Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (11 page)

The only thing to mar her happiness was the way Rafe seemed to avoid her. Was he regretting his impulsive words in the conservatory? She could feel him pulling away and didn’t know how to stop it. But every day, the gap widened.

Lord and Lady Kirkwell were a treasure, not only because of the friendship they extended toward her, but also because of the kindness they showed Jamie. Never once did they indicate any concern over the circumstances of his birth, and always treated him as the innocent child that he was. Thomas Redstone was especially gentle and patient with her son’s many questions, and whenever they went into town, Rafe made a point of standing by Jamie’s side to scowl away any unkind remarks. For the first time in a long while, she felt protected enough to relax in public.

Father and the earl struck a sticky bargain over the horses . . . all except for Pembroke’s Pride. Rafe had continued to work with the stallion, and his improvement was so notable Father was reluctant to part with the horse. Josephine didn’t understand why until she walked into the stable one morning and overheard him asking Hammersmith if he thought Pems would ever be able to race again.

“He’s retired from racing,” she interrupted, walking up behind them. “He’s my horse, and I will never subject him to that again.”

Father turned in surprise. “Your horse? Since when?”

Even from several feet away, she could smell the whisky on his breath, although it was scarcely ten o’clock. “Since you gave Pems to me as a foal on my fifteenth birthday. Don’t you remember, Father, how we argued over the naming of him?”

“Perhaps so, but I have need of him now. And that’s an end to it.”

Rafe and Thomas and Lord Kirkwell had been standing in the opening at the other end of the stable by the mare’s pasture, and they all turned when they heard Father’s raised voice.

He noticed their interest, and his face reddened with embarrassment. “We’ll discuss it later, daughter.”

But Josephine couldn’t let it go. “It’s clear the horse is still having difficulties, Father. He may never fully recover. And certainly not well enough to race again, even if I were to permit it.”

“Permit it?” He stepped closer, his hands clenched.

For a moment she feared he would strike her. He never had before, but with his increased drinking, and the debts piling up, she knew his nerves were ragged. She stepped back, almost bumping into a sturdy body behind her.

“Morning, Mr. Cathcart,” Rafe said over her shoulder. “Here to watch Pembroke’s early workout?”

His deep voice carried no threat, but Josephine knew him better now, and could sense the tension beneath the calm tone.

Father put on a tight smile. “Since you’ll be leaving soon, Jessup, I’ve turned his training over to Hammersmith. Stevens will be riding him today.”

Rafe didn’t respond.

With a terse nod, Father whirled and walked away, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Report to me later, Hammersmith.”

“Yes, sir.”

With an apologetic glance at Josephine, the groom walked past her to where the stable boys were mucking out the stalls.

“Are you all right, Miss Cathcart?” Lord Kirkwell asked, his green eyes pinned on Father’s retreating back.

“Yes, of course. It was nothing. A small disagreement.”

“It didn’t sound small.” Rafe had that stubborn set to his strong jaw. “It looked like he was threatening you.”

“He drinks too much.” Shaking his head in disgust, Redstone walked away.

“My apologies, Miss Cathcart.” The earl’s glare shifted to the Cheyenne. “Thomas can be verra outspoken at times. Dinna wander off, heathen,” he called, hurrying after the departing Indian. “We leave tomorrow, and if you’re off on one of your scouting forays, I’ll leave ye behind, so I will.”

Tomorrow.
Josephine felt that familiar panic grab at her throat. How dull her days would be without them. Without him.

“What were you and your father arguing about?” Rafe asked.

“He wants to race Pems again.”

“It’s too soon.”

“I told him that. He didn’t listen. Tomorrow? You’re leaving tomorrow?”

He looked down at her, those deep blue eyes sliding over her face like a gentle touch. “You and Jamie could come with us.”

Tempting. But Josephine knew that without her here, her father would get into even more mischief. “Just come back. You promised Jamie you’d help him pick out his new horse.”
And I’m not yet ready to say good-bye to you forever.

