Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (19 page)

Rafe suspected that, in a small way, he was writing it for Prudence Lincoln, too. “All right,” he said, stifling another yawn. “We’ll start on it tonight. But first, we’re going to have another talk about what happens to poachers in England.”

 • • • 

As ordered, Josephine dreamed of Rafe that night. Restless, troubling dreams that had her kicking off the counterpane and awakening to the night chill, her mind and body filled with feverish longings and nameless fears.

America. So very far away. And so dangerous. She had heard about the hazards of the Wild West. Indian attacks, snakes, wildfires, scorpions, hairy spiders, and even poisonous lizards there that grew as long as Jamie was tall.

But Lady Kirkwell was also an Englishwoman, and she seemed completely enamored with America, especially the small town in Colorado where the earl was building his thoroughbred stable. In their brief conversations before they left for Scotland, the countess had spoken often of the beauty and vastness of the mountains, the forward-thinking people who lived practical, useful lives and didn’t frown upon a woman for pursuing her own dreams.

“The freedom of it!” the countess had added with that beaming smile. “I didn’t wear a corset for
months
, and lace gloves only to church. And I learned to shoot a gun, and traveled about in a gypsy wagon with only a dear old man as a chaperone.” Her smile faded. “Of course there were difficult times, as well. I had a terrifying night alone in the woods, battling wolves over the remains of my chaperone, and I had to shoot a man in Denver. But”—she brushed aside those astonishing revelations with a wave of one dainty hand—“of course he deserved it. I was only protecting my husband, after all.” A look of nostalgia came into her lovely brown eyes. “My time in America was most liberating. I do hope you have a chance to visit someday.”

It now seemed she might . . .
if
all of Rafe’s plans bore fruit, and
if
she was willing to uproot her son and walk away from everything they had ever known and loved.

Aware that Rafe would be spending as much time as possible with Pems, she didn’t distract him by going down to the stables except when she came with Henny each day to bring lunch. He looked weary, and she wondered if he had as much trouble sleeping as she did. He seemed distracted, too, and his appetite had lessened.

“I’m worried about Mr. Jessup,” she told Henny one afternoon as they left the stable with the empty luncheon plates. “He seems to be losing weight.”

“It’s because of the race, miss. He fears he’s too heavy.”

“That’s ridiculous.” After handing Rafe’s empty plate to her maid, Josephine marched back down the slope. She had learned more about the race from Hammersmith, and knew that strength was more important in this race than weight.

She found him talking to Mr. Redstone outside Pembroke’s stall. “Might I have a word, Mr. Jessup,” she said, advancing on them.

Mr. Redstone faded out the back of the stable in that astonishing habit he had of disappearing without a sound.

Rafe’s crooked smile lifted the weary planes of his chiseled face. “We’re back to Mr. Jessup, now?”

“You don’t have to lose weight,” she said without preamble. “Talk to Hammersmith.”

“I have.”

“Then he doubtless explained that this race is less about speed, than the ability to withstand punishment. Do you know what a melee is?”

“A medieval brawl.”

“Just so. Think of a melee on horseback with a race thrown in. You’ll be whipped, bumped, kicked by other riders, knocked off in any way possible.” She allowed her utter disgust to show. “It’s brutal, for both the horses and their riders. The only reason there has not been a public outcry against it is because most of the bettors and participants are from the highest level of society and only those invited even know when and where the race is to be held each year.” She frowned, her blue-brown eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because now I know how Pems can win.”

R
afe set a rigorous routine for Pembroke that included endurance exercises, sprints, jumps, and of course, water training. Thomas was a huge help, accompanying them on their daily rides, astride Barney, a calm gelding Pems knew well. Luckily, the stallion had been thoroughly trained the year preceding his entrance in the Grand National hunt race, so he already knew his pacing.

