Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02

by Where the Horses Run

  “Because, well . . .” Henny’s rosy cheeks seemed to get rosier. “If he knew that we . . . what I mean is . . . consorting amongst the staff is not allowed.”

  Josephine turned on the vanity stool to frown up at her. “Consorting?” Did Henny mean what Josephine thought she meant?

  “If he found out,” the flustered maid said, the brush twisting in her grip, “we’d both lose our places. Then I’d have to go back to the farm and Gordon—”

  “Gordon Stevens? The groom?”

  The brush fell to the floor. Tears spilled over. “Oh, please, miss. Say you won’t dismiss us.”

  “Hush, Henny. Of course I won’t dismiss you. Nor will Shipley.” Reaching into a vanity drawer, she pulled out a hanky and handed it to the weeping woman. “Now do stop crying and tell me why, if you’re so in love, you and Gordon simply don’t marry?”

  “We can’t. Shipley doesn’t allow married couples on staff.”

  Josephine reminded herself to have a talk with the tyrannical butler. This wasn’t the seventeen hundreds. Even servants had rights nowadays. “Then what do you plan to do?”

  Henny dabbed her tears away, then let out a hitching breath. “Keep working until we can afford a livery somewhere. Gordon is ever so good with horses.”

  Josephine reminded her that Father was selling horses, not adding any.

  “But surely he’ll keep a few. For the carriage and such like.”

  “Hammersmith will be able to handle that without help.”

  “Then maybe Gordon could train as a footman?”

  Josephine suspected Father would soon be letting footmen go, too. But rather than trigger another onslaught of tears, she broached a growing concern. “Are you being careful, Henny?” Seeing her maid’s look of confusion, she elaborated. “If you’re, em, consorting with Gordon . . . well, you wouldn’t want to make the same mistake I did. Not that I think of Jamie as a mistake, but—”

  “Oh, no, Miss Cathcart! Jamie is a perfect angel. Faith, if I ever had a son, I would want him to be just like our Jamie. But I won’t be having a son anytime soon. Gordon makes certain of that.”

  “How?” Admittedly, she was ignorant of such matters, but if such a thing were possible, surely William would have thought of it back when they were consorting.

  Henny leaned in to whisper. “French letters. Or some use Dutch cups.”

  Josephine vaguely remembered mention of such things in one of her romantic novels, but hadn’t understood how a letter could stop the arrival of a baby. And she knew nothing about a Dutch cup.

  The maid must have read her puzzlement. “They’re preventatives. Baby preventatives.”

  “How do they work?”

  A wave of color almost drowned out Henny’s freckles. “The French letter is a thing . . . like a glove, but with only one finger, that fits over a man’s . . . part.”

  “Part? You mean his . . .”

  “Exactly. I have one in my cubby. I’ll show you.” She swept out the door.

  By the time she returned, Josephine was in her gown and robe, warming herself beside the small coal stove set inside the marble fireplace.

  “Sure, and Gordon’s not fond of them.” Henny pulled an odd flat thing out of a small box bearing the name Dr. Power’s French Preventatives. “He says they’re uncomfortable. Probably because they’re made of vulcanized rubber, rather than gut. The Dutch cup fits over the opening into a woman’s womb. I shudder to think how it gets there. You can have this one, if you’d like.”

  “My word.” Loath to touch the thing, she opened the drawer for Henny to drop it in. Why hadn’t William known of these preventatives? It would have saved them both from scandal and disgrace—although the latter was mostly on her part, not his. But then, if he put one on his . . . part, there would be no Jamie.

  But still. How liberating. And how shocking to have such a thing in her possession. She wondered if Rayford Jessup had ever heard of a preventative.

  • • •

  Over the next several days, Rafe rode Pembroke’s Pride in the round training pen, working him at all gaits—in circles, figure eights, backing up, stops and starts. The horse responded well, changed leads when he was supposed to, and accepted Rafe’s commands without pulling or fighting the bit.

