“We might come back for a visit someday, but yes . . . forever. Mr. Jessup has asked me to marry him, you see.”
The hazel eyes went wide.
Thinking the boy might need reassurance, Rafe went down on one knee so his eyes were almost at the same level as Jamie’s. “But as pretty as she is,” he said in a solemn tone, “and as much as I love her—and you—I won’t marry her unless you approve and say you’ll come to America with us.”
That wasn’t entirely true. No matter what the boy said, Rafe had no intention of letting Josie get away from him, or of leaving either of them behind. He’d prefer Jamie’s cooperation, of course. But if he didn’t get it . . . well, he had already been accused of poaching; kidnapping wasn’t much worse.
He needn’t have worried. With a shouted “Yes!” the boy threw himself against his chest as he had in the Cathcart stable when he’d been worried about losing Blaze. Only this time, Rafe was the one with tears in his eyes.
After a moment, Jamie pulled back to look into his face. “If you marry her, will I be your son?”
“Yes.”
“Will I still be called a bastard?”
Unable to answer for the knot in his throat, Rafe shook his head. He would make sure that word was never spoken to the boy again.
“Can Blaze come with us?”
“He’s already on the ship.” Another choking hug. Before he let the boy go, Rafe whispered in his ear, “But you have to promise me that you’ll never bet on horse races again. Gambling can ruin a man.” Feeling the boy stiffen, he added, “I won’t tell your mother about it. But I’m curious. What did you wager?”
“Your cowboy kerchief against a chipped knife that Lord Brantley’s grandson has,” Jamie whispered. “But you mustn’t worry. Pems will win your kerchief back.”
• • •
By nine o’clock, people were coming down from the house. Hours before, an early breakfast had been served in tents set up on the front lawn near the starting point, and now the guests were coming to the stable for a last look at the horses on which they had bet so heavily.
As tradition dictated, each rider wore the colors of his horse’s stable. Cathcart had sent down an altered jacket for Rafe in the deep brown worn by his grooms, a pair of buckskin trousers that were a bit snug, a crisp white shirt, a necktie, and a hat, which Rafe didn’t even try on. The other riders wore jackets in green, blue, gold, scarlet, black, and a gold-trimmed gray for Brantley’s man that looked disturbing similar to a Confederate uniform.
Leaning against the aisle wall beside the stall where Pems waited, Rafe studied the horses that had already been brought out of their stalls, and the riders standing with them, receiving last-minute instructions from their employers. He hoped Cathcart wouldn’t try to offer any advice to him. The man knew as much about horses as Rafe knew about coal mining.
The owners seemed an amiable bunch, their high spirits heightened by several glasses of champagne at breakfast. Rafe could almost smell the greed in the air.
The riders seemed capable and friendly enough, except for the man wearing the gold jacket. Several times, Rafe had caught him staring his way as he quietly conversed with his horse’s owner. Both men had hard, cruel faces—the rider, even more so. His horse was a tall, long-legged sorrel with a nervous eye. Rafe noted the horse didn’t like anyone approaching from behind, a sure sign of a kicker. He would take care to keep Pems well out of range of those back hooves.
The rider in green was very young, and carried a hint of desperation in his eyes. Probably his first race. His bay was equally green and restive, although Rafe couldn’t tell whether the nervousness originated in the horse or the boy. They wouldn’t be a threat unless they inadvertently got in the way.
Brantley’s gray—the favorite—was a fine, sturdy gelding with a relaxed demeanor and the look of experience about him. Rafe guessed he was a bit past his prime, but in a race like this, experience would account for more than speed, except in the final sprint. Ash told him the gray had won the last two races here, so he was doubtless familiar with the countryside. A huge advantage over the other horses. Rafe decided he would position the stallion close behind him, figuring the gray would approach the jumps and hazards in a calm manner, which might help keep Pembroke calm, too.
The rest of the riders seemed confident and experienced. Good horsemen, with respect for their mounts. Competitors, yet not destructive about it.
