Gordon shook his head. “I couldn’t go up into the loft because of my leg. The master sent one of the footmen to pack your belongings.”
A footman. With loyalty to his employer, not a banished wrangler. Rafe would have hit something, if not for the muscles clenching into knots in his back. He couldn’t let Pems go back to Cathcart. It would be the horse’s death warrant if he did. Rafe would put a bullet in Pembroke’s brain before he’d let Cathcart abuse him again.
“Bollocks,” Ash muttered. “It must be somewhere.”
“If it even exists.” Cathcart’s smile broadened. Greed flashed in his dark, feral eyes.
“If what exists?” Josie came up, caught sight of Rafe, and her smile died. “What’s happened?” she asked, looking at the faces of the men crowded around the stallion in the stable aisleway. “Is it Pems? Has he taken a turn?”
Rafe couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even look at her.
A flush darkened Lord Brantley’s face. It was obvious he wished himself anywhere but caught in the middle of this mess. “There seems to be confusion about ownership of the horse,” he said when no one else responded to her question. “A missing Bill of Sale.”
“Missing?” Shock flared into anger. She glared at Cathcart. “What have you done, Father?”
“I’ve done nothing, girl. Go back to the house. This doesn’t concern you.”
“But I—”
“Now, daughter!”
Rafe stepped toward Cathcart, hands fisted.
Ash pulled him back as Josie fled the stable. “Dinna make it worse, lad.”
Worse? The worst had already happened.
The argument continued around him, but Rafe couldn’t hear anything over the buzzing in his head. Gone. Josie. Pems. Everything. He’d been played like a fool.
“Stevens,” Ash prodded, “are you verra certain you dinna remember signing the paper as witness?”
“What do you expect him to say?” Cathcart broke in before Gordon could answer. “Stevens is now in Jessup’s employ. Of course he’ll back his employer if pushed hard enough. It means nothing unless we have the bill in hand. Which can’t be found—if it ever existed.” He turned to Brantley and the other men standing around them, as well as those who had wandered in from outside when word of an altercation had spread. “The horse is mine.”
Thomas stepped forward, but Ash stopped him and murmured something into his ear. The object of this discussion stood quietly, head drooping as if he knew the future that awaited him with Cathcart.
Rafe wouldn’t let that happen. “Send for Hammersmith,” he said in desperation.
“Give it up, Jessup,” Cathcart jeered. “You’ve been caught. Someone send for the magistrate.”
Whispers swirled in the still air. Men who had congratulated Rafe only a short while ago now avoided his eyes. Several of the owners didn’t bother to hide their disgust. Titled men. Protected by wealth and privilege. Affronted that a foreigner would cause a ruckus in their elite company. Even Lord Brantley began to edge away, apparently fearing condemnation by association.
Rafe’s back spasms escalated, making it hard to take a breath, hard to concentrate. Cathcart had well and truly boxed him in. As long as Rafe couldn’t produce the Bill of Sale, it was his word against Cathcart’s. And Cathcart had the right of it: who would believe a common wrangler—an American already accused of poaching and facing deportation—over a presumably wealthy English businessman?
“I will fix this, Rayford Jessup,” Thomas murmured beside him.
“How?”
Despite the thin smile, savagery showed in the Cheyenne’s dark eyes.
“No, Thomas. We’re already in enough trouble.”
“You will let him take your horse?”
“I’ll think of something.” But Rafe didn’t know what. He could hardly even think, much less come up with a coherent plan.
Hicks elbowed his way through the murmuring crowd of men still filling the aisleway. “Ready to go, fellows?” he asked in a low voice, eyeing the finely dressed men standing around. “I told the Constable I’d get you aboard ship this afternoon.” When neither Rafe nor Thomas made a move, he leaned closer to add, “Do I need the manacles?”
Too stunned to argue, Rafe told Gordon to put Pembroke back in his stall. “Maybe something will come up before we leave.” He could send for Hammersmith. Try to buy Pems from Brantley. He had to do something.