  Rafe praised him often and, after each session, rubbed him down for a long time, speaking to him constantly. The horse quickly became accustomed to his scent, his touch, the sound of his voice. The stallion was also beginning to lose some of his stiffness, and as he went through his gaits, his stride grew smooth and fluid as muscles strengthened and became more defined.

  Rafe kept the sessions short. Knowing Pems was intelligent and would easily grow bored with the same monotonous routine, he varied his activity by having Hammersmith work the stallion on a longe line each afternoon while Rafe watched from the fence.

  On the fifth morning, Rafe awoke to heavy gray clouds and an ache in his old shoulder injury that foretold rain. Knowing this was his chance to put Pems through his next test, he threw on his clothes, grabbed his hat and duster, and hurried to the stables.

  “You’re taking him out today?” Hammersmith questioned when Rafe came out of the tack room with the stallion’s halter and lead rope and a carrot. “Looks like rain, so it does.”

  “I hope so.” Plucking a curry brush from a peg, Rafe slid the bolt on Pembroke’s stall door and stepped inside.

  The horse whinnied in welcome. Having seen Rafe in his hat and duster several times, Pems wasn’t as concerned by Rafe’s altered appearance as he was the carrot in his hand. Rafe let him finish his snack, then buckled on the halter and led him out the rear stall door into his paddock. Stopping in the center of the open area, he took out the brush and began talking to the animal as he curried him.

  Pems stood quietly, enjoying the attention as well as the brushing.

  Until the rain began.

  It started with a thick drizzle then progressed into regular rain. Not a Texas frog-strangler, but heavier than the misty soup Rafe had ridden through from Liverpool almost two weeks ago. He could feel the horse tense as water collected on his back and began to run down his sides. Stepping back to give him space, Rafe continued to talk calmly to him.

  The stallion stomped, shook his head, snorted.

  Because the paddock was mostly beaten-down dirt with a few patches of grass, the rain began to puddle here and there.

  Taking a snug grip near the halter ring, Rafe took a step, keeping pressure on the lead until Pems moved forward. Praise, a pat, words of encouragement, then another step. And another.

  The horse did well until they came to the first puddle, then he balked.

  Rafe continued to urge him forward, speaking all the while.

  The stallion snorted, eyes showing white, but Rafe talked him through it until eventually Pems stepped hesitantly over the puddle. Same with the next, and the next.

  The puddles grew larger, running together into small pools. When they came to one that was too wide to step over, Pems refused to cross. Rafe backed him up and came at it again and again until, finally, the horse put one front hoof into the water. Then Rafe had him stand there.

  The horse trembled, his nostrils flaring as his breathing accelerated.

  Rafe spoke quietly, rubbing the crest of the stallion’s muscular neck until the horse began to relax enough to drop his head. He snuffled at the puddle, tossed his head, and stepped back.

  Again, Rafe massaged the horse’s neck until he calmed, then brought him up to the puddle again. When the horse had both front hooves in the water, Rafe asked him to stand quietly while he stroked him and told him how well he was doing. Eventually the shaking stopped. The stallion’s head dropped as he relaxed.

  Rafe led him to the next puddle and did it all again. When the horse was able to stand quietly in an inch of water, Rafe figured he’d a
ccomplished enough for one day, and led him back into his stall and out of the rain.

  Miss Cathcart was waiting by the open doorway, grinning like a kid with new shoes. “You did it! I was watching. He did beautifully, didn’t he? Can I give him a carrot?”

  Rafe nodded, charmed by the sparkle in her blue-brown eyes. He had rarely seen her in such high spirits, and her smile made him smile. Stepping back so she could give the horse his treat, he noticed Hammersmith grinning over her shoulder.

  “Good work, lad. Ye’ll make him into a kelpie yet, so ye will.”

  Rafe wasn’t sure what a “kelpie” was, but heard the praise in the Scotsman’s voice and felt a surge of pride in the horse. “He did it himself, not me. Be sure to keep his paddock door open so he can go out if he wants. If it’s still raining this afternoon, I’ll take him out again.”