 • • • 

She scarcely slept that night, awakening several times, gasping for air and feeling suffocated. Toward dawn, she gave up trying to rest, and rose.

Sadly, it looked to be a beautiful day for traveling—she had hoped for an early snowstorm. After her wash, she debated what to wear, then decided she didn’t want Rafe’s last image to be of her dressed in plain barn clothing, so she donned a simple but flattering morning dress in the same deep blue as his eyes.

By the time she stepped out onto the side terrace, the sun was slanting through the trees by the brook. At the stable, grooms busily harnessed teams to the Kirkwell carriages, while Shipley and the earl’s man, Pringle, supervised the loading of the luggage for the short carriage ride to the train depot in Carlisle. The earl’s huge dog waited nearby on a restraining leash, clearly excited by the bustle of preparations.

With that same breathless feeling that had plagued her through the night, Josephine lifted her hems out of the dew and hurried down the path.

She found Rafe standing at the open door of Pembroke’s stall, talking quietly to the horse nuzzling his coat pockets for a treat. He looked big and alien in his long duster and Western attire, distinctly out of place among the earl’s green-liveried coachmen with their tall hats, polished brass buttons, and white gloves.

And so unabashedly male.

She hadn’t been the only one to notice. She had seen the way the kitchen and parlor maids looked at him, and knew that they, too, saw it. Strong, capable, protective. What woman wouldn’t react to a man like that?

As she approached, he turned, and when that intense blue gaze met hers, she felt it all through her body. A shiver beneath her skin, a sudden weakness in her lungs, a warm tingle that spread down low, below her belly.

Desire. She had known it once. And now, with this guarded and enigmatic man, she felt it again. Only stronger. Much stronger.

She wondered if he felt it, too. If that’s what he had been trying to convey to her in the conservatory several nights ago.

He closed the lower half of the stall door then, leaning a shoulder against the door frame, crossed his arms over his broad chest. His gaze traveled over her in an appreciative, but not blatant, way. “You look beautiful this morning.”

She plucked a bit of straw from her skirt in a futile attempt to pretend the compliment didn’t make her blush with pleasure. “I try.”

“You succeed.”

“Then the endless hours were worth it.” Pembroke poked his head out the top opening of his stall door. Grateful for the distraction, she ran a hand down his white blaze. “How long do you think you’ll be away?”

“Too long.”

She gave him a look. “You’re certainly being charming today.”

“I try.” He dipped his head to add in a soft voice, “I’ll miss you, Josephine.” Then he smiled—her first real smile—showing strong, white teeth, a dimple in his cheek, crinkles at the corners of his remarkable eyes.

It took her breath away.

“I—I’ll miss you, too,” she said, once she’d collected her thoughts. “Promise me you’ll come back, Rafe. We—I—you’re important to us.”

“Josie . . .”

As she stared up into deep blue eyes, something primitive and undeniable and desperate gripped her. Fearing she might never see him again, she took his face in her hands and pulled his head down. “You come back,” she whispered fiercely and, on impulse, pressed her lips to his. Then astonished by what she had done, and fearing his reaction to such boldness, she whirled and fled the stable.

B
efore climbing into the carriage, Lady Kirkwell turned to Josephine with an expression of near panic. “Promise you will come for a visit soon. With train service now, the trip is not so long. I’m sure Jamie would enjoy exploring the castle and seeing all the armaments. And I would adore visiting with you again.”

“I should like that, my lady. I hear the Highlands are quite beautiful.”

“But lonely.” The dainty auburn-haired woman glanced at her husband, who was saying his good-byes to Father. “Say you’ll come,” she murmured, giving Josephine a hard, fast hug. “I would so welcome a pretty English face amongst all those dour Scots. And I promise not to make you eat anything odd.”

Josephine gave a wobbly smile. “Thank you, my lady, for your kindness to both me and my son.”