A high-pitched voice rose above the low male chatter. “Excuse me. Step aside, please.”
Turning stiffly, he saw Josie push her way into the tight circle around Pembroke. Shame twisted in his chest. He had failed her. How would she ever forgive him for losing her horse? How could he forgive himself?
She shoved a piece of paper into Lord Brantley’s hands. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
Rafe froze, his heart drumming. Had she found it?
Brantley studied the paper. His frown deepened. “What is this, Cathcart?”
“It’s a Bill of Sale,” Josie cut in before her father could respond. “Conferring ownership of the stallion listed as Pembroke’s Pride to Rayford Jessup. Stevens?” She motioned Gordon closer. “Is this your signature?”
The groom limped over and studied the paper. “It’s a bit wobbly, but that’s my mark. Hammersmith’s, too.”
Rafe’s legs started shaking. He saw Josie’s smile of triumph and felt the knot of fear in his throat loosen.
“Well, there you have it then, lads.” Ash clapped Brantley’s back—the only man there who dared such familiarity, since they were of equal rank. “A foolish mix-up.” He swung his gaze to Cathcart, his smile spreading into a menacing show of teeth. “Right, Cathcart?”
When Josie’s father tried to stammer an excuse, Ash waved his words away. “I understand, Horatio,” he said in a robust voice. “As a man ages, he verra often forgets events of a week past, so he does. No ill intent, I’m sure. No doubt it will happen to all of us someday, right, fellows?”
Strained smiles. Nods of sympathy.
Cathcart’s face paled. His darting gaze scanned the faces around him.
Rafe waited to see if he would accept Ash’s insulting explanation, or try to bluster his way out of the fix he’d gotten himself into. Whichever tack he took, he would look the fool. Harsh punishment for such a prideful man.
“Just so,” Cathcart finally mumbled, wiping a hand over his sweating brow. “A mistake. Completely forgot. Been in such a rush these last few days . . .”
But men were already wandering away, glad to separate themselves from the taint of either attempted theft, or advancing senility. Cathcart was ruined either way.
“Carry on, then.” With forced joviality, Lord Brantley thrust the Bill of Sale at Rafe. “Sorry about this, Jessup. Dashed embarrassing.” Leaning forward, he added, “We’ll have to keep an eye on him, what?” He straightened and offered Rafe his hand. “Excellent ride today, my good man. Excellent horse. Would have made a wonderful addition to my stable.”
“Thank you, sir. Now if you’ll excuse us.”
“Quite. Safe voyage and all that. Off you go, then.”
Rafe handed Pembroke’s lead to Gordon, hoping the groom didn’t see the tremble in his hand. “Tie him to the back of Kirkwell’s carriage. We’ll be in the constable’s wagon behind you, so I can keep an eye on him.” He followed Thomas and Hicks out of the stable, half-afraid his legs wouldn’t hold him.
He’d won. It was over. Pems was safe.
A slim hand slid into the crook of his arm. Sudden emotion clogged his throat. Josie didn’t speak. Didn’t offer excuses or platitudes or words of comfort. Just walked beside him. God love her.
“How did you find it?” he asked after he’d gotten himself in hand.
“I snooped in your room after the constable took you away.”
At his curious l
ook, she smiled sheepishly. “I wanted a memento. Something to cling to until you returned. I found the Bill of Sale in the tablet, and knowing it was too valuable to leave lying about for sticky fingers to find, I decided to keep it safe for you.”
His chest swelled with pride. “You can cross the river with me any day, sweetheart.” Seeing her puzzlement, he added, “That’s a cowboy expression. It means I know you’ll always have my back, even when I make foolish mistakes and disappoint you and cause you worry. It means I trust you. And love you.”
“Oh?” That impish smile. “Do cowboys say that often to one another?”
He gave a wobbly laugh. “Only if they’re smitten.”
When they reached the wagons that would take them to the docks, she pulled back. Looking up into his face with a tremulous smile, she said, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, for what my father tried to do to you.”
