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KAKI WARNER, 2011 RITA WINNER FOR
BEST FIRST BOOK FOR PIECES OF SKY, IS
“A truly original new voice in historical fiction.”
—Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author
Praise for her novels
“[An] emotionally compelling, subtly nuanced tale of revenge, redemption, and romance . . . This flawlessly written book is worth every tear.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Romance, passion, and thrilling adventure fill the pages of this unforgettable saga that sweeps the reader from England to the Old West.”
—Rosemary Rogers, New York Times bestselling author
“A romance you won’t soon forget.”
—Sara Donati, bestselling author
“Draws readers into the romance and often unvarnished reality of life in nineteenth-century America.”
—Library Journal
“Kaki Warner’s warm, witty, and lovable characters shine.”
—USA Today
“Filled with passion, adventure, heartbreak, and humor.”
—The Romance Dish
“Halfway between Penelope Williamson’s and Jodi Thomas’s gritty, powerful novels and LaVyrle Spencer’s small-town stories lie Warner’s realistic, atmospheric romances.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A must-read . . . [It] captures the imagination and leaves you wanting more.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“This book is just fabulous.”
—Smexy Books
“Bring[s] the Old West to sprawling and vivid life.”
—BookLoons
“This is Western historical romance at its best.”
—The Romance Reader
Berkley Sensation titles by Kaki Warner
Blood Rose Trilogy
PIECES OF SKY
OPEN COUNTRY
CHASING THE SUN
Runaway Brides Novels
HEARTBREAK CREEK
COLORADO DAWN
BRIDE OF THE HIGH COUNTRY
Heroes of Heartbreak Creek
BEHIND HIS BLUE EYES
WHERE THE HORSES RUN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
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A Penguin Random House Company
WHERE THE HORSES RUN
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Warner.
Excerpt by Kaki Warner copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Warner.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59919-8
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2014
Cover art by Judy York.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise for Kaki Warner
Books by Kaki Warner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
Special preview of the next Heroes of Heartbreak Creek novel
I dedicate this book to . . .
Henry, the littlest prince and thief of my heart.
To Miss Charm and Miss Belle, happily fox-trotting through the fields of heaven, tails high and mischief in their eyes.
And especially to all those lucky enough to have their lives enriched by that magnificent, courageous, loyal creature called the horse.
My heartfelt thanks to . . .
Bob and Janet Boyce for patiently answering all my horse questions.
Regan Walker for her insightful comments and helpful suggestions.
And of course, Cyndi Thomson . . . friend, listener, neighbor, and fellow horse lover.
Y’all are the best.
K
Prologue
APRIL 1871, NEAR PENRITH, ENGLAND
“America?” Josephine Cathcart set down her goblet so abruptly water sloshed over the rim of the cut crystal. She looked in surprise at the single other diner, seated on her left at the head of the twenty-five-foot-long table.
Flushed. Red-rimmed eyes. That belligerent thrust to his chin.
Although the footmen had just set their soup course before them, Father was well into his second bottle of wine. She had expected a difficult meal when he had informed her earlier that they would be dining in the formal dining room this evening, and Jamie would not be included. She had prepared herself for another lecture about her selfishness in not accepting their neighbor’s suit. Instead, her father made this startling announcement. “Why would you go to America?”
“To see a man about an auger. Might be useful at the mine.”
Even though she knew little about mining, Josephine was well aware that the mine that had built Father’s fortune was producing less and less coal each month. Could this auger improve that? Or was it just another desperate attempt to slow their steady slide toward financial ruin?
She sipped a spoonful of tepid leek and parsnip soup that was far too salty—Cook’s retaliation, no doubt, for the latest delay in her wages—then returned her spoon to her soup plate.
She wasn’t ignorant of their circumstances. She knew they couldn’t contin
ue this week-to-week existence much longer. People weren’t getting paid, and of late, the merchants in Penrith looked at her with even more disdain than they had in the past. “Is there no more artwork to sell?”
“I’ve sent too much to the auction house as it is. I don’t want to raise doubts among my investors.”
They already had doubts. Especially those who had lost substantial sums in Father’s other ventures. A sense of inevitability weighted her down. “There must be something else we can do.”