  “Aye. The rain will continue for a while, anyway.” The groom rubbed his knuckles. “These auld hands tell me so.”

  “If he does well this afternoon, I’ll take him to the training pen tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be full of puddles, so it will.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Hammersmith left to scold the stable boys for being slow to muck out the stalls, but Josephine stayed, watching as Rafe rubbed down the wet horse with a piece of burlap. “He looks better every day. You’ve done wonders with him.”

  “He’s a good horse.”

  “You’re a good trainer.”

  Rafe kept his head down to hide how much her words pleased him. “Where’s Jamie?”

  “At his lessons. He’s been badgering his tutor about Cheyenne Indians ever since he learned Mr. Redstone will be visiting. He’s never met an Indian before, much less a Dog Soldier.”

  “Thomas is an interesting man.”

  “Do you think he’ll mind if Jamie asks him questions?”

  Rafe straightened, dropped his rag into a bucket holding brushes and combs and hoof picks, then searched out a dry spot on his trousers to wipe his hands. “Have Jamie take him on a walk. Thomas is a lot more approachable when he’s outdoors.”

  She moved aside when he opened the stall door, then fell into step beside him as he carried the bucket of brushes back to the tack and feed room.

  He thought she looked especially pretty today, although she was dressed in her usual brown dress and black boots. Maybe it was her smile, or the way curls were already sliding free of her scarf and showing bits of straw stuck in the dark strands. He almost reached over to brush the straw loose, but caught himself in time.

  “Will Jamie be safe with him?” she asked as he scooped a tin of grain and headed back to the stallion’s stall.

  “Safer than he’d be with any other man, I suspect.”

  “Except you.”

  Another rush of heat into his face. “He’ll always be safe with me. Both of you will.”

  “I know.”

  Leaning over the half door, he emptied the grain scoop into the wooden feed trough attached to the wall, grabbed the horse’s water bucket, then straightened, almost bumping into her. “Thomas is patient with children. He can teach the boy a lot.”

  “About what?”

  This time she dogged his heels to the feed room to return the scoop, then on to the water trough outside, where he rinsed the bucket, filled it, then carried it back to the stallion’s stall.

  “Living. Surviving. Understanding the world around him.”

  It rattled him the way she kept following him around. Reminded him of Jamie, except she was prettier and smelled better, and he never thought about kissing Jamie like he did the boy’s mother. Irritated that he’d let that thought into his head, he set the bucket beside the horse’s feed trough, then turned to face her. “Something I can help you with, Miss Cathcart?”

  “What? Oh.” She stepped back, that flush rising up her neck. “I’m bothering you.”

  Irritation faded. It wasn’t her fault he let his mind wander where it shouldn’t. “Not at all. But I’m getting hungry. I’d be pleased to treat you to one of Cook’s muffins. They’re really tasty.”

  The laugh that burst out of her took him completely off guard. He couldn’t help but smile back. “I say something funny?”

  She laughed harder. “I don’t know when you’re jesting or being serious, Mr. Jessup. You’re a terrible tease.”

  “I don’t mean to be.”

  “Of course you don’t.” The roll of her eyes belied the statement. “Come along, then,” she added, slipping her arm through his in a gesture so familiar and unexpected it left him at a loss for words. “I’m sure I can get you something more substantial for breakfast than a muffin. I know the cook personally, you see.”

  Docile as a spring lamb, he allowed himself to be towed along, that tiny rift in his resolve widening a fraction more.

  • • •

  Since the rain prevented them from dining on the veranda, and Mr. Jessup wouldn’t go into the dining room dressed in his work clothes, Josephine reluctantly had a footman set up a table in the conservatory.

  She hadn’t entered the glass-domed hothouse since Mr. Huddleston’s awkward advances. When she was an adolescent, the humid world of exotic plants had been her favorite place other than the stables. Here, the seasons never changed, and the perfume of thousands of blossoms scented the air, and she was the lonely princess awaiting her prince.

