Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (18 page)

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.”

“M
ay 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 stallion 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.

“That’s it?”

Rafe turned.

“You expect me to just
give
you the horse? He’s a valuable animal. Worth a lot of money.”

“You’re right,” Rafe agreed. “But then, so is my training. With my help, you have a chance—a slim one, but still a chance—of making back what he’s worth plus a great deal more. Without it, you have a damaged horse that won’t even bring a decent stud fee considering all the problems in his past.” Rafe let that sink in, then added, “However, I concede your point. So in exchange for the horse—win or lose—I won’t charge you for the training. That way you’re only out the entry fee, but you have a chance of winning more than the horse is worth, both in the purse and any side bets. Would that be fair?”

“You should pay the entry fee.”

“Perhaps,” Rafe said with a smile. “But I won’t. You’ve heard my terms. Take it or leave it.”

“Damn you.”

Reading that as another “yes,” Rafe nodded. “Have the papers ready tomorrow. I’d like to get started as soon as they’re signed and in my hands.” He started for the door, then hesitated. “One other thing,” he said, facing Cathcart again. This time, he didn’t smile.

“Until the race is over, I’d rather you didn’t send your daughter and grandson to Adderly. Unless that’s what she wishes, of course.”

Cathcart blinked. Color rose in his cheeks. “The hell you say, Jessup! You don’t come in here and dictate to me about my own daughter! Get out! Now!”

Rafe hated all this posturing. It brought out the meanness in him. “Does this mean our deal is off?”

Cathcart’s bullish neck seemed to swell over the top of his tight collar.

“If so,” Rafe went on calmly, “then of course, I’ll do as you ask and leave tonight. I’ll also wire the earl that you’re canceling your contract with him for the care of his horses. When should I tell him you’ll send reimbursement for the advance payment he made?”

“You bloody bastard!”

Realizing he might have pushed the man too far, Rafe softened his tone. “I’m not trying to be unreasonable, Mr. Cathcart. You know I care about your daughter. And you know she doesn’t want to marry a man who has abused her trust once already. Give me time to see if I can best Adderly’s offer. That’s all. Just until after the race. Besides, even if she was willing to accept the baron, he couldn’t marry her before then, anyway.”

Cathcart glared at him, lips pursed so tight his mouth looked like a pale pink scar slicing across his face. Rafe could almost see the calculations spinning behind his eyes as he tried to determine what would work best to his advantage. Greed was so predictable.

“Just until the race,” Rafe pressed, impatient to be gone before he did or said something he might regret. “That’s all. Then let her choose.”

“You actually think she’ll pick you?” Cathcart’s laugh sounded forced and unsure—a coward’s attempt at bravado. “She might not care much for Adderly, but she’ll never pick a penniless horse wrangler over a wealthy baron. She’s not foolish.”

“You’re probably right, so it’s not much of a risk, is it?”

Silence, except for the drumming of Cathcart’s fingertips against the arm of his chair. “You’ll not move back into the house,” he finally said.

Rafe didn’t respond.

“And you’ll stay away from my daughter.”

“That’s up to her.”

Cathcart’s fist slammed on the armrest. “No! It’s up to me!”

Rafe shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

For a moment, they glared at each other, then the older man let out an explosive breath that seemed to deflate half his bulk. “You’re a bloody bastard, Jessup. But since I don’t think she’ll stoop to align herself with a man like you, I’ll give you until the race. One month.” He picked up his papers, already dismissing the issue from his mind. “I’ll send the postdated Bill of Sale down in the morning. As soon as the race is over, win or lose, the stallion is yours, then I want you gone from my daughter’s life forever. Get out.” He waved a hand like he was shooing a fly. “And don’t come again unless you’re summoned.”

Relieved to have the battle over, Rafe left. As he closed the door behind him, he saw Josephine coming from the direction of the conservatory. He stopped in the hallway to watch her approach, admiring the bounce in her step, the way curls bobbed against her shoulders with every stride, the lift in her stubborn chin. A woman of purpose. Beautiful, intelligent, strong enough to stand alone if she had to. With a woman like her by his side, a man could accomplish anything.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when she caught sight of him in the shadows.

“Talking to your father.”

“About what?”

“Training Pems. Walk me out.”

As soon as they crossed through the front door, he closed it behind them and pulled her into his arms.

She didn’t resist.

Her lips were cool, her breath warm. She tasted of apples and cinnamon. Smelled like the flowers in the hothouse. Fit so perfectly against him, he couldn’t imagine holding any other woman in his arms. Gentling his kiss so that they barely touched, he learned again the contour of her mouth, traced the softness of her lips with his tongue.

She was manna to him. All his hopes and desires brought together in this one beautiful, fearless woman. Everything and anything he would ever want.

The kiss grew more urgent. He stroked his hand up to cup her breast. Felt her warm softness, the beat of her heart against his palm. Heard the catch in her breath when he drew the pad of his thumb across the hardened tip.