He took in a deep breath and let the anger go. He loved this woman too much to let her father’s actions come between them. “I know.”
“But he’s still my father. And I need to tell him good-bye.”
“But you’ll come back?”
“Always.”
Reaching out, he brushed his fingertips over her cheek, needing the contact, wanting the goodness and strength of character within this remarkable woman to drive out the ugliness and pain of these last turbulent hours. “Want me to go with you?”
“No. You’ve suffered enough at his hands. But if your watchdog could wait a few minutes, you can get Jamie while I talk to Father. He’s in Henny’s room. It would be a great comfort to him to know that you and Pems are all right. Also,” she added with a small frown, “he has a kerchief he wants to give you. I’m not sure what that’s about.”
Rafe smiled. “I’ll get him. You do what you need to do.”
After Josephine walked back to the stable to find her father, Rafe gripped the edge of the wagon with both hands as muscles tightened like a vise around his back. He’d suffered back pain before, after a fall from a horse. This was no worse. With rest, it would pass. All he had to do was get to the ship.
“Load up,” Hicks said, climbing into the driver’s box.
“I need a minute,” Rafe said through clenched teeth.
“And I need to get home before the wife locks me out. She’s a stubborn wench with an evil tongue, but a bloody fine cook. I’d hate to have to start over with someone else.”
Ash pulled something out of his carriage and walked back toward the cart. “Would a wee bottle of Highland nectar make the delay worth your while, Private?” He held up a half-empty bottle of his famous brew.
Hicks’s eyes lit up. “The whole bottle?”
“Whatever’s left.”
The guard smacked his lips. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Relieved, Rafe headed toward the house to get Jamie.
• • •
When Josephine went looking for her father, she saw that most of the crowd had dispersed and were now strolling toward the tents on the front lawn.
One figure walked alone. Father, head down, angling toward the terrace, the square set of his shoulders an indication of the anger and humiliation that still gripped him. She tried to be empathetic. But all she felt was anger at what he had tried to do to Rafe, and a building dread of this last confrontation in a lifelong troubled relationship.
Still, he was her father. She would probably never see him after this day—in truth, she didn’t want to see him again—but she did owe him a good-bye.
He was ruined now. Within a matter of days, all his possessions, collected over decades of hard work and unfettered ambition, would go on the auction block. He might even be sent to debtor’s prison. A sad end for a man who had once had the vision and strength to claw his way out of the dark and into the light of a better life. How sad that he hadn’t the courage or character to find contentment there.
Still, he was her father. And she wouldn’t allow her anger at him to cast a pall over her new beginning with Rafe. She owed herself that.
His pace slowed as he went up the terrace steps. At the top, he paused, one hand braced on the stone railing, his head hanging.
“Father,” she said, coming up the steps behind him.
He turned. His face was alarmingly pale and tears glinted in his reddened eyes. Pushing away from the railing, he straightened. “Come to gloat, have you, daughter?” he asked in a quavering voice.
He had once been the strength in her life. The indulger of her every whim. A mostly benign tyrant who had no one else in his life but a lost, motherless girl. Now he was the one who was lost—a broken, frightened man bolstered by the last remnants of angry pride.
“No, Father. I’ve come to tell you good-bye.”
“Good-bye, then.” He waved her away, head turned as if ashamed to show his weakness even in front of the daughter who knew all of his faults. “Don’t worry about me. I crawled out of the black pits once, and I can do it again.”
She doubted it. But that wasn’t why she had come. “I wanted to give you this.” She handed him her reticule, weighted again with the money she had received from her pawned jewels. She had no intention of giving him her winnings, but by rights, this money belonged to him. She didn’t want to leave him completely without funds.
“What’s this?” Spreading the drawstring, he peered inside. A look of shock came over his face. “Where did you get this?”
“From you.”
“Me?”
“I sold all the jewelry you gave me. Now I give it back to you in the hope that it will keep you out of debtor’s prison.”
