Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02

by Where the Horses Run

  “When can we leave?”

  When, indeed. Seeing a reflection of his own impatience in the boy’s hazel eyes, Rafe grinned and ruffled his thatch of blond hair. “I’m thinking on it.” If he intended to make this happen, he needed a plan. Something that would give him a way to build a life for the three of them in America.

  And it all started with Pems.

  Now that he was back in charge of the stallion’s training, he would have to make some revisions. Work him a little harder. If they hadn’t lost too much ground with the mishap this morning, and there were no other problems, the stallion might—might—be able to run in a month.

  And if he won . . . hell . . . that could change everything.

  • • •

  That afternoon, Hammersmith brought Gordon back to the stable in the cart.

  “How is he?” Rafe asked as they loaded the droop-eyed groom out of the back.

  “They should have kept him at yon house,” the Scot complained, bowed under Gordon’s weight as he and Rafe carried him to his bunk in the room he shared with the other grooms. “I’ve no time fer nursemaiding.”

  “Bugger that, you sheep-humping Scot,” Gordon slurred between gasps of pain. “As cheap with your help as you are with your coin—mind that rail!—bloody hell!”

  “Dinna pay him any heed,” Hammersmith muttered, pulling the sheet over Stevens’s slack form. “The laudanum is wearing off.” Bending close to Gordon’s ear, he shouted, “And I’ll no’ be giving ye more, ye worthless cur, if ye dinna watch your tongue. There’s a bairn present.” He punctuated that with a thump on the injured man’s head.

  “Ow.” Gordon’s eyes blinked open, wandered for a moment, then settled on the boy watching wide-eyed at the door. “Hallo, Master James. A word of advice. Don’t break your leg. It hurts like a bloody, buggerin’—”

  “Best come along, Jamie,” Rafe cut in, steering the boy away from the door before he heard too much. “Your mother will be looking for you.”

  “Gordon used bad words.”

  “He didn’t mean to. It’s just the medicine talking.”

  “How can medicine talk?”

  “Never mind. And it would be best if you didn’t tell your mother.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After pointing the boy up the path to the house, Rafe walked back into the stable just as Hammersmith came out of the room where Gordon was. “Can I talk to him?” Rafe asked. “I’d like to know what happened at the brook.”

  “Aye. I canna give him more laudanum for a while yet, so he’s still awake.”

  Rafe pulled a stool near Gordon’s bed, sat down, and asked him what happened when he took Pems to the brook.

  “He refused the jump, like I figured he would. Took him around again. Same thing. Third time, the bloody bastard dug in his heels and sent me flying. Guess I pushed him too hard. Is the Scot bringing more laudanum?”

  “Soon. And don’t fret about Pems. He fared better than you.”

  Gordon tried to move his leg, then winced. “He’s well then? I saw he was caught up in the reins.”

  “He’s sore, but fine. How about you?”

  A weak grin split the groom’s pale, weary face. “Cook is sending Henny down with my meals, so it’s not too terrible.” He motioned Rafe closer. “She’s glad to get away,” he whispered. “The miss and her father are fighting again. Even heard your name mentioned a couple of times.”

  Rafe wasn’t surprised. His feelings for Josie put him squarely in Cathcart’s sights. “Don’t worry about that. Just get yourself healed.”

  “The doctor is bringing a crutch so I can get around. I suspect I’ll be back on my feet well before you return to the colonies.”

  “We haven’t been colonies for nearly a century,” Rafe reminded him.

  “Bugger that.” The injured man motioned him closer again. “Any chance the earl might need another wrangler for the trip?”

  Rafe straightened in surprise. “You want to emigrate?”

  Gordon nodded.

  “What about Henny?”

  “Her, too. She figures if Miss Josephine marries the baron, she’ll be looking for another position, anyway. Not hoity-toity enough for a frigging baroness.” Gordon frowned. “Did I say ‘frigging’?”

  “You did.”