“Josie . . .” he whispered, his body shaking, his mind thrown into chaos by emotions so powerful he didn’t know what to do with them.

She leaned into him, pressed her soft breast into his hand. “Come to my room.”

Reluctantly ending the kiss, he dropped his forehead against hers and struggled to contain the heat arcing through him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet. Not until he had something to offer and a way to take care of her and Jamie. “I’m not allowed in the house.”

“Then I’ll come to the stable.”

Something in his chest twisted. Had he reduced her to this? Furtive couplings in a dusty loft? She deserved so much more. They both did.

Taking his hand from her breast, he stepped back. “No.”

She went still. In the faint light cast by the oil lamp beside the door, he watched tears rise in her beautiful eyes and knew he had hurt her. Again.

“Josie . . . honey . . .”

“You don’t want me?”

He would have laughed had he been able. Instead, he pulled her body tight against his, let her feel the effect she had on him and how much he wanted her. “Can you doubt it?”

Color darkened her face. But she didn’t pull away. “Then why? I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

“When?”

“After the race.” Fearing if he stayed longer, he wouldn’t be able to leave her at all, he gave her a hard, quick kiss, then released her and opened the door. “Go to bed and dream of me.”

With a deep sigh, she stepped inside.

Reaching past her to grab his Stetson off the rack, he leaned in for one last kiss, then straightened. “By the way, your father said that he won’t send you and Jamie to the weasel. Not for a while, anyway.”

“
Send
me?” One dark brow rose. “I should hope he wouldn’t try.”

He grinned, liking this feisty side of her. “And he wants me to stay away from you.”

“Then I fear he’ll be disappointed, since it’s not his decision, one way or the other.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“‘Get out.’”

She laughed. Which he liked even more.

“I’ll see you in my dreams tonight,” he told her with a grin. “Wear something pretty. Or not.”

A month
, he thought as he stepped out into the mist and headed down the hill. That was all the time he had to retrain a frightened horse, collect what advance pay he could from Ash, and lose as much weight as possible without making himself sick.

With Josie as the prize, he’d find a way to do it.

 • • • 

The next morning, he awoke with a start from a lusty dream about Josie to find a figure sitting cross-legged in the dawn shadows, watching him.

“Ho,” a familiar voice said.

“Jesus!” Rafe lurched up onto his elbows, his heart kicking against his ribs. “Thomas, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for your eyes to open.”

“Hell.” Rafe fell back with a groan. “You’ve got to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

Bells. Maybe shackles. Clappers on his heels.

Once his pulse slowed, he sat up and swung his feet to the plank floor. A chill swept over him even though he wore unions and wool socks. He had thought Colorado was cold, but this constant dampness was worse. Reaching back for the thin wool blanket, he pulled it over his shoulders, then glared at the Indian in the corner.

The Cheyenne had reverted back to his warrior ways, it seemed. Fresh feathers dangled from his temple braids, and new bits of carved antler were sewn onto his war shirt. Rafe could only imagine how he’d gotten them. “Well, now I’m awake. What do you want?”

Thomas smirked. “If the woman knew this is how you greet the day, she would not look at you the way she does.”

“Go to hell.” Rafe rubbed a hand over his face in an effort to clear the fog of sleep from his mind. He had already spent half the night fretting over, dreaming about, and wondering what he should do about that woman. He didn’t want to talk about her now. “Why are you here?”

“I am ready to begin our book.”

“Now?” Rafe yawned and scratched his head.

“But I have decided it will not be about the legends of the People. It will be the story of a Cheyenne warrior’s journey.”

“Journey where?”

“From boyhood in the mountains, through a trail of broken treaties, to death at the hands of your George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of Washita River.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very happy book.”

“It was not a happy journey.”

Rafe struggled to bring his thoughts into focus so he could understand what Thomas was trying to accomplish. “That isn’t what Chesterfield talked to you about. He may not like this new idea.”

Thomas shrugged. “It is a story that must be told. Every day I hear things about the People that are not true. We are not noble, or savage, or uncivilized, or mystical, or red devils. We are different from the white man, but still the same. Yet we are told that unless we become more white, we will die. But if we discard our ancient beliefs, will that not be the end of the People anyway?”

Rafe didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing.

“I will tell the struggle of Chief Black Kettle. You will write it down. Then we will have on paper the true story of the People before it is lost forever in time.”

“I thought you couldn’t speak the names of those who have died.”

Thomas lifted his chin in challenge. “The Great Spirit knows what is in my heart. He will protect me.”

“If he forgets, you can always borrow my dream snare.”

Thomas wasn’t amused.

So Rafe let it drop. “Since it’s not the story he asked for, Chesterfield may not publish it.”

“I do not write it for him. I write it for the People. For me.” A smile warmed his dark eyes. “And for you, as well,
nesene.
So that you will understand the man who walks beside you.”