“The brook. Mr. Rafe has held off putting a rider on him outside the pen until we’re sure he can handle puddles better. Your father thinks it’s time, but I have to admit I’m a bit nervous about it.”
“You should be. It’s far too soon.” Angrily, Josephine shoved away from the fence rail. “I’ll talk to him. Does Mr. Jessup know?”
“No, miss. Your father sent word after the two of you left to take Pems to the brook.”
“Don’t saddle him until you hear from me.” Muttering, Josephine started back through the stable.
“Begging your pardon, miss.”
She turned back to the red-faced groom.
“Mr. Cathcart said you might try to talk me out of it, and I shouldn’t listen. I’m sorry, miss.”
With a nod, Josephine whirled and continued out of the stable. What was Father thinking? Did he want to kill Pembroke?
“Father,” she said a few minutes later when she found him in his office, poring over a column of figures. Working numbers had always been a struggle for him, and she could tell by his beetled brow that things weren’t going well. Not wanting to get his ire up right away, she softened her tone. “I need to speak to you, if I may.”
Without looking up, he licked the tip of his pencil and scribbled something on the paper in front of him. “I won’t change my mind.”
“About what?”
“Sending Pembroke’s Pride to the brook today.”
“But why, Father? He’s not ready. What’s the hurry?”
“This is the hurry!” In sudden anger, he slapped a hand on a stack of letters and glared up at her. “Overdue bills. More come in every day. Yet you continue to buy fripperies, and eat fine food, and delay making a decision on the baron’s offer. You leave me no choice in the matter.”
A familiar feeling of dread moved through her. “Choice about what?”
“It’s either Adderly or the horse.”
“I don’t understand. How will Pems shore up our finances?”
Setting the pencil aside, he sat back and studied her, his mouth pursed, his fingertips drumming on the arm of his chair. “There’s a hunt race south of Liverpool next month. A private course. The field won’t be large—maybe a half-dozen entries—but it carries a heavy purse. I intend to enter the stallion in it.”
Shocked, Josephine sank down in the chair at the front of his desk. His plan to enter Pems in the Grand National was foolish enough; at least with that race, they had six months to prepare. But now he wanted to try him in a month? “He’s not ready, Father. He won’t win.”
“Perhaps not. If he doesn’t, we’re only out the entry fee. But if he does, being a long shot, he could win us a fortune.”
She was aghast. “You’re betting on him? You say we’re in dire straits, yet you’re squandering money we don’t have on an injured horse that probably won’t even finish the race?”
“That remains to be seen. If your wrangler is as good as he thinks he is, and he’s done his work well, the stallion could win.”
She repeated the words he had spoken earlier. “Or die trying.”
“Maybe.” Her father’s callous shrug showed his indifference. “But if he can’t run, he’s useless to me, anyway.”
Josephine clenched her jaw to keep from shouting in his face. How could he be so foolish? If circumstances were as bad as he said, why didn’t he sell the house? The rest of the horses? Whatever assets he had left?
Then understanding came, and she almost laughed. He was already attempting to barter his last assets: her and Jamie. Swallowing back her disgust, she struggled to keep her voice even. “Who will be riding him?”
“The groom.”
“Stevens? He’s too big.”
“Not as big as Jessup. Besides, Pems is strong. Stronger than any horse I’ve seen. He can carry the added weight.”
“I’ll ride him,” she offered on impulse. “I know him as well as anyone. He trusts me. And you know I’m a good rider.”
The notion took hold, bringing with it a surge of excitement. She would have to ride astride, which would raise eyebrows, but she was already a pariah, so that was of little concern. If youthful memory served, astride was easier than sidesaddle, and with a month to practice, she was certain she could become proficient. At least with her on his back, Pems had a chance.
“Let you ride him?” Father’s mocking laugh slowed her racing thoughts. “And make a laughingstock of me?” With a snort, he waved the suggestion aside. “Rumors already abound. I’ll not add to them by putting you on vulgar display. Besides, if something untoward happened, and he fell or balked, I wouldn’t want you hurt.”
