“Heavens,” Josephine exclaimed. “And I’m still in my traveling clothes.” After telling Shipley to show the countess to the salon, she hurried to her room. There, she found Henny waiting with her rose-colored silk and an excited expression on her face.
“Oh, Miss Cathcart,” she gushed as she helped Josephine out of her heavy bombazine. “I know this isn’t the best time to bring it up, but Gordon has spoken to the earl and he said ‘yes.’ Quickly now, step into your dress. Faith, and the color is lovely with your dark hair.”
“Spoken to him about what?” Josephine asked, turning so the maid could do up the buttons in back.
“Gordon says if your father releases him, the earl has a position for him. In America! Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Gordon wants to emigrate?” Turning, Josephine looked at Henny in surprise. “What about you? Do you want to emigrate, as well?”
“Sure and I don’t want to leave you, miss, but if Gordon and I go together, we can marry. And he’s always dreamed of going to America.”
Josephine wasn’t sure what to think. “When would you go?”
“Not for a while, I’m thinking. Not until the Kirkwell babe is born. Sure, and you should have plenty of time to find a replacement. There now,” she added, stepping back. “You look as beautiful as a summer rose in that rich color. Off you go. They’re waiting.”
Pushing to the back of her mind Henny’s disturbing news, Josephine rushed down to the yellow salon, hoping Father might have lifted Rafe’s banishment in deference to the earl’s visit.
He hadn’t. And she understood why when she overheard the earl tell his wife that Thomas had wandered off and he’d sent Rafe to find him. Hiding her disappointment at not being able to see him until tomorrow—even though they had only been parted for a few days, she missed him terribly—she accepted a glass of Madeira wine from Adderly and settled on the settee beside the countess.
Despite the pleasant company, she felt an underlying tension in the air. Perhaps because William hovered in such a proprietary manner, as if her visit to Fell Ridge had established them as a couple in some permanent way. Or perhaps it was the distraction she noted in the earl. Surely, he wasn’t worried about Thomas Redstone’s disappearance. From what Rafe had told her, it was a common occurrence with the Indian.
However, Lady Kirkwell—Maddie—was in her usual good spirits, and Father . . . well, as was his habit, he worked too hard to fit in with his lofty guests, and drank too much in the process. She was relieved when Shipley came in a few minutes after her arrival to announce dinner.
• • •
Rafe wasn’t sure how to find Thomas, or where to start looking. The Cheyenne was hard enough to track in daylight, but with night coming on, Rafe’s best hope was to let the Indian find him.
Hunched against the cold wind cutting through his duster with relentless insistence, he reined Thunder across the brook that separated the Cathcart estate from its neighbor, and rode into a deep forest of lindens, yews, and ancient oaks.
Silence closed around him. Other than the occasional scurry of a night creature, and the rustle of withered leaves overhead as the wind cut through the high branches, he heard nothing. He debated calling out, but not knowing who owned these woods, or who else might be in the vicinity, he decided against it.
The deeper he rode, the darker it grew. He wished he’d chosen a mount other than the horse Adderly had given Jamie. He had hoped to put some miles on the gray to help settle him down, but the flighty gelding was so spooked by the gloomy surroundings he shied at every shadow and sound.
Luckily, Thomas found them before they’d ridden too far.
“Are you looking for me, white man?” he said, appearing so suddenly out of the darkness that Thunder jumped three feet sideways.
“Damnit, Thomas! You trying to get me killed?” Rafe demanded once he brought his frightened horse under control.
The Indian motioned him to silence. He swung his gaze in a wide circle.
Rafe did, too, but neither saw nor heard anything unusual.
After a moment, Thomas edged Barney closer to the trembling gray. “There are others in the wood tonight,” he whispered. “Be silent. Wait here while I see what they are doing.”
“You’re not riding off alone—”
But he was already gone.