But he would have to keep an eye on the nervous sorrel with the hard-eyed rider. Especially after he saw the horse’s owner slip a long thin object that looked more like a cane than a whip under the stirrup flap of his saddle.
“That isna good.” Ash stepped to Rafe’s side, his gaze narrowed on the rider in gold. “That’s no’ a normal whip. ’Tis more like a cane with a blade hidden inside. In rough terrain like this, a knife slash might no’ look so verra different from a cut caused by a protruding rock or tree limb.”
“I doubt he would dare such a thing. Nor would Brantley allow it.” From what Rafe had seen of their host, Lord Brantley seemed a fair-minded, honorable man, not a fellow easily drawn into underhanded dealings. Rafe liked him.
“Perhaps he doesna know. I should tell him.”
Rafe shook his head. “We could be wrong. Don’t worry. I’ll watch him.”
“So you should. Where’s Pems?”
“In his stall. Thomas is saddling him. I saw no need to get him agitated by all the gawkers wandering about.”
“Good lad.” The Scotsman looked around, then added in a lower voice, “The wager book is closed. By the look of it, you’ll win a great deal when Pems finishes first. The lass, as well.”
Rafe was surprised. “Josie placed a bet?”
“Aye. On Pems to win.”
Rafe smiled, touched by her faith in him. Now, he was even more determined to win. “When will the payout be?”
“Soon after the race. Assuming you win, I’ll put yours and the lass’s earnings in one of the trunks in the Kirkwell carriage, and post extra guards for the ride to the docks. Since you and the heathen will be going with Hicks, and I’ll be on horseback, the lass and bairn can ride in the carriage with the countess. Stevens and his wife, as well. Your baggage will go on the constable’s cart with Pembroke’s tack.”
“How far to the port?” Rafe wanted to be out of this place as soon as he could. He had an odd, itchy feeling that until they were on the ship sailing out of the harbor, something could still go wrong.
“About eight miles. They’ll be loading my horses soon. If we arrive before the tide turns, you can be away by late afternoon.”
“I hope so.” After a lifetime of wandering, Rafe was ready to settle down.
Pushing away from the wall, he followed Ash out the back door of the stable to check the sky one last time. Clouds were moving in, but weren’t threatening rain yet. The breeze was calm, the ground moist but not muddy. Good conditions for a run.
“Because the freighter taking you and the horses is an older design,” Ash went on, finalizing the plans they had discussed earlier about the trip to America, “it will travel slower than the Oceanic did. But you should still arrive in Boston within two weeks. My American banker will meet you at the docks with railroad vouchers and extra men to help unload the horses and take them to the stable, where they can rest for several days before boarding the train.”
“How long will the rail part of the trip take?” Rafe wanted the horses let out for exercise at least once every day, even if they had to take a later train. Earlier, Ash had provided a list of rail yards that included holding pens.
“With frequent stops, it might take several weeks to reach Heartbreak Creek. Longer, if you think the horses need more rest. I leave that to your discretion. The vouchers are open-ended, so you’ll be able to load on and off whenever you feel the need. Thomas and Gordon and two more lads will ride in the dro
vers’ car behind the stock car to assist with that. You and your bride will have a private compartment.”
Rafe stopped and looked at him. “Bride?”
Ash’s grin spoke of mischief. “The captain of the freighter is a canny Scot and a friend. At my request, he’ll be marrying the two of you the night you board. With the bairn there, you’ll want to set a proper tone, so you will.” His grin broadened. “Unless, of course, you’d rather wait until you reach Colorado?”
After the previous night, Rafe had no intention of waiting another six weeks to make love to Josie again. “Will it be legal?”
Ash grinned and clapped his back. “Are you doubting me, lad?”
Not an answer, but Rafe didn’t care. “Okay. We’ll wed on the ship.”
“Aye. I thought so. That’s why I’ve arranged for a private berth on board both the ship and the train. The lad can share accommodations with Thomas.”