Fine words, but Josephine didn’t flatter herself that his concern was out of care for her. He simply didn’t want to jeopardize his last means of escaping this wretched financial debacle.
She thought hard, but could come up with no way out of this situation, other than to accept William’s proposal or risk her beloved horse. But if Rafe’s hard work paid off, and Pems actually won . . . that would change everything.
“If you’re serious about racing him, Father, at least allow Mr. Jessup to continue his training. He’s better than Stevens.”
“Perhaps. We’ll see how the groom does this afternoon. Now, go. I have work to do.”
As she walked out of Father’s office, she saw Rafe marching toward it with Shipley in his wake. By the thunderous expression on his face, she guessed Stevens had told him about Father’s plans. Stepping forward, she dismissed Shipley with a nod, and put a hand on Rafe’s arm to keep him from barging through the office door.
“It won’t do any good,” she said once the butler had disappeared down the hall. “I’ve already talked to Father. He’ll not budge.”
Rafe muttered something and dragged a hand through his wind-tousled hair. “Pems won’t cross water. Maybe in a few months, but not now. What’s the rush?”
“Debts. Come.” Taking his hand, she led him to the veranda overlooking the rose garden and the slope down to the stable. Once outside and assured of privacy, she told him Father was determined to enter Pems in a race next month. “He’s even betting on him to win. Worse, he wants Stevens to ride him.”
“Gordon?” Rafe’s blue eyes went wide with surprise. “He’s too inexperienced.”
“I know. But Father didn’t seem to care. I think perhaps he doesn’t have the extra funds to hire a qualified race rider.”
“Hell. None of this makes sense. If he pushes the horse too soon, it might endanger his chances to race in the Grand National next April.”
A half-formed thought arose, but before Josephine could think it through, movement down at the bottom of the slope drew her attention.
A groom raced into the stable, shouting. Although they were too far away to hear his words, it was obvious that something was wrong.
She stiffened, alarm prickling her neck.
Several stable boys ran out. Two raced into the sheep pasture; a third started up the slope to the house.
Sudden terror almost stopped her heart.
Jamie!
• • •
Wondering what had happened, Rafe watched the two grooms run across the field, sending sheep into bleating flight. Then he saw the riderless stallion lurching in a tight circle in the trees by the brook, trying to free himself from the reins tangled around his front leg. Nearby, Hammersmith knelt beside a prone figure half-concealed in the tall weeds. Not Jamie. Gordon.
“It’s Stevens,” he called to Josie as he charged down the slope at a full run.
Fearing the frantic stallion would injure one of the boys trying to approach him, he waved them away as he ran across the field. “Leave him! Get the dray!”
The boys ran back to the stable.
Rafe slowed to catch his breath, then speaking in a calm monotone, approached the thrashing horse. “It’s all ri
ght, boy. You’re all right.”
When his voice finally cut through the fear, the stallion stopped fighting and stood trembling, his sides heaving, his neck twisted at a sharp angle against his shoulder. The bridle held his mouth open, the bit pulling his lower jaw to the side. Blood dripped from his mouth where the bit had cut his tongue. Foam ran from his neck and chest. White ringed his dark eyes and his nostrils showed red as he struggled to breathe.
Rafe took out his penknife, opened it, and stepped closer. “Easy, boy. You’re all right. It’s just me.”
He quickly sliced through the leather. As soon as the pressure gave, Pembroke’s head flew up, but Rafe grabbed the loose end of the reins and held him fast. When he was sure the horse wouldn’t bolt, he glanced over to see Hammersmith and the two stable boys trying to slide Gordon onto a blanket.
He saw no blood, and the groom was awake. Rafe guessed by the way they handled him, that it was Gordon’s leg that had been injured.
The cart arrived, pulled by the stable workhorse. They quickly loaded Gordon into the back, then Hammersmith climbed into the driver’s box and drove toward the house.
