Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 Read online

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  Heavy gray clouds and a chill wind followed Rafe through boggy valleys and rocky hills on the three-day ride from Liverpool to the quaint little market town of Kendal. After another dreamless night—thanks to Thomas’s snare—and a huge breakfast, he set out on the fourth morning for the small town of Penrith.

  His nights might be dreamless, but his daytime thoughts kept circling back to Miss Cathcart. Which surprised him. They had little in common. Divided not only by an ocean, but also by station in life, their differences were vast. Yet her despair over losing her horses had moved him in an unexpected way. Still moved him—even to the extent that as he made his solitary way through the misty English countryside, his mind kept trying to devise ways to lessen that despair.

  It was a habit from his marshal days when he’d thought every wrong could be righted and every lost soul could be saved. He had since learned that some things were never meant to be, no matter how strong his feelings were. And a deeper connection to Miss Cathcart was one of them.

  His map indicated he was heading into the southern part of the Lake District, reputed to be one of the most beautiful areas of England—although it was hard to see much of it through the thick mist as he left Kendal the next morning. Following the River Kent, he rode past the ruins of old buildings and fallen castles toward the woodlands, mountains, and lakes of southern Cumberland.

  Certainly not mountains on the scale of the Rockies, or as overpowering as the peaks and canyons around Heartbreak Creek, but impressive nonetheless. And green. Had the day been clearer, he might have had some inspiring views. Yet even mired in fog, it was interesting country—starkly barren on the rocky ridges, then dropping into tall forests and lush valleys riddled with emerald lakes. Good horse country if the sun ever came out.

  Hunched against the soupy drizzle, he followed the waterways past small, neat farms and rolling green pastures bordered by stacked rock fences. Finally, on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Liverpool, he rode out of the Lake District and several miles past the town of Penrith to the pillared stone entrance of the Cathcart estate.

  The house was a huge limestone monument to lavish spending, stretching five stories high, with a wing reaching out on one side, a portico on the other, and at least a half-dozen gables in the slate roof. A forest of chimneys poked into the low clouds, and there was even a peaked tower on one corner.

  No wonder Miss Cathcart was melancholy, having to ramble around in such an oversized place. He guessed she hadn’t been the one to design it.

  But the stables were as fine as any Rafe had ever seen. Gratified that the animals lived as grandly as their owners, he angled toward the long, low building made of the same gray stone as the house and surrounded by grassy pastures and neatly fenced paddocks.

  When he rode up, a barrel-chested man with more hair on his chin than his head came out of the open center aisle. Rafe dismounted and introduced himself, adding that he had come to look over the horses that Cathcart had for sale.

  The man gave his name as Liam Hammersmith, head groom. He had an accent similar to Ash’s, and a handshake that could crack a handful of Texas pecans. “Best run along, then, lad. They’ll be looking for ye up at the house.”

  Rafe had hoped to bunk in the stable, but apparently that wasn’t likely. “Front door or back?”

  The groom frowned down at Rafe’s mud-spattered boots and soggy duster. “Back would be best, I’m thinking.”

  Rafe agreed. He was hardly dressed in visiting attire. And certainly not in any condition to present himself to Miss Cathcart. But since all his clean clothes were in the trunk delivered here several days ago, there was no help for it.

  “Back door it is then.”

  “Be sure to tell them who ye are,” Hammersmith advised as Rafe untied his saddlebags from the skimpy pancake-sized saddle that had come with the gelding MacPherson had procured for him in Liverpool. “Cook is a scrapper and Shipley—he’s the butler—can be summat harsh toward strangers.”

  Rafe nodded. Slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, he left his weary horse in Hammersmith’s care and trudged toward the imposing gray house perched like a giant Texas blue tick atop the hill.

  Hopefully, he hadn’t missed supper.

  • • •

  “Who’s that?” Father asked, shifting his attention from the paperwork strewn across his desk to the tall window facing the side garden.