  “But not in front of Jamie.”

  “No, only ‘sheep-humping,’ ‘buggering,’ and ‘bloody hell.’ But don’t worry. He said he wouldn’t tell his mother. You’re serious about emigrating?” Rafe would help Gordon toward that goal, but wanted to make sure it wasn’t just the laudanum talking.

  “We don’t want to be servants all our lives. But it would help if we had employment and a place to go. We can pay our way, if we must. Where’s Hammersmith? He said he’d be back soon.”

  “If the earl doesn’t need you, someone will. There’s always room for hard workers.” And if things work out as Rafe hoped, he might even be able to hire Gordon, himself.

  Clouds were sinking down to meet the mist rising off the fields when Rafe took Pembroke out to the round pen for his afternoon workout. He started him at a walk, and gradually moved him through his gaits. The stallion was definitely stiff, but seemed sound, so Rafe worked him just long enough to limber him up, then brought him back inside. More liniment and a good massage, then he fed and watered him, and called it a day.

  Henny brought Gordon’s dinner. Rafe was pleased to see that Josie came, too, carrying a plate piled high with food. Since he had been banished from the house, he usually had to go get his own plate from the kitchen then bring it back here to eat. Apparently, even the house help had been warned away from him.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said, handing the plate to him.

  “We can share. Unless my stink chases you off.”

  She laughed. “Don’t you know liniment is perfume to a horse lover? Let’s hope it helps. Pems wasn’t looking that spry when I checked on him just now.”

  “He’s mostly sore. He’ll be fine.”

  They settled on overturned buckets in the tack room—stables weren’t usually dressed out for callers—and he asked how Jamie was handling all the doings up at the house.

  “He’s worried.” She forked a bite of potato in her mouth, then slowly chewed. He had never seen anything quite so arousing. “He overheard that Father planned to shoot Pems if he can’t jump. I told him you wouldn’t allow that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “How will you stop him?”

  “I’ll think of something.” He wasn’t ready yet to talk about the ideas bouncing around in his head. They were too new. Too impossible. He needed more time to think them through and come up with a workable plan.

  They sat in silence for a time. There was something intimate about eating off the same plate. Hearing her chew and swallow. Sitting close enough that her arm rubbed against his as she ate. Intimate and arousing. Hell, everything about her aroused him. It was damned distracting. But nice.

  “He’s also planning his move to America,” she said after a while.

  Rafe gave her a sheepish look. “Jamie told you about that?”

  “He’s quite excited about it. Apparently I’m invited, too.” She looked at the green bean impaled on her fork. “I know you mean well, Rafe, and were simply trying to distract him, but I’d rather you didn’t put wild ideas in his head.”

  Rafe studied her for a moment. “What if it’s not a wild idea?”

  She froze, the bean halfway to her mouth.

  “What if I figured out a way to provide for you and Jamie?”

  She returned a green bean to her plate, wiped her fingertips on the napkin, then fixed her gaze on his with a directness that made his skin tingle. “How?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But if I can work it out, would you go to America with me?”

  “G
o with you to America.”

  He nodded.

  “Permanently. Forever.”

  He nodded.

  She thought for a moment. Then she tipped her head to the side in that teasing way she had that told him she was fighting a smile. “Is this a proposal of marriage, Mr. Jessup?”

  Heat rushed up his neck. “Not yet. But maybe soon. You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

  Her smile faltered. “Then ask me when you’re certain, and I’ll give you my answer then.”

  He hid his disappointment. He’d botched it. “Fair enough.”

  After they finished eating, he set the empty plate on the floor by his boot. “Have you told Jamie about Adderly yet?”

  She shook her head. “If Pems takes the race, and Father wins the money he needs, perhaps I won’t have to.”

  “That’s wishful thinking, Josie. He won’t win. I doubt he’ll even finish.”

  “He might. He could surprise everybody.” She gave him a smile that reminded him too much of her crafty father. “Especially with you riding him.”