Damn. Pulling his coat closer, Rafe waited. Minutes passed. A distant sound that Rafe couldn’t identify, then a groan. But it could have been one branch rubbing against another in the wind. He watched Thunder’s ears, but they were swiveling every which way and pinpointed no specific direction that might signal the approach of something or someone.
He was glad he’d worn his gun. Not that he expected trouble, but—
Furtive rustlings to his right. The crack of a twig behind him.
Then suddenly men burst out of the trees.
Hands grabbed at the reins as Thunder reared and crow-hopped. Before Rafe could bring him under control and pull the six-shooter from the holster on his hip, other hands dragged him from the saddle.
“We got him!” a man yelled as Rafe slammed to the ground. A barrage of kicks and fists rained down on him. He struggled to protect his head as someone started on him with a short club.
“Enough!” a voice barked. “The magistrate doesn’t want the blighter killed! Get his gun and tie him with the other one.”
Dizzy and half-blinded by pain and blood from where the club had opened a gash by his temple, Rafe felt himself dragged to his feet and his hands tied behind him. Swaying unsteadily for balance, he looked around.
Thomas lay draped over Barney, his hands and feet tied, blood dripping from his nose and a cut on his cheek. Two men stood beside him with drawn guns.
“You know this person?”
Rafe looked up at a man on horseback who seemed to be the leader of the group. Magistrate, someone had said. If these men were working for a judge, they must be with the law. “Who are you?” Rafe countered.
“Constable Harris.” The man pointed at Thomas. “Do you know this man?”
Constable. Rafe felt a surge of relief. “You’re making a mistake. I was a Deputy United States Marshal. We’re from the Cathcart place. We work for the Earl of Kirkwell.”
“Americans,” someone muttered then spit in disgust. “Bugger that.”
“Well, you’ll be working for the crown now,” a voice jeered. “For seven long, hard years.”
“Unless you’re transported to Australia,” another added over the laughter.
“Or hanged.”
Guffaws all around.
“What are you talking about?” Alarmed, Rafe looked from one to the other.
“You’re not in America now,” Constable Harris said. “And we don’t suffer poachers in England.”
Twenty-two
Father had just invited the earl and Adderly into the salon for after dinner drinks when Shipley appeared at the dining room door to announce visitors. “I put them in the drawing room.” He looked flustered . . . an unusual state for the stone-faced butler.
“Who would be calling at this hour?” Father asked, clearly perplexed.
“Your neighbor, Mr. Worthington, and a Constable Harris, sir. He brought Mr. Jessup and Mr. Redstone with him. In custody.”
“In custody?” Josephine gaped at the butler.
Maddie clutched her arm. “There must be some mistake.”
Muttering under his breath, the earl shoved past Shipley. Father and Adderly followed, Josephine and Maddie on their heels.
Their neighbor, Mr. Worthington, a dour man with a pessimistic outlook and warts on his chin, stood talking to a man Josephine didn’t know but assumed was Constable Harris. Two other unfamiliar men stood guard over Rafe and Mr. Redstone, their hands resting on the butts of pistols stuck in their belts.
Josephine gasped whe
n she saw Rafe’s battered appearance. His clothing was mussed and torn, dried blood covered the side of his face, and more blood slowly seeped from a cut at his temple. One cheekbone was swollen and an old bruise darkened his jaw. Thomas Redstone looked no better, bleeding from several places at once, and showing a large lump on the side of his head.
They were both in manacles.
“Good heavens!” she cried rushing toward them “What happened?”
The earl blocked her approach. “Attend my wife,” he ordered quietly.
“But—I—he’s hurt. I should—”
“You should attend my wife,” he repeated, his green eyes boring into her. “I will see to this.” His expression brooked no argument, and Josephine read the underlying message. Do as ordered and let me handle this.
Reluctantly, she led the countess to a pair of wingback chairs flanking the window overlooking the garden. They both sat. Or rather, Maddie sat; Josephine perched on the edge of her chair, ready to leap to her feet if needed. Hands twisting in her lap, she strained to hear the low-voiced argument across the room, but was able to pick up only a word here and there.