“Thomas agreed to that?” Although the Cheyenne seemed to like Jamie, he was probably looking forward to time on his own for a change.
“Aye, after I promised him the foal of his choice out of the first birthing next spring. Think of it as my wedding gift to you.”
Hearing the blast of a trumpet, they both turned to see people moving out of the stable toward the tents in front of the house.
“Time to get Pems, lad. The race starts in fifteen minutes.”
And if everything went well, an hour from now, he and Josie would be collecting their winnings and heading with Jamie to the docks.
Josie and Jamie, the countess, Gordon and Henny crowded the stable aisleway, offering smiles and well wishes. Luckily, neither Cathcart nor the baron were there to dampen the festive atmosphere.
When Thomas led Pembroke out of his stall, Rafe smiled to see an eagle feather stuck in the stallion’s dark mane. The Cheyenne had also woven half of Josie’s blue sash into the braided loop. Apparently, Rafe was supposed to wear the other half around his neck and tucked beneath his brown jacket. Josie was happy to tie it for him.
“You both look magnificent,” the countess said with a beaming smile, her hands resting on her rounded midriff.
Josie smiled, too, but Rafe could see the worry in her unusual eyes. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered in her ear. “I have grand plans for when we reach the ship.”
That pretty blush tinted her cheeks. “So do I.”
His imagination sparked, sending heat rushing through him.
“Mr. Rafe,” Gordon called, limping into the stable.
Sending the others on to join the crowd by the starting ribbon in front of the house, he waited for the groom, Thomas standing nearby with Pems.
“I’ve already loaded Redstone’s and your belongings onto the constable’s cart,” Stevens said, stopping beside him. His leg was healing well, but was obviously still painful.
“What about Josie and Jamie’s luggage?” Rafe asked.
“They’re tying it onto the Kirkwell carriage even now.” Gordon hesitated, then added, “I think we should post a guard. Earlier, after I loaded the cart, I went back to add my and Henny’s valises, and it looked as if someone had gone through your things.”
“Only mine?”
“It seemed so.”
Puzzled, Rafe nodded, wondering why anyone would search his trunk. It was probably nothing, but just to be safe, he suggested Gordon have Hicks move the cart close to the Kirkwell carriage. “Ask Ash’s men to keep an eye on it.”
“I will.”
“Good man.” Rafe appreciated Gordon’s attitude. They would work well together. And it would mean a lot to Josie to have Henny nearby.
The groom left. He and Thomas and Pems continued toward the house. As they approached the horses waiting nervously by the ribbon, another trumpet call announced five minutes until the start.
Thomas gave Rafe a leg up onto the flat racing saddle, then showed him the straps. “Slip your boots into these if you start to slide.” He pointed to the braid in Pembroke’s mane. “This will allow you to hang off to one side if you need to.”
Hoping it wouldn’t come to that, Rafe nodded his thanks.
Thomas stepped back. “You will do well, nesene. You ride almost as good as a Cheyenne.”
“Hell, who doesn’t?” Grinning, Rafe put two fingers to the brim of the Stetson he wore despite English tradition, then nudged the stallion toward the other horses lining up at the ribbon.
The time had come to put all that training to the test.
Twenty-seven
Rafe took a position on the outside, two horses down from Brantley’s gray. The young rider in green was in the center, flanked by two experienced riders, and the nervous sorrel with the gold-liveried rider was at the other end of the line by a man in blue on an older gelding.
The ribbon fell.
With a cheer from the onlookers, the horses lunged forward, dirt and grass flying from their hooves.
Rafe didn’t push Pems, but let him move into the third position, two lengths back from the gray.
The boy raced into the lead, pushing too hard off the start. His horse would be winded long before he reached the final sprint. Following the yellow flags that marked the course, the boy raced into a lane beside the entry gates and came into the first jump too fast. Luckily it was a low fence, but still, his bay balked, almost unseating his rider. As the other horses surged around him, the animal collected himself and went at the jump again and made it.