  “Me?”

  “Stevens won’t be able to. And who else can manage him?”

  “But I’m even heavier than Gordon—at least eighty pounds more than most race riders and over a foot taller. That’s too big a handicap for any horse, no matter how strong he is.”

  “Perhaps not in this race. Since it’s a private course and not sanctioned by any of the hunt organizations, there are no weight or height restrictions. It has its own set of rules.” Leaning forward, she rested her folded arms on her knees. “Which is why Father is so anxious to enter Pems in it. It’s his last hope of avoiding his creditors, even if it ends up costing Pems his life.” She turned her head and looked at him. “But I think he might pull it off, Rafe. I think Pems could win this.”

  He refrained from snorting.

  “This isn’t the usual hunt course,” she went on, her enthusiasm rising with every word. “Father told me all about it. It’s not a fenced track, but across country, through fields, and bracken, over stone fences, and down into rocky dells. The obstacles are more random and natural. For that reason, they can be more dangerous. But there are fewer of them, spaced widely apart. Which plays into Pembroke’s speed.”

  “No water?”

  “Certainly there are water crossings. Brooks, ponds, bridges.”

  This time he couldn’t mask his doubt. “You saw what happened today with Gordon. You truly think Pems could handle all that?”

  She shrugged. “There would be no screaming crowds. No banners waving. No artificial barriers or hidden water. And no having to face a jump he’s already refused. Point A to point B. However you can do it. If your horse falls and is able to get his legs back under him, he can continue. If you fall, or are intentionally knocked off by another rider, you can remount and ride on.”

  Rafe pictured it. Horses crowding each other, tripping over rocks and downed limbs, riders whipping their mounts and each other. “It sounds like a brawl.”

  “It is. For that reason, only the strongest horses even attempt it. And only the strongest riders cross the line. Plus, there will be few other horses entered. Perhaps only six or so.” She put her hand on his forearm, her eyes bright with excitement. “The key is to hold Pems back. Let the other horses go ahead so he can see what’s coming. The harsh nature of the course would eliminate several horses right off. By the end there might be only a few remaining, so when you reach the final sprint, you can send Pembroke on and let him run like we know he can.”

  Rafe smiled, admiring the sparkle in her amazing eyes and that flush of passion in her cheeks. “You’ve thought this out.”

  “I have. I even offered to ride Pems, but Father won’t permit it.”

  Thank God the man had some sense.

  “Pems can do this, Rafe. I’m sure of it. It’s not a matter of how fast a horse can run the course, but if he’s strong enough to finish it. And you know how strong Pems is. And how much he trusts you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m too heavy. Besides, your father would never agree to let me ride him.”

  “We’ll see.” Josie collected their empty plate and rose to leave. “All I ask is that you think about it.”

  Rafe did. While he tended his chores and Ash’s other horses, he thought of little else. By the time he finished his duties, the idea had taken hold and he knew what he had to do.

  After collecting clean clothing from the loft, he hauled three buckets of water to the feed room and washed off as much of the liniment stink as he could. Then he dressed and left the stable.

  It was raining again. Not actual rain, but a mist so thick it lay like a fallen cloud and swirled around his legs as he trudged up the path to the house. Even wearing his hat and a jacket, he felt wet and chilled by the time he stepped onto the front porch and lifted the ornate brass knocker.

  Shipley answered. When he saw who it was, his look of surprise gave way to one of confusion. Before he could question why a wrangler had come to the front door rather than the back, Rafe stepped inside, handed the befuddled butler his hat, and asked if Mr. Cathcart was in his office.

  Shipley gaped at him.

  “Office it is, then. I know the way.” Without waiting for the bemused butler to recover from his surprise, Rafe headed down the hall.

  The house was quiet, the lights dim. He wondered where Josie was. Maybe curled in her bed somewhere overhead, her hair tumbling loose, a book braced against her raised knees. Was she a reader? He hoped so. The idea of lying in bed beside her, just reading, was unbelievably arousing.