  Then, at the lawn party on her sixteenth birthday, that prince had galloped into her life, as dashing as she had dreamed. The Honourable William Bristol, heir to Baron Adderly. Trim, elegant, perfect in dress and demeanor, he was everything she thought she would ever want.

  The months following that first meeting had been a whirlwind of parties and carriage rides and walks through the garden. And then one sultry evening, here among the ferns and ficus and dwarf tropical fruit trees, she had given her love and her body to the man who said it didn’t matter that she was a coal miner’s daughter and he was a baron’s son. He loved her. He wanted to marry her, and would, no matter what his father said.

  Foolish girl. Like Father, she hadn’t understood the rules then. And when finally she did, and her prince walked away from her and their unborn child to marry the rich woman with a loftier bloodline that his father had chosen for him, it was here in this glass room where she had wept the bitter tears of a broken heart.

  Hopefully, by bringing Mr. Jessup here—a man so different from William or Mr. Huddleston—she might supplant those unhappy memories with ones less hurtful, and the conservatory would once again become a place of reflection and relaxation.

  As they entered the large glass room, Mr. Jessup slowed to look around. She guessed he had never been inside a cast iron and glass hothouse before, and enjoyed watching his reaction. Of course, being the restrained person he was, he didn’t say anything, but she could see the spark of interest in his dark blue eyes.

  “Do you grow things in here year-round?” he asked as he took his seat across from her at the small cloth-covered table that Rogers, the head footman, had set up directly under the peak of the dome.

  She nodded. “Flowers, for the most part. But Cook has an herb bed and a few stock vegetable plantings in the back alongside the orange trees.”

  “How do you keep it warm?”

  She indicated several small coal stoves along the outer walls, and the huge pots of water simmering on top of each. “In the summer, the sun heats it well enough. And if it becomes too hot, many of the higher panels can be opened.”

  Rogers came in with a tray of eggs, ham, an assorted fruit plate, toast points, and marmalade. As he served them, Josephine studied the man across the table. His shoulders far outspanned the narrow back of the delicate ironwork chair. He had removed his hat, and a long lock of sun-bright hair fell over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark left by the band of his Stetson.

  He ne
eded a good grooming. His hair was too long, and a dark stubble of beard shadowed his square jaw and stubborn chin. And although he had rinsed his hands in the washroom off the kitchen, there was still mud on his boots and horsehair on his cuffs.

  Yet when she looked at him, she saw beyond the disarray to the soft-spoken man she had watched in the paddock with Pems. Big. Confident. Unhurried. She remembered how gently those strong hands had stroked Pembroke’s neck, and found herself wondering what they would feel like on her own flesh.

  Wanton thoughts. Such musings had gotten her into trouble before, and it would behoove her to put them aside now.

  Still, despite good intentions, there was something about Rayford Jessup’s aloof manner and crooked smile that made her want to break through that armored reserve to the man beneath. In so many ways, he was a mystery to her.

  “Nice place,” he said, pulling her from her troubling thoughts. “Thomas would like it.” Amusement danced in his eyes when he added in warning, “Don’t be surprised if you find him sleeping in here.”

  “I’ll warn Shipley.”

  They ate without speaking. As she watched Mr. Jessup mow through his breakfast with single-minded determination, Josephine found herself wondering if he gave that same intense attention to other appetites in his life. More wanton thoughts. And why for this man?

  Why not?

  Here in this secluded setting, with the ping of raindrops on the glass panels overhead adding a sense of intimacy, it was easy to see Mr. Jessup as a heroic figure. Mysterious. Protective. Strong. A man who was incapable of dissembling and who always meant what he said, he was the antithesis of the other men she had brought here. What would her life have been like had she met him first?

  “When was Pembroke’s Pride injured?”

  Chased once again from her errant thoughts, she saw that he had cleaned his plate, and now sat slouched back in his chair, hands folded over his belt buckle, watching her.

  “I told you, last year at the—”

  “No, before that,” he cut in. “Probably several years before.”

  She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”