“Mount up, lass,” her husband interrupted, advancing in that military march Josephine found so amusing. “Tricks is loaded and we have a train to meet. Pringle,” he shouted toward the second carriage as he helped his wife to her seat. “If you dinna put that flask away, I’ll give you to Thomas, so I will.”

Without waiting to see if his valet obeyed, he turned to Josephine with a smile that had doubtless melted many a heart. “’Twas good to see you again, Miss Cathcart. You have grown into a lovely lady since I last saw you.” Lowering his voice so her father wouldn’t hear, he added, “Dinna fret. I’ll send the lad back soon. ’Tis clear he has his eye on you, and I wouldna want his wee heart to break.”

She had to laugh. “I doubt that’s a danger.”

“Perhaps. But dinna let his rough ways fool you, lass. He’s a good man.”

“I know.” Her gaze followed Rafe as he climbed into the second carriage behind Pringle. Had she shocked him with that kiss? Given him a reason to hurry back? The taste of him still lingered on her lips, the rough scrape of his whiskers still prickled her palms. Already, she longed to feel and taste him again.

“Plan to come for a visit,” the earl said, breaking into her thoughts. He glanced back into the carriage, where his wife waited, then added softly, “The countess gets a bit lonely away from England.”

“I shall try.”

“Until then.” With a mock salute and a sharp command to the coachman, he climbed into the carriage. A moment later they turned down the drive. The second carriage followed, and as it rolled past Josephine, Rafe’s gaze met hers through the open window. What she saw in those intense blue eyes and that crooked smile told her he was remembering that kiss, too.

 • • • 

Because of the countess’s condition, the travelers planned to take the carriages only as far as Carlisle, where they would board the train to Edinburgh, leaving Tricks and the coaches loaded with most of their belongings to continue on to Scotland.

The run to Carlisle was uneventful, except for Pringle’s snoring. When Rafe boarded the train for Edinburgh, he made sure to pick a seat as far away from the old man as possible.

They reached the city late, and retired early to their rooms in the Wayfarer’s Inn. Rafe slept fitfully, and was up the next morning before Ash. After a quick breakfast, leaving Thomas posted outside Lady Kirkwell’s door, the earl and Rafe rode rented horses to the warmblood stable north of the city.

Rafe wasn’t that familiar with Hanoverian warmbloods, but he realized immediately why Ash wanted to add them to his stable. Sturdy, well-tempered horses, they had strong backs and powerful, athletic frames, which, when tempered with the elegance, grace, and intelligence of the lighter thoroughbreds, would create a handsome strain of horses suitable for a variety of purposes.

At his suggestion, Ash selected one proven stud and one colt, along with three proven mares. After completing arrangements for Rafe and Thomas to collect them on their way back to Cathcart’s from Scotland, they returned to the inn.

The next morning, they were back on the train, heading through the Ochil Hills, past Perth, and on toward Pitlochry at the base of the Grampian Mountains near the heart of the Highlands.

From what Rafe could tell as the train followed the River Tay through rising foothills, the Highlands were a lot like England, only rougher—although, considering the earl’s love for one and contempt for the other, Rafe didn’t mention that. A bit steeper and rockier than Cumberland or the lowlands, less cultivated, and certainly less populated. There was an untamed element to the wild terrain that captured Rafe’s imagination. Bleak moorland covered with yellow gorse. Stark pinnacles and bare rocky ridges dipping down into misty valleys and deep, icy lakes—or lochs, as they were called in Scotland. After reading
Rob Roy
, Rafe could easily see why this land generated such devotion in its people, and produced such fierce warriors.

But he could never live here. Even in these wild Highland mountains. Not in any country where status of birth mattered more than character or accomplishment, or in a place with so much rain and so little sun. Surely, Josephine knew that.

Then why had she kissed him?

“This is a strange land,” Thomas Redstone muttered, breaking into Rafe’s thoughts. From his slouched position on the hard bench in the crowded railcar, the Indian waved a hand toward the streaked window at Rafe’s shoulder. “There are not enough trees and too many mud holes.”

“Peat bogs.”

