “Could you do that for Pembroke?”
“He seems reasonable. Smart. Willing. If I can reach him, I can teach him.”
“You mean that?” She wanted so desperately to believe. To hope.
He turned his head and looked directly at her. The impact of those eyes was almost a physical thing. “I always mean what I say, Miss Cathcart.”
When she continued to stare at him, not sure what to make of his bold assertion, he reached over and tucked a loose curl back under her scarf. “And I meant what I said about you, too.” Letting his hand fall back onto his knee, he gave that small, crooked half smile. “You really are beautiful.”
• • •
“The post rider brought a note from Kirkwell today,” Mr. Cathcart announced at dinner several days later.
Luckily there were no other guests in attendance, so Rafe was able to enjoy the meal without distractions other than the low neckline of Miss Cathcart’s pink dress. The color suited her well, and seeing her pretty face across the table went a long way toward easing his aggravation at having to put on his fancy clothes just to eat a meal.
“Will they be arriving soon?” she asked her father. “I need to alert the staff.”
“Near the end of the week.”
Rafe frowned. He wasn’t ready. Pembroke needed more work. If he left for Scotland now, who would continue his training? He looked up, met Miss Cathcart’s gaze across the table, and realized he wasn’t ready to leave her, either.
She looked away, a flush rising up her graceful neck. “How long will they be staying with us?”
“Only a few days. Then they’ll continue on to the Kirkwell lands in Scotland. Quit fidgeting, boy. And sit up. You look like a sack of turnips lumped over that way.”
This last was directed at Jamie, who quickly straightened, a red stain spreading across his cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
If there were no guests of consequence present—which apparently, Rafe wasn’t—the boy was permitted to dine with the adults. Judging by Jamie’s nervousness, eating in the formal dining room under his grandfather’s critical eye wasn’t as enjoyable as dining on the veranda with his mother. Rafe concurred. It was equally apparent that the boy feared his grandfather, which troubled Rafe.
“My daughter tells me you’ve been working with Pembroke’s Pride,” Cathcart said, turning his attention to Rafe. “How do you find him?”
“Unsettled.”
“Oh?”
“But he’s improving, Father,” Miss Cathcart cut in with a look of exasperation at Rafe—for what, he had no idea. “Tomorrow, Mr. Jessup plans to put him under saddle.”
“He’s been ridden before.”
“Not by me.” Rafe forked a piece of potato into his mouth, and watched his host while he chewed. He didn’t know why he disliked the man. They had hardly spoken. But he didn’t much approve of the way he treated his daughter and grandson. Not that Cathcart did anything overt—or that it was any of Rafe’s business how he treated his family. But Rafe was always suspicious of a man when his own kin feared him. Another holdover from his days as a marshal.
“What he means to say, Father, is that Pems is beginning to trust him.”
“Let the man speak for himself,” Cathcart
snapped, motioning for more wine. After the footman poured, he downed half the contents, set down the glass with an unsteady hand, and fixed his gaze on Rafe. “A valuable animal, Pembroke’s Pride. Best bloodlines in England. Goes back over forty years.”
Rafe continued eating.
“Kirkwell would be lucky to have him. If I decide to sell.”
“And if he’s usable.”
“Usable?” The older man gave a loud bark of laughter. “Hell, the randy bugger is a bloody humping machine.”
“Are you finished with your dinner, Jamie?” his mother broke in, her mouth tight with disapproval. Or maybe embarrassment. Rafe couldn’t tell which.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Then you’re excused.”
“What about dessert?”
“You may take it in the nursery. Say good night, please.”
The boy dutifully bade Rafe and his grandfather good night. “You’ll come up to read a story with me, won’t you, Mother? Before Nanny Holbrick puts out the lamp?”
“Of course, dearest. Off you go, now.”
After the door closed behind him, Miss Cathcart turned sharply toward her father. “I’d rather you not speak that way in front of him, Father. He’s only a boy.”
Cathcart finished off his wine and belched. “You pamper him too much, girl. And he’s far too old to have a nanny. When I was his age, I had to put food on the table for my mam and two sisters. Crawling through the mines, breathing black death, and getting kicked in the arse if I didn’t move fast enough. No lullabies and nighttime kisses for me.”
“I know, but—”
“No!” Her father’s fist hit the table so hard his empty glass toppled. “You don’t know! Sitting there in your fancy dress, eating fine food with a silver spoon—you have no notion, girl, what it cost me to make this rich life you’re living today. You know nothing! Rogers, another bottle.”
As the footman rushed off to get another bottle of wine, Rafe calmly set his napkin beside his plate and rose. “Miss Cathcart, would you care to take a stroll through the rose garden?”
She glanced up, her eyes overly bright, her face overly pale. That rigid, remote expression was back. “I would, Mr. Jessup. Thank you.”
“You’re not excused,” her father slurred.
Rafe turned his head and looked at him.
The older man seemed to deflate. “All right. Go on, then,” he muttered, waving them toward the door.
Motioning another footman aside, Rafe came around and pulled back Miss Cathcart’s chair, then offered her his arm. Without a glance in the direction of the man slumped at the head of the table, he led her from the room.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mr. Jessup,” she said as he helped her into her coat in the entry. “He’s usually not so . . . difficult.”
Rafe didn’t respond. His teeth were clenched so tight he doubted he would have been able to, even if he’d thought of something to say.
The night had turned cool, which helped take the edge off his anger. He reminded himself it wasn’t his place to step into the middle of family arguments, but then an image of Josephine’s stricken face flashed through his mind, and he knew he had been right to get her away before her drunken father went too far.