  Hell. He was getting himself worked up again. He had to curb these randy thoughts.

  But his imagination had already caught fire, adding details that sent a surge of desire through him. Maybe her nightdress was lacy and delicate—or thin and clinging, like silk—or maybe she wore nothing at all.

  Realizing he shouldn’t be dwelling on such things moments before he spoke to her father, Rafe filled his mind with images of nuns and kittens and greasy gray balls of haggis. By the time he reached Cathcart’s study, he had regained control. He was also slightly queasy.

  Since the door was partially open, he gave a courtesy knock, then entered. “Good evening, Mr. Cathcart. Might I have a word?”

  With a start, the Englishman looked up from his papers, saw who it was, and frowned. Before he could ask what Rafe was doing back in the house he had been thrown out of a week ago, Shipley arrived, red-faced and panting.

  “My apologies, sir. He barged—”

  “Good night, Shipley.” Rafe closed the door in the astonished butler’s face, then turned back to the man behind the desk.

  “What do you want?” Cathcart snapped, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk, his eyes wary.

  Wondering if the man had a loaded gun in the drawer by his hand, Rafe smiled to show he had no evil intent.

  “I have a proposition for you. One that will get each of us exactly what we want.”

  Seventeen

  “May I sit?”

  Cathcart scowled, his jaw clamped tight.

  Taking that as a “yes,” Rafe settled into the chair facing the desk, his right ankle resting atop his left knee, his hands hanging off the ends of the armrests. “I understand you intend to enter Pembroke’s Pride in a race next month.”

  Cathcart’s eyes narrowed.

  “With Stevens laid up,” Rafe went on, when it was apparent he wouldn’t get a response, “I’m guessing you’ll need a trainer.”

  “I already told Hammersmith that with Stevens injured, you would be handling Pembroke.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  Cathcart considered that for a moment. Tension easing, he leaned back in his huge chair, the ink-stained fingers of his right hand tapping a rhythm on the wooden arm. “Think you can get the stal
lion ready in time?”

  “As ready as he’ll ever be.”

  More thinking. Tapping. “Can he win?”

  “Doubtful. But possible.”

  Greed sparked in Cathcart’s eyes. He leaned forward. “How possible?”

  “Depends on who his trainer is, and who rides him in the race.”

  “What if I asked you to do both?”

  “Are you offering me the position of trainer and rider?”

  “I am.”

  Rafe flicked a gob of mud off the boot resting on his knee, watched it thump against the desk, then slide to the carpet. “Ordinarily I’d say I was too big to race him. But since we haven’t the time to accustom the horse to an unfamiliar rider, I’d say yes to both.” He looked up with a smile. “But it would cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “The horse. Win or lose.”

  Silence. Then a harsh laugh burst out of Cathcart. Shaking his head, he sat back again. “You must think I’m a fool. I’ll not part with my best horse. And anyway, why would I give him up now? You might decide not to enter him. Or if you let him run and he wins, the purse would go to you, not me.”

  Rafe pretended to give that some consideration. “Then how about this? You give me a signed Bill of Sale today, but date it the day of the race. That way, you still have full ownership until he runs.”

  A sly expression came over Cathcart’s ruddy face. “Dated the day after the race. That way you won’t try to pull him out at the last minute.”

  “If your main concerns are the winner’s purse, or me pulling him out before the race,” Rafe said thoughtfully, “then date the bill for later that afternoon. Hammersmith said the race starts at ten o’clock. So date the bill for later . . . say, noon. And you still pay the entry fee.”

  Cathcart studied him for so long, Rafe started to sweat. Then finally, the Englishman nodded. “Deal.”

  Rafe mentally raised a fist in triumph. “Then draw up the papers. As soon as they’re signed and witnessed, I’ll begin the stallion’s training.” He rose and started for the door.