The immediate crisis over, Rafe let out a deep breath. He saw Josie standing at the stable door with Jamie, and the last of his crippling fear began to fade.
The saddle had twisted sideways, so Rafe removed it and set it in the grass. Then he checked Pems for injury. Other than the cut in his mouth, minor scrapes on his front legs where his back hooves had clipped them, and a raw place under his foreleg where the reins had rubbed, the horse wasn’t hurt. But he would definitely be sore for the next few days. Relieved, Rafe picked up the saddle and saddle pad, and led the stallion back toward the stable.
Damn Cathcart. Gordon could have been killed. In addition, with this setback, weeks of hard work with Pems might be undone. Christ. At least now, if the bastard wanted to prevent further injuries, Cathcart would have to let Rafe take over the training.
“He’s all right?” Josie asked when he approached.
“Nothing serious. I’ll longe him in the pen later to see how he goes. Did you get the gelding brushed and put away?” he asked Jamie, hoping a change in subject would take that worried frown off the boy’s face.
“Yes, sir. I gave him a carrot, too.”
“Good.” They walked together into the stable, Josephine following well behind Pems. Rafe left the saddle and blanket in the tack room, then continued with Jamie to Pembroke’s stall.
“Will Gordon be all right?” the boy asked, a quaver in his voice.
“He will. A busted leg is all.”
“Will it hurt terribly?”
Fearing a gush of tears, he tried to keep his voice light. “Maybe a little. But Gordon is tough. He’ll be up in no time. You decide on a name for the gelding?”
“Blaze.” Jamie swiped a sleeve under his nose and looked up. “Do you think that’s a good name?”
“I think it’s a perfect name.” Opening the stall door, he unhooked the stallion’s lead and sent him inside. After securing the latch, he hunkered in front of Jamie, who stood beside his mother in the aisle. “So you like Blaze?”
Another swipe at his nose. “I think he’s the best horse in the whole world.”
“Then he’s yours.”
It was almost comical the way the boy’s jaw dropped. “Mine?”
“If you promise to take care of him and treat him well—and your mother agrees”—he shot a glance at Josie and was alarmed to see tears gathering in her eyes, too—“then he’s yours.”
“You’re giving Blaze to me?”
“I’m giving you to Blaze. The horse needs a boy like you.”
“Truly?” His voice rose to a near squeak. “Mother, can I keep him? Please? Please?”
“Ssh, you’ll scare the horses,” she warned, still fighting tears, even though now she was smiling. Rafe would never understand women. “Yes, you may keep him.” Her eyes met Rafe’s, and her wobbly smile warmed into something else, something that made him forget his resolve to stay detached, and made a mockery of everything he’d said down by the brook. “I think he’s perfect for you.”
Sixteen
Before Rafe could think of a suitable response, a carriage came through the front gates. Wondering if it was Adderly again, he followed Josie and Jamie to the front stable doors and saw a well-dressed man with a black bag step down from the carriage and walk hurriedly toward the house. Too skinny for the weasel.
“That’s the doctor. I’d best go.” Josie glanced hesitantly at her son. “Would you mind—”
“Let the boy stay here.” Rafe smiled down into Jamie’s worried face. “I’ll need help tending the stallion’s scrapes and repairing his bridle.”
She knelt in front of her son. “I will send word about Stevens as soon as the doctor finishes with him.”
Jamie nodded.
“Shall I have Cook send down a picnic lunch? You could share it with Mr. Jessup.”
A more enthusiastic nod this time.
“Mind Mr. Jessup, then.” She rose, sent Rafe a smile of gratitude, then hurried up the slope to the house.
Rafe and Jamie went back into the stable.
“Hope those aren’t your favorite clothes,” Rafe said, opening the door into the small room where Hammersmith stored feed and medicinal items.
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Rafe retrieved a tall brown bottle off the shelf, checked the white label, then went back into the aisle. “Because this is going to stink.”
A short while later, they left Pembroke’s stall, reeking of the horse liniment they had rubbed into the stallion’s stiff muscles.