Josephine. He shouldn’t think of her by her given name. They weren’t familiars. They weren’t equals. She lived in a palatial estate—he preferred the stables. She was bound by the rules of a society that had little meaning for him—he just wanted to be left alone.
Or did he?
The time he’d spent in Heartbreak Creek had put a crack in that resolve. The honorable people he’d met there had shown him that not every town was like Dirtwater, Texas.
Nor was every female like Miranda.
He looked over at the woman walking beside him, head down in thought, her arms crossed against the chill breeze. He wondered what she was thinking. If she resented his interference. She was a prickly one, Josephine Cathcart, and fiercely protective of her ability to take care of herself. He didn’t want her thinking he had been coddling her again, even if that had been his intent.
“Thank you for getting me out of there,” he said, breaking the long silence. “I was afraid I might do something.”
“Do something?” Her head came up.
“I don’t take kindly to bullies.”
She continued to stare at him. In the dim starlight, he couldn’t see her face that well, but he could sense her confusion.
“It’s a weakness that’s gotten me into trouble before,” he explained. “I didn’t mean to make an awkward situation worse.”
She didn’t respond. They came around to the side veranda, where they often took breakfast, then down the steps and onto the path that wound through the garden. They were more sheltered from the breeze on this side of the house, and the still air was thick with the smell of late-summer roses. All was quiet but for a distant whinny from the stable below, where a single light shone in the small room where Hammersmith stayed with the cats.
“He has a point,” she admitted. “Jamie doesn’t need a nanny anymore. But I hate the idea of him spending so much time alone up in the nursery.” Bending, she plucked a weed from between the stones of the walkway and tossed it into the shrubbery. “Because of our situation, we rarely have callers. Other than Cook’s grandson, or the stable boys, or the occasional visit from one of the servants’ children, he has few playmates. Of course, Nanny Holbrick isn’t much of a playmate, being almost in her dotage. But she loves Jamie, and her being there provides a caring and stabilizing presence in his lonely life.” She gave a brittle smile. “Every child needs to be loved by someone other than his mother, don’t you think?”
“He has his grandfather.”
She didn’t respond to that.
Somewhere in the trees at the back of the garden, a night bird called out. A lonely, solitary sound that reminded him of a bobwhite. He wondered who it was calling to, and why there was no answer.
“Do you have family, Mr. Jessup?”
He shook his head.
“They can be a trial sometimes.” She paused to pinch a spent blossom from a long stalk, then continued walking, her fingers idly pulling the rose apart as she spoke. “My mother died soon after Father bought his first mine. I don’t remember her, or those hard early years, so he was right when he said I have no notion what it cost him to climb out of those black holes and make a life for me and Mother. He could have turned me out after my disgrace, but he didn’t. I’m grateful for that. And for all he’s given me and Jamie. But sometimes . . .”
She slowed to a stop, let the petals fall at her feet, then brushed her hands on her coat. The scent of roses was so strong Rafe could smell nothing else.
“But sometimes,” she went on, “I think he brought some of that darkness up with him. Or left the better part of himself down in those deep tunnels. It makes him cruel.”
“He could do better.”
She crossed her arms again and looked up at him, her head slightly tilted so that one dark curl fell across her cheek.
He wanted to brush it away. Feel the softness of her skin. Touch her in some small insignificant way. But if he did, he would only want more.
“We don’t get to choose the life we’re given, Mr. Jessup.”
Miranda’s face flitted through his mind—frozen smile on painted lips, empty eyes meeting his in the mirror over the saloon bar as a stranger ran his hand up her thigh. He forced the image away. “You’re right, Miss Cathcart,” he said more brusquely than he’d intended. “But we do get to choose whether we stay in that life or leave it.”
“And if one is not strong or brave enough to break away?”
“Then find someone to help.” How righteous he sounded. Like he had all the answers. Had he learned nothing from that fiasco in Texas?
Disgusted, he
motioned toward the house. “Shall we go back inside? I can see you’re chilled. And the boy is waiting for his bedtime story.”
“Of course.”
They spoke no more until they parted in the entry. But as Rafe watched her go up the stairs, he felt something move through him. A hollow feeling. Like the pang of an empty belly. But higher up, in his chest.
The numbness of the last year was thawing. He was starting to feel things again. Want things.
And he didn’t like it.
Seven
“What do you think of Mr. Jessup?” Josephine asked, watching in the vanity mirror as Henrietta brushed out curls she had pinned into her hair earlier.
“I like him better than Mr. Huddleston, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Josephine liked him better, too, and was heartily grateful their neighbor had given up his suit. Between the men she had met in America, Mr. Calhoun on the ship, and those Father had foisted on her here, she was becoming quite adept at repelling male advances. Too bad she had lacked that skill when she was sixteen.
“But Mr. Jessup . . .” Henny sighed. “Faith, and he’s ever so handsome. And smart.”
Josephine looked at her in the reflection. “Why do you say that?”
“One of the upstairs maids said he brought a whole trunkful of books all the way from America. Sure, and all the kitchen girls are half in love with him.”
Josephine smiled at the cheerful young Irishwoman whose high spirits and love of gossip kept the loneliness at bay, even during Josephine’s darkest days. “But not you, Henny?”
“Never say it.” A bright laugh, then the pretty redhead leaned down to whisper, “To be sure, I don’t mind passing my eyes over such a foine-looking fellow, but I’ve got me own beau, so I do.”
“Do you? When did that happen?”
“While you were in America. But please, miss, don’t tell Shipley.”
“Why not?”
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