“I do not like them. And their little horses with too much fur. Paugh! I do not like them, either.”

“Garrons.”

“They could never catch a buffalo.”

“Probably not.”

Thomas wasn’t a patient traveler. Being stuck on a train for several days seemed to grate on him even more than being stuck at sea. At least aboard ship he could move around.

“And these are not mountains,” the Cheyenne went on in a sullen tone. “Mountains reach into the clouds and wear caps of snow. These are hills.”

Rafe agreed. He remembered reading that the highest point in all of England—Ben Nevis—was less than four thousand five hundred feet high, while the peaks in Colorado Territory began at that height and continued upward for thousands more feet. Another thing he didn’t tell Ash.

Hoping to distract the Indian from his complaints, he asked if he had thought any more about the book he would write for the countess’s publisher.

Thomas gave him a disdainful look. “I will not write it. You will write it. But I will tell you what to say.”

“What stories do you want to include?”

“There are many.” Thomas thought for a moment. “One is about a Cheyenne girl who mated with a dog and birthed seven pups, who died and became stars in the sky.”

“Yes . . . well . . . anything else?”

“Our children like the story of Sharpened-leg, a young brave who cut off his feet and sharpened his legs into points.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“To play tricks on his friends. But when he tried to kick the tree where his friend hid, his pointed leg stuck in the wood and would not come free. So he hung there until he died. A reminder to be careful of the tricks we play on others.”

“Jesus.”

“For women, there is the lesson of the bad wife who left her husband. Her disloyalty brought such dishonor to her father that he killed her and cut her into pieces. Or maybe he cut her up first, then killed her. I do not remember.”

“Hell, Thomas. Don’t you know any happy stories?”

“Happy?” The Cheyenne’s grin showed malice. “Like the one when Crazy Horse defeated a hundred bluecoats at Massacre Hill? That is a good story.”

“You really are a savage, aren’t you?”

The grin widened. “Yes, I am.”

 • • • 

Two leisurely days later, they reached Pitlochry, where the Kirkwell carriages and Ash’s wolfhound were waiting. It was only early afternoon and they hadn’t far to go, so after the earl and the countess had changed into their great kilts and Ash had sent word ahead of their impending arrival, he herded them toward the carriages for the short ride to Northbridge.

Rafe had never seen the earl in his ceremonial garb. But as he watched him mount the magnificent black horse that had been brought from Northbridge for his triumphant ride home, he could see that donning his clan tartan changed him.

Despite the enveloping folds of plaid cloth that hung past his knees, he seemed freer than Rafe had ever seen him. Bigger. Taller. More given to sweeping gestures, rather than the tautly controlled mannerisms of a military officer. He was in his element.

In contrast, the countess seemed out of hers. There was pride in her posture and the lift of her head, but not the boisterous joy her husband displayed. Maybe because she was one of the barely tolerated English. Or because the years spent in this remote place while Ash was off soldiering hadn’t been happy ones. The earl had told Rafe that he and his wife had been estranged for a time, and Maddie had gone to America to start a life without him. Perhaps coming back to Scotland had renewed all those unhappy memories.

Frowning, Rafe watched her climb into the carriage. The empathy that made him so attuned to horses now rose in concern for her. Was that fear he saw in her coffee-colored eyes? Did she think that because she carried the Kirkwell heir, she would be trapped in this bleakly beautiful place forever?

And it was definitely bleak. A broad, treeless valley, sandwiched between Loch Rannock and the boggy marshland of the Great Rannock Moor, it reminded Rafe of the stark grasslands of Oklahoma. But wetter. Especially with that roiling gray sky whipping the wind into an icy blast. At least here cyclones didn’t spin down from the clouds, plucking man and beast from the earth without a trace.

The ride was a short one, led by Tricks and the earl on his prancing horse. A crowd of cheering people, all wearing the same plaid Ash and the countess wore, greeted him when they turned onto the long, rocky drive that led to an imposing stone structure perched on a slight rise near the loch.