Mr. Worthington seemed quite agitated, frequently punctuating his angry words by pointing an accusatory finger at Rafe and Thomas. She heard the word “poaching” and felt a shock of fear. Poaching was a dire offense in Cumberland, punishable by heavy fines, prison, deportation, or in extreme cases, hanging.
“You mustn’t worry,” Maddie whispered. “Ash can be quite persuasive. It’s the Scot in him, I think. Kirkwells have always been volatile. One never quite knows what they’ll do.”
Watching him, Josephine believed it. Feet braced, hands clasped tightly behind his back, he loomed over Worthington in a most intimidating manner, seeming to grow larger as he argued his points. Or perhaps the old man was shrinking under that forceful tirade.
Rafe and Mr. Redstone stood silent, the Cheyenne staring stoically at the far wall, Rafe listening intently, his gaze moving from one speaker to the other.
Father seemed incensed, his face blotchy with temper. It impressed her that he was so ardent in his defense of Rafe and Mr. Redstone, then realized what drove him when his voice rose above the others. “But he has a race to run in a week!”
Kirkwell shot him a quelling look, then resumed speaking in a calm, but forceful way to both Worthington and Constable Harris. Adderly said nothing, listening to the others with keen interest, his gaze going often to Rafe.
Poor Rafe. He looked ghastly, his handsome face a mass of bruises, dried blood, and swollen lumps. What had they done to him?
The countess must have read her thoughts. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Half of those bruises are due to a set-to he and Thomas had earlier.”
Josephine blinked at her in surprise. “Set-to? Over what?”
Maddie fluttered her fingers in dismissal. “Nothing of import, I’m sure, since they were quite cordial to one another when we arrived.”
Puzzled, Josephine turned back to the men, trying to read by their gestures how it was going. Worthington was scowling. Father was nodding vigorously at some point the earl was making to the constable. Adderly stepped in with a comment, which led to more discussion, until finally, the constable held up his hands in surrender. Worthington shook a warning finger at Father, then stomped from the room.
Relieved that it was over, Josephine rose.
But then the Constable motioned for the two guards to take Rafe and Thomas Redstone away. Rafe paused to say something to the earl, before being shoved roughly after Thomas.
Frantic, Josephine ran to the three men still left in the room. “What’s happened? Where are they taking them?”
“Where they belong,” Father snapped, crossing to the decanters and glasses on a side table. “I knew there was something underhanded about that wrangler.”
“He wasna night poaching,” the earl argued. “He was trying to find Redstone and got caught in the cross fire.”
“Makes little difference. They were both trespassing. Drinks anyone?”
William nodded and walked over as Father poured from a bottle of Northbridge Whisky the earl had brought.
Still in shock and not sure what was happening, Josephine rushed to the window. When she saw Rafe and Thomas being loaded roughly into a cart, panic sent her charging for the door.
The earl caught her arm. “Let them go, lass. ’Tis only temporary. Rafe will be allowed to race.”
“Then he and Thomas will return here?”
A regretful look came over his chiseled face. “No, lass. As part of our arrangement with Worthington and the constable, they must leave England and never return.”
Ever? Josephine gaped at him, her lungs unable to draw in air. Over the buzzing in her ears, she heard Maddie ask where they were being sent.
“Penrith for the night, then on to jail in Liverpool.”
“Jail? But you said Rafe would be able to race.” How else could he win enough money to take them to America?
“He will,” Kirkwell assured her. “Although he’ll still be in custody, he’ll be allowed to ride Pems in the race. Then as soon as it’s over, he and Thomas will be escorted directly to the ship taking them to America.” He gave her a look of sympathy. “’Tis better than an English prison or transportation to a penal colony, lass. We must be grateful for that.”
Grateful? That everything was falling apart? That finally, after years of being shunned, she had lost her one chance at happiness? She couldn’t bear to think of it. “What about Pems? How will he get to the race without Rafe?”