Other than getting him over his fear of water, it was a matter of building up his endurance and wind with increasingly longer runs up and downhill, then using short full gallops to enhance muscle strength. He was already an experienced jumper, so those exercises were as much to reinforce his previous training as to train Rafe, since he had never entered in a steeplechase race.

The rest of the time was spent in water training. Their daily trips to the brook went from standing and grazing, to stepping into the water, and finally, hopping over the brook at Rafe’s command while on a lead. From there, Rafe progressed to hurdles in the pen on a lead, then hurdles in the pasture under saddle, to hopping the brook under saddle.

It was a long and arduous process, characterized by almost as many steps backward as forward. But Rafe persisted, and Pems slowly made progress. In fact, he seemed to enjoy having a task to perform, and grew more confident with each small achievement.

And all the while, a vision of the future grew in Rafe’s mind.

After making his bargain with Cathcart, Rafe had written to Ash, explaining about the race and why he needed an advance on his pay. He ended with the hope that the earl might come for a visit to see how the warmbloods had settled in and advise him on training Pembroke. “And be sure to bring the countess,” he had written in closing. “I know Miss Cathcart would be happy to see her. She so seldom has visitors, and greatly values your wife’s friendship.”

Actually, he was hoping for an ally. He had seen the alarm in Josie’s eyes when he’d mentioned America, and knew she needed reassurance. And who better to dispel her concerns than a gentle, warmhearted woman who had not only survived the Wild West, but seemed to have thrived in it?

After completing the stallion’s training in the pen and pasture, Rafe and Thomas rode out one crisp afternoon for their first cross-country run over fences, hedges, rock walls, and bridges, as well as three jumps across the brook. Because Rafe would be using Josie’s strategy of holding Pems back until the final sprint, he let Thomas go over the jumps first, relying on Pembroke’s herd instinct to keep him moving after Barney. But when they went into a full gallop, he let Pems go. And he was as fast as any horse Rafe had ever ridden.

To avoid souring the stallion, Rafe kept all the routines as varied and short as possible, then spent a lot of time talking to and massaging the horse during the cooldown period. Now that he knew Pems would belong to him in a few weeks, he allowed himself to become more attached to the stallion, and was grateful the horse responded with increasing trust.

Rafe was learning, too. Hammersmith helped him with jumping techniques, and Thomas taught him how to fight and defend himself on horseback. Mostly, it was fun, although he suspected Thomas put a bit more into it than necessary. But Pems took to it with enthusiasm, sending more than one horse limping back to the stable until Rafe learned to curb the stallion’s inbred fighting tendencies. He would have made a grand warhorse.

Every evening, Rafe climbed to the loft, so exhausted and sore he could hardly think. Then for an hour, he sat on his cot and wrote down Thomas’s words as he detailed the struggle of a well-meaning, but stubborn, Indian who fought to keep his family and his tribe safe under an onslaught of white intruders, false promises, and bloody skirmishes.

Thomas was right. It was a story that needed to be told.

And little by little, as the days slipped by, Rafe began to believe . . . in both Pembroke’s Pride, and his dream of the future.

 • • • 

“Where are you two going?” Father asked a week-and-a-half before the race.

Turning from the front door, Josephine said over Jamie’s blond head, “For a ride.”

“Don’t be gone long. We have company coming.”

“Lord and Lady Kirkwell?” she asked hopefully. Rafe had told her that he had written to Scotland and she longed to see the countess again.

“They’ll arrive in a day or two. Adderly is coming this afternoon.” He smiled down at Jamie in a way that put Josephine on guard. “He’s bringing a gift for the boy.”

“A gift? Why would he do that?”

“Can’t a man give his own—”

“No!” she blurted out. “It—it wouldn’t be proper.”

“I don’t mind,” Jamie offered.

Josephine leveled her gaze at her father. “We will discuss it in your study. Jamie, wait for me at the stable.” Then without checking to see if her father followed, she marched down the hall. As soon as she heard the door close behind him, she whirled. “I thought you agreed not to push an alliance with Adderly until after the race.”