  Setting her book aside, Josephine rose and went to look out. A man in a long coat was coming up the path from the stables. Even though his face was hidden by the wide brim of the Western-style hat he wore, she recognized the long legs and purposeful stride.

  “It’s Mr. Jessup,” she said, ignoring a sudden flutter in her chest.

  “Kirkwell’s man? You’re sure?”

  “Quite.” She would know the man anywhere, having thought of him far too often over the last days, anticipating his arrival with both excitement and dread.

  Peering around the heavy velvet drape, she watched him walk past the rose beds and side veranda toward the back of the house. Where was he going?

  Behind her, papers rustled. Father’s desk drawer opened and closed. “Remember what I told you.”

  Face composed, she faced him. “Refresh my memory.” She wanted to hear him say it again—needed the words to fuel her simmering resentment at being used so poorly. Hopefully, if she heard often enough how little he regarded her as anything other than a tool to be used to further his own purposes, this nagging sense of loyalty she still felt for her father would eventually fade.

  A hardened heart felt no pain.

  “You know what to do, daughter. Distract him. Play up to him. Tease him a bit. I saw the way he watched you on board ship. Use that interest to win him over to our side, so he will convince the earl to meet our price.”

  “Shall I play the tart for him, Father? I am, after all, so very good at it.”

  His big fist slammed on the desktop, startling her. “Watch your mouth, girl! This is your future at stake, too. And Jamie’s.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” he went on. “And that’s an end to it.”

  A knock on the door saved her from responding.

  With a last glare aimed her way, her father smoothed back his thinning gray hair and shook off his anger like a dog shedding water. “Enter, Shipley.”

  The butler stepped into the room, his dour face more disapproving than usual. “There is a person at the rear entrance, sir. I tried to turn him away but he refuses to leave without a trunk he said you brought from Liverpool. He was quite adamant about it. And foreign. An American, I believe.”

  “Jessup.” With a nod of satisfaction, Father rose.

  “I’ll take care of it, Father.” Moving toward the door, Josephine smiled sweetly at the scowling butler. “Have one of the upstairs maids freshen the blue bedroom, would you please, Shipley? And send a footman up to prepare a bath. Oh, and be sure to inform Cook that we’ll have another guest for dinner.”

  Shipley gave a ponderous sigh, making evident yet again his disappointment in his lowborn employers. “Yes, Miss Cathcart.”

  Mr. Jessup was munching on a muffin when Josephine walked into the kitchen. When he saw her, he passed the muffin plate back to Cook with a smile of thanks—which made the kitchen maids titter—dusted his hands, then removed his hat. “Miss Cathcart,” he said, gazing down at her with that same unwavering intensity he had shown during their chat on the ship.

  “Welcome, Mr. Jessup.” She held out her hand.

  His grip swallowed hers. Again without the protection of gloves, she felt anew the warmth of his skin, the roughness of calluses across his palm, the crushing strength in the fingers that held hers so gently. A workingman’s hands. Well used and capable. Vastly different from those of the pampered gentlemen she knew. It made h
er feel almost demure, which was absurd considering her height.

  “I apologize for the confusion.” Pulling free of his grip, she motioned toward the butler hovering in the doorway. “I neglected to inform Shipley that you might arrive early. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room.”

  He followed without speaking. Yet she could sense his presence behind her. The sound of his boot heels against the tiled floor, the rustle of fabric as his coat brushed against his trousers, the faint smell of horses and damp wool.

  She wondered if he was looking at her, assessing her figure from behind as they climbed the stairs. The thought unsettled her, drove her to fill the silence.

  “Your ride from Liverpool went well, Mr. Jessup?”

  “Yes.”

  “The rain didn’t bother you?”

  “Not much.”

  “What are your impressions of the Lake District?”

  “It’s green.”

  The absurdity of trying to carry on a conversation with a man who wouldn’t talk finally got the better of her. Stopping on the second landing, she turned so abruptly he almost ran into her. “Is it me?”

  “What?”

  “Or are you this aloof with everyone?”