“Stevens will take him by rail.”
And the training he’ll miss?
Numbly, she turned back to the window to see the wagon roll down the drive, flanked by Worthington and the constable, one of the guards driving the wagon, the other watching the prisoners in back. How can this be happening?
Her mind reeling, she sank into a chair.
She wanted to weep. Scream. Pretend none of this had happened. All Rafe’s hard work for naught. All her hopes of a new start, gone in the blink of an eye.
Talk continued around her. Part of her listened, part of her didn’t care.
“If Rafe and Thomas are sent back to America now,” Maddie argued, “who will take our mares and stallions to Colorado?”
“They will.” Ash explained that Hammersmith and several grooms would have to help him drive the mares and stallions to the docks in Liverpool, so they could be loaded and ready to leave when Rafe and Thomas arrived after the race.
“But what about their things?” Josephine roused herself to ask. “And Jamie? Is he not even allowed to say good-bye to them?”
“Bring the lad to the race. He can say good-bye then.”
Good-bye.
The word clamored through her head. Was it truly to end this way? What about his plans for a piece of land somewhere? What about her?
“Did he say anything else? Leave a message for me?”
“Only that you must come to the race. He was verra insistent on that.”
Moving on leaden legs, she left the room. But in the entry, she stopped, not sure she had the strength to tell her son that Rafe had been arrested and taken away. Unwilling to face him in her emotional state, she went out the side door and down the slope to the stable.
Gone. Without a good-bye. Without a chance to tell him . . . what? That she didn’t care about status or luxury or a fine title? That all she cared about was . . .
Him. The thought swept over her like a breath of cleansing air. She more than cared about Rayford Jessup. She loved him. Loved him enough to bet every penny she had on a horse race. Enough to leave the country of her birth and follow him to America. All he had to do was commit—give her a true proposal—tell her that he loved her.
But he never had.
A lamp still burned in the aisleway o
f the stables. Low voices from the bunk room at the far end told her several of the grooms were still awake. Unwilling to answer their questions about this latest catastrophe, she went quietly up the ladder into the loft. At the top she stopped to get her bearings.
It was dark and musty in the cavernous space. Swallows, startled from sleep, flitted through the rafters. Mice scurried through the piles of dried grass. Most of the loft was open storage for hay, but at the other end was a small storeroom Hammersmith had converted into sleeping quarters for Rafe and the Cheyenne. Because of fire danger, there were no lanterns where the hay was stored, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Then shutting her mind to the rustlings and scurryings around her, she moved cautiously through the dimness to the storage room. On a shelf inside the door sat a lantern and matches. She lit the wick, then looked around.
Spartan, at best. Crude shelves here and there. Two rope-strung cots covered with faded blankets, a trunk full of books, clothing draped over nails and bedposts. An odd, delicately woven hoop, decorated with feathers and beads, hanging above the cot where a plaid shirt had been carelessly thrown.
Rafe’s shirt. Rafe’s cot.
She moved toward it.
The air smelled strongly of the horses resting in their stalls below. Hay dust covered everything. Even though its occupants had been gone only a few hours, the room already had an abandoned feel to it.
She picked up the shirt, pressed it to her face, and drew in the scents trapped in the worn cloth. Horses, coffee, the mustiness of a hardworking male.
Rafe.
Eyes brimming with tears, she sank onto the foot of the cot.
“Oh, Rafe,” she whispered to the empty room. The awareness that he was gone, perhaps forever, was like a blow to her chest. Clasping the shirt against her body, she bent over, eyes clamped tight against the press of tears.
For a brief moment, she had found hope again. Because of Rafe, after so many years of being a pariah, she had begun to see herself as someone of value, someone worthy of love.
Now he was gone, taking that fragile hope with him. All she saw stretching ahead was a bleak future of empty, lonely years. Jamie, being molded into a proper little baron. Herself, the fallen woman risen to baroness. Accepted, perhaps, but still without friends, love, or joy.
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