He walked calmly past her to his desk. “Agreed with whom?” he asked, sinking into his overlarge chair.

“Mr. Jessup.”

He frowned up at her, his blunt fingers tapping a drumbeat on the wooden armrest. “You openly discuss such things?”

Knowing he was trying to change the subject, she didn’t respond.

“I’m not pushing an alliance, Josephine. Adderly contacted me, saying he wanted to meet his son and he had a gift for him.”

“I haven’t yet told Jamie about the baron.”

“Then it’s time you did. It’s apparent the boy is forming an attachment to that wrangler. Have you thought about what will happen to him when Jessup leaves?”

“
The boy
is named Jamie. And whether Jessup stays or leaves has no bearing on my decisions about Adderly and any gifts he might bring.”

“The boy—Jamie—should know who his father is. A gift is simply the baron’s way of introducing himself and letting his son know he cares about him. That’s all.”

“All of seven years too late, you mean.”

“Think, daughter! If you refuse his gift, or refuse to let him see his son, he might take legal action. And how do you think that will end—a toff against a commoner? He won’t be the loser, I can guarantee you that.”

“I’m Jamie’s mother,” Josephine insisted. “No court would take him away from me.” And if anyone tried, she could always deny that William was his father. Such an admission would hardly damage her already ruined reputation.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But is that something you’re willing to risk?” When she didn’t respond, he slapped his hand down on his desk. “Damnation, girl! You know how dire our financial situation is. If the worst happens and we lose everything, wouldn’t you rather live as a baroness than a scullery maid? And what of Jamie then?”

She wanted to scream. Shake her fist at him for putting her in this horrid position. Instead, she whirled and tried to pace off the fury twisting in her stomach. She felt like she was being pulled apart. Jamie, Rafe, Father, Adderly—they all wanted something from her. But she had wants, too. Was she to live her entire life in shame because of one foolish mistake? Or be forced into a loveless marriage to protect her son?

She could almost feel her hopes for the future slide from her grasp.

“This is no time to think with your heart, girl,” Father warned. “Use your head for once.”

She would rather use the back of her hand across his smug face.

But he was right. This wasn’t only about her. It was Jamie’s future, too. And he deserved to know who his father was, and what he would be leaving behind if they went with Rafe to America.

And if he chose to stay here instead?

Then she would stay, as well, since she could never leave without him.

And once Rafe left, if—
when—
Father lost everything, she would have no choice but to accept Adderly’s offer. She almost doubled over with the pain of it. But beneath all the despair was the conviction that she
must
keep that option open. For Jamie’s sake, she couldn’t afford to burn the bridge back to Adderly.

The idea made her stomach turn. “As you wish,” she finally said. “I’ll talk to Jamie.” Spinning on her heel, she left the room.

It would be best to tell him during their ride, she decided. But they rode for several miles before she gathered enough courage to broach the subject. No mother wanted to tell her child she had been indiscreet, and because of it, he had been born a bastard. What could a child understand of love and lust and foolish dreams? All she could give him was honesty, and hope he would forgive her someday.

“Jamie,” she began, “a man came to visit us a few weeks ago. Do you remember him?”

He plucked a leaf from Blaze’s mane and tossed it aside. “Was it while I was sick and you wouldn’t let me go to the stable?”

She nodded.

“I saw him from the window. He seemed rather round. And not as tall as Mr. Jessup. Is he the one coming today with a gift for me?”

“Yes. He is Baron Adderly. And he—he’s your father.”

Jamie looked over at her, his hazel eyes wide with surprise. “I thought my father was dead.”

“I allowed you to believe that he was. But I know now I was wrong.”

He pulled his horse to a stop. “He’s alive?”

“Very much so,” she said, reining in beside him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Inside her gloves, her hands felt damp. “I only wanted to protect you. I thought it would be easier for you to understand if I waited until you were older to tell you.”