“There is.” In the light of the branched silver candelabra, his dark eyes glittered in a way that reminded her of a cornered animal trapped in a burrow.
She shook her head. “I’ll not marry Mr. Huddleston, Father.” A widower twice over with six unruly daughters, Ezra Huddleston was so desperate for a son he was willing to overlook her “deplorable morals and lack of social status,” in deference to her fine figure and proven breeding ability. Such a romantic.
“By damn, girl!” Father’s broad palm hit the table with enough force to make his spoon clatter on his soup plate. “You’ll do what I tell you!”
She clenched her hands in her lap. “I’m nearly twenty-six and well past my girlhood, Father.” When he started to argue, she glanced pointedly at the footmen standing against the wall like frozen statues.
Catching the warning, he waved a hand in dismissal. “Take this swill away and leave us. And, Rogers, bring me another bottle.”
The footmen quickly cleared. As they hurried out, the head footman hurried back in with a new bottle of wine. Within moments only the two of them remained in the cavernous room. Father sipped wine and studied her, tension humming between them.
She wondered how they had drifted so far apart. Was it his fear of being thrust back into poverty that made him so distant and cold? Or perhaps he still simmered over the scandal and taint of Jamie’s illegitimacy. Still, he had allowed them to continue living here, and even if he hadn’t warmed toward his grandson, he never mentioned the shame his birth had caused him. So he must still love her a little.
“Huddleston’s offer is a good one.”
Josephine doubted it. Their neighbor was only a country squire. He hadn’t the resources to help Father out of the financial hole into which he’d so carelessly plunged them. So why was Father insisting on this match?
“He’s thirty years older than I am, Father. Why would he seek to take on the added expense of a wife this late in his life?”
“He wants a son. And having an attractive young wife on his arm is a boost to any man, no matter his age. That he’ll even consider offering for you is an indication of the depth of his interest.”
Josephine shuddered, well aware of the depth of Huddleston’s interest. He had cornered her in the conservatory twice this month. “He won’t take Jamie.”
“I’ll keep the boy here. You can visit him whenever you want.”
The boy was his grandson, yet Father could scarcely say his name. “No.”
“And if we lose everything, Josephine? What will happen to you and the lad then? A life on the streets? Don’t you understand I’m trying to save you?”
She almost smiled. Save me? Perhaps.
If anything, Father was a practical man, having learned the brutal necessities of survival in the deep coal mines of Cumberland. And even though he had long since clawed his way out of the black bowels of the earth to become a person of consequence and wealth, he still applied the same lessons to his life.
Survival. At any cost.
Yet it took a great deal of money to survive in society. And as the coal in his mine had played out, so had his wealth. He had tried to recoup his losses with risky ventures, high-stakes gambling, quietly selling off the valuable artwork he had bought to impress, yet had never understood or appreciated. But still, the money flowed through his hands like water.
So now it was Josephine’s turn on the auction block. She was his last hope, and as such, was less a cherished daughter than a handy tool to be used. At one time she would have done his bidding without question. But with motherhood, her loyalties had shifted. Now, she was less concerned with pleasing her father than in doing what was best for her son. Jamie came first. Always.
Appetite gone, she carefully folded her napkin and placed it beside her tableware. “I will not marry him.”
“Fine. Then I’ll take you with me to America.”
“Why?” Although in her heart, she knew. As had happened so many times in the past, she would be his lure—the pretty face and warm smile—drawing investors to the latest scheme he was brewing. Having run through his prospects here, he was off to drum up new capital in America.
Josephine was weary of it. Sick of watching him fritter away what assets still remained, when liquidation would clear all his debts and still leave enough for a comfortable life.
Sadly, she would never convince him of that. So she was faced with a choice: stay in this monstrosity of a house until the servants left and it sank into disrepair or the debt collectors’ hands—or find a way to build a safer, saner future for herself and her son.
Realizing she was twisting her hands, she straightened her fingers and pressed them flat against her thighs. “And what about Jamie?” If she took him with her to America, she might be able to spirit him away. She could pretend to be a widow; Jamie’s paternity need never come into question. She had already begun replacing her jewelry with paste copies. If she sold off the rest, it might provide enough to make a fresh start.
Could she truly leave all she knew and loved? For Jamie, yes.