Pembroke cleared it easily and continued at a relaxed gallop.
After the first mile, and three more easy jumps, the field began to string out. The horse in front of Pems tired and fell back. At the fifth jump—a low rock wall—Pems passed him and settled in behind the gray. The rider in gold kept pace at the far side of the rough lane, his attention divided between the course, Pems, and Brantley’s gray.
The sixth obstacle was a narrow stream with a steep downward approach. Rafe edged Pems to the outside and left of the gray, but close enough to see the other horse take the jump.
Out of fear, Pems overreached, clearing the water by several yards and coming down hard, but he recovered quickly and charged up the opposite slope on the heels of Brantley’s horse.
The course funneled into a narrow draw. The gold rider angled his sorrel toward Pems, then shied away when the boy in green surged up between them. Two other horses crowded behind Pems and he lurched forward until Rafe brought him back down to a steady gallop. He settled, still moving well, his neck slick with sweat, but not yet foamy, his wind holding.
Over a rail fence and another rock wall, then they whipped past the halfway flag, hoofbeats rolling like thunder, dirt clods flying as the draw opened into a wide field. Several riders sent their horses racing ahead, vying for the lead position. But Rafe held Pembroke back, remembering from his reconnoiter with Ash that the next jump had a lower landing side than the takeoff side, and needed to be approached cautiously.
When the lead horses bunched up, Brantley’s rider reined his horse to the left to avoid the tangle. Rafe followed, clearing the ninth obstacle a pace behind the gray. As they headed into the tenth jump—another water hazard—the boy was in the lead again, then the gray, with Pembroke a close third. The gold rider stayed in the trees on the right side of the course.
Pems refused to cross the water. If Rafe hadn’t expected the balk and locked his feet under the straps Thomas had added to the saddle, he might have come off. Without letting the stallion think about it, he brought him around and sent him forward again. This time he made it.
Grinning, Rafe leaned forward to praise him, then flinched when something slammed across his back. Gasping in pain, he twisted to see the gold rider swinging his cane whip at him a second time.
He ducked to the side. The whip whistled past, narrowly missing his head and knocking his Stetson into the brush.
Reining
Pems hard into the sorrel, Rafe kicked out, catching the gold rider in the hip and almost driving him out of the saddle.
The horse veered away.
Pems raced ahead.
Teeth clenched against the throbbing in his back, Rafe hunched low, alert and ready, knowing the gold rider would try again.
The next jump came up before they were ready. Two horses were close behind them, and rather than cause a collision by stopping Pems, Rafe bent low over the stallion’s neck and let him go.
Huge muscles bunched beneath him as the horse lunged up and over the wide tangle of downed trees. His back hooves clipped the last log when he came down, but he didn’t stumble. The two horses behind them did, then the rider in blue plowed into them and they all went down.
Four racers left. The gray had taken the lead from the boy, then Pems, with the bastard on the sorrel a close fourth.
An easy jump, then another open stretch.
Rafe stroked the stallion’s neck to settle his nerves. The biggest test was coming up around the next turn . . . the river.
Remembering that on the approach there was a two-foot drop down to the water, Rafe slowed the stallion in the turn so he could see it coming. Instead, they almost crashed into the boy on the bay, who was fighting the bit and dancing tight circles along the bank’s edge.
“Move,” Rafe ordered the boy.
The young rider gaped at him, his eyes round with fear. “I can’t swim.”
“Your horse can. Let him do the work.” Pems hopped and twisted. Rafe could sense his fear building.
Halfway across, where the river had cut a narrow, deep channel, Brantley’s gray sank until only his head and part of his neck rose out of the sluggish water. Head bobbing, he began to swim across the current.
The man in gold raced past and sent his horse into the water.
“Jump or move!” Rafe shouted at the boy. “You’re blocking my horse.”
“What if I fall off?”
“Hold on to his mane. Stay off his head and away from his legs. Now get out of the damned way!”
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