His mouth worked. He blinked hard.
Fearing some lingering shred of fatherly pride might force him to refuse her offering, she quickly added, “Please take it, Father. With my blessing. And my thanks for all you’ve done for me and Jamie.”
He looked up, his face a mask of despair, not even bothering to hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I never meant to hurt you, Josephine. You must know that. But when I saw the way of it . . .”
“I understand, and I harbor no animosity toward you. I just wish . . .” She faltered, not sure what she wished. For things to be different? For him to be a more loving father, and for her to be a more deserving daughter? They had each done their best, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. “I just wish you well, Father.”
He gave a wobbly smile. “Perhaps we’ll meet again in America.”
“Perhaps.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment. “Jamie will want to tell you good-bye. Shall I get him?”
“No.” He swiped a trembling hand over his damp cheeks. “I don’t want him to see me like this. You tell him good-bye for me.”
“But—”
“Perhaps I’ll come by the docks to see you off,” he cut in. “It’s not far from the train station. Now go.” He pulled her into a rough hug—the first he’d given her in many a year—then abruptly let her go. “Take care of yourself, child.”
“You, too, Father.”
As she watched him walk away, she felt a surprising mix of emotions. Relief, regret, a deep sense of loss . . . not only because her father would no longer be a part of her life, but because the girl who had been his daughter, and who had worked so hard to please him, was gone forever, too.
But mostly she felt . . . free.
When she approached the servants’ wing a few minutes later, she saw Rafe coming down the back staircase with Jamie in tow. Seeing her son’s look of concern, and the stiff way Rafe held himself, she wondered if all was well. Then they spotted her, and bright smiles broke over their faces.
“Is Pems truly all right?” Jamie asked, rushing toward her.
“Yes, dearest. A bit banged up, but he’ll be well soon.”
“I saved an apple from breakfast. Do you think he’ll like it?”
“I’m certain
of it.” As they walked toward the entry, Josephine glanced worriedly at Rafe over Jamie’s blond head, saddened by the weary strain on his face. But it was over now. Nothing ahead but a bright, shining future and a new start for all three of them.
Jamie’s steps slowed. He looked out the terrace doors. “What about him?”
Josephine looked over to see William standing with his hands tucked behind his back, staring down into the rose garden and two reflecting pools. He was dressed for travel, his fur-trimmed overcoat adding to his bulk, his top hat resting on the balustrade beside him.
Another sad, lonely man. Another life ruined by foolish choices.
On impulse, she bent down in front of her son. “Would you like to tell the baron good-bye?”
She watched him study the solitary figure, saw resistance in the small frown creasing his brows. Then he surprised her by nodding. “I suppose I should.”
Motioning for Rafe to wait, she rose. Holding Jamie’s small hand in her own, they stepped through the terrace doors. “Good afternoon, Baron Adderly.”
With a start, he turned, saw Jamie, and gave a stiff smile. “Good afternoon. On your way to America, are you?”
“We are. But first, we wanted to say good-bye.” Resting a hand on her son’s shoulder, she gave a squeeze of encouragement.
“Good-bye, sir.” Jamie held out his hand.
After a look of surprise, William took the small hand in his own, gave it a gentle shake then released it. “Good-bye, Jamie. I enjoyed meeting you. I know Neddy enjoyed meeting you, too.”
“Perhaps I shall write to him. Do you think he would like that?”
“I’m sure he would.”
A moment passed in awkward silence, then Jamie said, “Thank you for the horse, sir. I’m sorry I won’t be able to take Thunder to America with me. Perhaps if I come back to visit someday, I’ll be big enough to ride him.”
“I’m certain you will be.”
Another awkward pause. Then William cleared his throat and said, “I wish, Jamie, that I had done things differently. Come to see you sooner and spent more time with you. I regret that, and am sorry for it. Even so, I want you to know that I think you are a fine boy, and I shall always be proud to call you my son. And . . . and I hope you will not forget me.”
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