“He can stay here with his nanny. He’ll only be a distraction.”
Her head snapped up. “A distraction? From what?” Then understanding came in a rush, and she sat back, unable to hide her surprise. “This trip isn’t only about a piece of mining equipment, is it? You’re taking me to America in hopes of finding me a rich husband, aren’t you?” She had to laugh. Didn’t he understand that no American would marry her simply because she was English? Without a title, she had no value, especially in view of her Great Indiscretion.
The flush on his ruddy cheeks darkened. “The Brownlea girl caught a railroad financier, didn’t she? And she’s got a face that would curdle milk.”
“Her father also has connections to railways here,” she reminded him.
“With your beauty and brains, daughter,” he pressed on, “you could grace any man’s table. God knows I spent a fortune preparing you for such a purpose.”
“And what about my son? Am I to keep quiet about him and pretend he doesn’t exist?” Jamie was the greatest blessing in her life. To deny him would be to tear out her own heart.
“Just don’t flaunt him. That’s all I ask. Set the hook first.”
Feeling faintly ill, Josephine listened to rain ping against the panes of the French doors onto the terrace and wondered how her life had come to this . . . trying to trick rich men into offering marriage, despite the fact that she was past her prime, the mother of an illegitimate son, impoverished, and impossibly tall. It was ludicrous. Disgusting.
And yet . . .
What if she did find a decent man who would accept both her and her son? What if the life she’d thought no longer available to her was truly a possibility?
At any rate, what were her other options? Stay here until they lost everything and ended up on the street? Or marry Huddleston.
Surely, an American couldn’t be as bad as either of those.
One
APRIL 1871, NEAR EL PASO, TEXAS
Sound travels far in dry, open country, and Rayford Jessup was still a quarter of a mile away from the Hendricks place when he heard the screaming.
He nudged his horse into a gallop.
A hundred yards closer and he could tell it was animal, not human.
A horse.
By the time he splashed across the small creek r
unning beside the house and barn, the noise had escalated to whinnies, crashes, and shouted curses. He tensed, more easily able to tolerate shouts of anger than screams of rage or fear from a distressed horse. What were they doing to the poor animal?
His own horse snorted, head up, ears pricked, his steps sidling and hesitant. Feeling the beginnings of a shy, Rafe murmured softly and ran a hand along the chestnut’s neck, reminding the young gelding he wasn’t alone, and he needed to pay attention to his rider, not what was going on in the barn.
He reined in beside an odd sheepherder’s-style wagon parked in front of the house. Giving the restive gelding a moment to settle down, he kept his hands and legs still, his voice calm and unhurried as he looked around.
Like most of the scattered holdings in the dry mesquite and cactus country along the Texas-Mexico border, the Hendricks place was a grit-scoured collection of warped wood corrals, rough outbuildings, and sagging lean-tos bleached by the sun to the color of pitted pewter. That it survived at all was due to the narrow muddy creek that fed the single, wind-damaged cottonwood shading the adobe house. Rafe supposed there was some appeal in the endless expanse of open sky, but he much preferred the rolling grass and cedar-dotted hills farther north, or the bluebonnet fields in central Texas.
Sensing no immediate danger, his horse began to relax, even though he remained alert to the shouts and whinnies that continued to come from the barn. Rafe praised him with more pats, then dismounted as two men and a huge dog came out of the double barn doors.
One man was tall—probably as tall as Rafe, but leaner—with the rolling loose-hipped gait of a lifelong horseman. The other man was older, short, and stocky. James Hendricks, the man who had sent word for Rafe to come.
“Glad you made it, Jessup,” Hendricks called, angling toward him. “Got a real mess going here.”
Rafe didn’t give a response, since none was required. After looping the reins around the hitching rail in front of the house, he studied the dog, then the stranger approaching him.
Both had gray hair. He didn’t know how old the dog was, but the man didn’t look much older than Rafe’s thirty-two. Probably ex-cavalry. In addition to the tight buff-colored trousers tucked into knee-high, polished boots, and the small military-style case attached to his belt, he had a commanding way about him and a directness in his green gaze that hinted at either a background as a military officer, or one in the law. Having been a Deputy U.S. Marshal for several years, Rafe recognized the probing look, and knew when he was being assessed.