Wrinkling his nose, Jamie wiped his hands on his trousers. “That truly does smell dreadful. Will it help, do you think?”
“It should.” Rafe looked up to see Hammersmith coming down the aisle with a basket in his hand. His mouth was pressed into such a thin line it almost disappeared into his beard.
Fearing bad news and wanting to spare the boy, Rafe stepped forward to meet him. “How bad?”
“By the blood of Saint Andrew,” the Scotsman began, then saw Jamie watching, and altered his tone. “Both bones broken in his shin. Bruises. The bones stayed in place, so the lad’s leg should heal well. Ye are to resume the stallion’s training. The master wants him jumping the creek by the end of the week. If he willna do it,” he added in a lower voice, “he says he’ll put a bullet in him.”
“He better not!” Jamie cried from behind Rafe.
Hammersmith groaned. Forcing a smile, he said, “I dinna think he meant it, Master Jamie. Speaking from temper, is all.”
“I’ll check Pems this afternoon,” Rafe said. “See if any injuries appear that I didn’t find earlier.” And if they did, he would buy the horse himself, rather than allow him to be destroyed. Or have Thomas steal him if he ever came back. Indians were good at that.
“Cook sent this.” The groom held out the basket. “Aye, and it smells better than you, I warrant.”
Rafe waited for Jamie to offer to share their meal with Hammersmith, and was proud when he did. But the Scot said he and the other grooms had already taken lunch at the house, as they usually did, and advised them to eat outside so they wouldn’t stink up his stable. After washing their hands at the pump, they took the basket to the brook and sat on the same log where he and Josie had suffered through that awkward conversation several hours earlier.
Another time when he should have kept his damn mouth shut. He could still see the hurt in her eyes. At the time, he had thought putting his cards on the table might help her see the hopelessness of the situation.
Instead, he had made it worse.
Won’t you even fight for us? she had asked, as if doubting his feelings for her and her son.
God, if she only knew. When he saw her wounded look, and realized that something ra
re and precious had slipped through his hands, he was filled with a desperation to get it back.
But why, if nothing had changed?
He looked beyond the pasture at the stone mansion on the hill. He could never compete with that. But maybe, if he could offer something more . . . be something more . . .
It came to him then, as he sat beside Jamie, wolfing down a cold lunch of baked chicken, biscuits, roasted potatoes, and an entire tin of peaches, that he wanted to change. To be better than he was. To take the risk of opening his heart again. All because he was falling in love with Josie.
Falling. His chewing slowed. The perfect word for how he felt. Spinning out of control. Flailing in midair, tumbling headlong into a place he had never been.
Strangely, he wasn’t afraid. In fact, he felt energized, more hopeful than he had in a long time. Everything seemed sharper, more defined. His senses were more acute. This chicken leg tasted better—although he suspected it was pigeon, not chicken—birdsong sounded sweeter, the clouds hovering overhead felt less depressing.
If that wasn’t due to the fumes from the liniment, then it must be love.
He grinned, the word rolling through his mind, kicking up hopes and ideas along the way. He would fix this. He would make it work. He wouldn’t live a life without Josie and her son.
“Jamie, what do you know about America?” he asked on impulse.
“It’s where cowboys and Indians and buffalos live.”
“Ever thought of moving there?”
He looked up, squinting against the struggling sunlight. “Is it far away?”
“Across the ocean.”
“By France?”
“The other way.”
The boy thought for a moment, then sighed. “Mother wouldn’t let me.”
“What if she came, too?” Rafe smiled, thinking about it. A nice little cabin—nothing too big or elaborate—nestled in a field of columbine, ringed by tall pines and aspen, and bordering a clear mountain stream.
And live on what? Juniper berries and balsam root?
“Could I bring Blaze?”
Rafe studied the boy, realizing from the question how lonely he must be, isolated by his wealth, his birth, his mother’s worry. But in America, Rafe could claim him as his own and no one would even care. “Sure.”
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