Laughing, Ash leaned down to accept a ribbon-bound bouquet of heather from a child as he rode by, then he straightened to acknowledge shouts and well wishes with a grin and a wave. It was a rousing welcome that brought a smile to Thomas’s stoic face, and a look of terror to Pringle’s. Especially when they reached the house and the gray clouds parted in a slash to reveal a sunset of such violent hues, it was as if the jaws of hell had opened before them. A stirring sight.

Ash’s ancestral home less so.

Wind-and-rain-scoured walls the same dark gray as the brooding sky rose at least sixty feet high. At one end sat a crenelated tower with several stones missing—at the other, a crumbling buttress in the process of either being repaired, or falling into decay. Tangled gardens, weed-choked walkways, what might have once been a moat, now a gully of tumbled stones. A proud, ancient castle waiting to become a ruin.

“Lord help us,” Pringle muttered.

Battered doors crashed open as they rode through the outer wall and into an enclosed open area. “
Fàilte dhachaidh
,” a tall, plaid-draped woman cried, racing toward Ash. “Welcome home, my brother.”

Behind her, a big, hairy fellow in a different plaid called out, “’Tis guid tae have ye hame, Kirkwell!
Failte gu Alba—
welcome to Scotland!”

Rafe guessed these two were the family caretakers left in charge of Northbridge during the earl’s stay in America.

“Glynnis! Fain!” Ash rushed toward them, embraced them both in bear hugs, said something in Gaelic, then turned to assist his wife from the carriage. “Here’s the countess . . . and our babe,” he added proudly.

More welcomes. Hugs between the women—which Rafe was pleased to see erased that look of dread from Maddie’s face. Then, with his arm still around his wife’s shoulders, Ash, Lord Kirkwell and Laird of his clan, turned to the waiting crowd. “
Alba gu bràth
,” he shouted and raised a fist in triumph.

The crowd cheered wildly, their answering yells rising to a crescendo when their earl tossed back his gray head and gave a savage war cry.

Rafe felt like he’d stepped into the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s novel. He wished he’d brought the book with him to check the index for translations. Glancing over at the grinning Cheyenne, he hoped the Indian didn’t join in with a war cry of his own, which would be less stirring than frightening.

Turning, Ash motioned to those waiting beside the second carriage. “Come, Rafe. Thomas. Pringle, ye may approach, as well, but dinna speak. Meet my sister, Glynnis, and her husband, Fain McKenzie.”

After introductions were completed, the earl led them through the huge castle doors and into a place time had forgotten.

They walked over gritty stone floors scoured by thousands of feet over the years. From smoke-blackened beams hung huge chandeliers sprouting antlers and dozens of smoking candles. Above sooty fireplaces, ancient tapestries depicted bloody battle scenes. Instead of framed artworks, the walls were decorated with dented shields, battered swords, axes, and claymores. And in the place of honor in the Great Hall, above a fireplace that looked big enough to accommodate several stout men, hung the Kirkwell crest.

Rafe had to laugh. Northbridge so perfectly suited its master.

Awaiting them by the hearth were mugs of Scotch whisky—Rafe was becoming accustomed to the Scots’ pronunciation and spelling—which brought a frown to Thomas’s face and a smile to Pringle’s. After several Gaelic toasts, washed down with the same smooth, smoky brew the earl kept in Heartbreak Creek, the doors were thrown open and the waiting crowd rushed in to fill the benches at the long, worn tables set up throughout the hall.

The noise and laughter bouncing off the stone walls grew to a deafening pitch. Even Tricks hid under a table to escape it. Or maybe he was hunting scraps.

Serving people bustled in and out, bearing trays laden with Scottish fare. Fish soup called cullen skink, turnips and potatoes called neeps and tatties, honey-coated fruits, poached fish, roasted meats and fowl, and a lumpy, congealed substance the countess said was a traditional Scottish dish called haggis.

Which was almost the exact sound Rafe made when she added that it was made of various sheep organs—or pluck—simmered in a sheep’s stomach.