“That’s the same thing as a lie, and you said we were never to lie to each other.” The quaver in his voice told her he was as near to tears as she was.

“I know, dearest. I’m sorry. I was wrong in so many ways.”

Seeing the hurt and confusion in his face made her desperate to put her arms around him and reassure him that he was still her Jamie and she was still his mother, and nothing had changed.

But of course, it had.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, Jamie. But I’m not sorry I have you.”

He looked away, his small chin quivering. “If he’s my father, why doesn’t he live with us?”

“Because he has another family somewhere else.”

He wound his small fingers in Blaze’s mane. “Another son?”

“Yes. His name is Edward. He would be your half brother. I’ve never met him, but I hear he’s quite nice, although rather sickly.”

He digested that, then nodded. “So I’m not a bastard, after all.”

A stab of anger pierced her. “Where did you hear that word?”

“In town.” A flush turned the tips of his ears red. “Mr. Jessup said it means someone who doesn’t have a father. But you say I do have a father, so that means I’m not a bastard. Isn’t that so?” He gave her a hopeful look.

Emotion clogged her throat. “It—it’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. A bastard is a child born to two people who aren’t married to each other.”

“Oh.”

Another long silence.

“Why didn’t he marry you?”

“He said he wanted to, but his parents had already arranged for him to marry someone else.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Well, I would have married you, no matter what you said.” Gathering the reins, he nudged Blaze into a walk.

Tears filled her eyes. The unassailable logic of a child. Catching up to him on her mare, she tried to smile, even though his loyal defense of her almost broke her heart.

“Has he known about me for long?” he asked after they had ridden a ways.

“All of your life.”

“Then why didn’t he ever come to see me? Didn’t he want me?”

Under the hurt, she heard anger in his tone, and oddly, that reassured her. He had a right to be angry at the way William had ignored him. They both did.

“He had other responsibilities,” she hedged. “Then recently, his wife died. Now that he’s free, he wants to marry me and acknowledge you as his son.”

“So I wouldn’t be a bastard anymore?”

“That’s part of it.”

He thought for a moment. “If you married him, would we go live with him and his other son?”

“Probably.”

“What about America?”

Josephine pressed her gloved fingertips to her forehead where a throbbing had begun. The questions were endless. And so hard to answer. “That’s another issue, dearest,” she said, letting her hand fall back to the reins. “And something we’ll decide later. For now, I simply want you to know who the baron is and that he’s coming to meet you.”

They had reached the turn to Penrith. Jamie reined in. She stopped her mare beside Blaze, and looked at her son expectantly. She could almost see him sorting it out in his head. What could a seven-year-old understand of this mess? And how would she fare in the final arrangement? Would he ever forgive her?

“Do we have to go into town today?” he asked, breaking the long silence.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Of course.” Seeing that he was wrestling with questions and doubts and fears about where he fit now, she wanted to reassure him that the most important things in their lives hadn’t changed and never would. “Jamie, I need for you to understand something.” She waited until he looked at her before continuing.

“You’re my son. I love you more than the breath in my body.” Sudden emotion constricted her throat and she had to wait for it to ease before continuing. “Even when you’re a grown man with a family of your own, you will still be my son, and I will still love you with all my heart. Whether I marry the baron, or go to America, or move to the Highlands of Scotland to raise sheep, that will never change. Ever.”

She was gratified to see some of those worry lines relax into a wobbly smile. “If we go to America, will I still be a bastard?”

How often had that word been used to hurt him? It had certainly left a scar. “Perhaps not.”
If
Rafe was truly hinting at marriage, and
if
he decided to adopt Jamie. So many uncertainties. But she couldn’t burden Jamie with those now. “Such things aren’t as important there as they are here.” Or so she hoped.

He looked over at her, that childish innocence tarnished a bit, and a hint of sadness in his hazel eyes. “I don’t like it when you lie to me.”