  Confusion gave way to a frown. “I’m not aloof.”

  She bit back a laugh. “No?”

  “I’m just not much of a talker.”

  “Yet you spoke eloquently enough on board ship.”

  “That was different.” A reluctant tilt at one corner of his wide mouth. Not a full smile that showed teeth, or bunched his cheeks, or crinkled the corners of his dark blue eyes—he’d never given her one of those. But it was affecting, nonetheless, and made her feel she had won something to get even that. “We were talking about horses then.”

  This time she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. They had that in common, at least. “Well, do try to be more talkative at dinner tonight,” she said, continuing up the stairs. “Vicar Bohm and his wife, Agnes, will be joining us, and if you don’t speak up, she will either regale us with the latest London gossip, or he will expound endlessly on the local forester’s attempts to curb the overpopulation of carp in the area’s fishing ponds. Personally, I would rather talk about horses. Here’s your room.”

  She nodded to the maid fluffing the pillows on the large, canopied bed, and stepped aside so he could enter. “Shipley is sending up a footman to help you with your bath.”

  At his look of alarm, she added, “Or not, if you’d prefer. We dine promptly at eight. Drinks in the drawing room before, if you’re interested. The items in your trunk have been pressed and are hanging in there.” She pointed to the wardrobe. “If there’s anything you require, have Mary, here, or the footman—”

  “When can I see the horses?”

  Despite his reticence, she could easily warm to this man. “Dawn comes shortly after seven.” Which was about the time she usually showed up at the stable. But she’d never had a guest willing to join her there at such an early hour.

  “Not tonight?”

  She glanced at the window. The day was fading and dinner was less than an hour away. “It’s late, Mr. Jessup. I’m not sure what you could see in the dark, but you are certainly welcome in the stables at any time.”

  He nodded.

  She turned to the door, then stopped, unsure how to speak without offending him. “I don’t know if you are aware, but we dress for dinner.”

  “I’d hope so. Especially in this climate.”

  She blinked, taken aback. Was he jesting? His chiseled face gave no clue. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “What I meant to say, Mr. Jessup, is that we dress more formally for dinner.”

  “More formally than what?”

  “Than . . . well . . . what you’re wearing.”

  “Ah.”

  The maid stifled a giggle.

  His expression didn’t change, but the amusement in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she had meant and was teasing her. She didn’t know what to say to that, but was charmed nonetheless.

  The footman’s sudden appearance gave her an exit . . . and a way to tease him back. “There you are, Fredericks. Just in time to help our guest undress for his bath. As you can see, he’s quite muddy. Scrub him well. Come along, Mary.” With a parting smile at the apprehensive American, she ushered the maid into the hall, calling gaily back as she shut the door, “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Jessup.”

  She thought she heard raised voices behind her, but wasn’t certain if they came from downstairs, or Mr. Jessup’s room.

  The green or the lilac? she wondered, moving with a light step toward her bedroom in the west wing. If one must play the tart, it was important to look one’s best.

  Five

  Rafe knew he shouldn’t be staring at her so much, but he had never seen a woman look as beautiful as Miss Cathcart did that evening. She seemed in high spirits, smiling often, her sleek brown hair catching the light of the dozens of candles spaced along the table. A different woman from the one he had met two weeks ago, when she had sat so rigidly beside him at the captain’s table.

  What had changed? What had put that spark in her remarkable blue-brown eyes?

  “What do you think?”

  Startled, he glanced at Agnes Bohm, the vicar’s wife, seated on his right. She blinked eagerly back at him like a tiny gray hen poised to pounce on a dung beetle. She seemed to be awaiting an answer from him, but he could barely remember the conversation. Something about mourning and widow’s weeds.

  “They’re dark?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Jessup! And far too somber, I think. It’s simply not good for the country. After all, it’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it?”

  Rafe nodded, still not sure what she was talking about.

  “See, Mr. Bohm?” The elderly lady leveled her bright blinking eyes at her husband, who sat across the table beside Miss Cathcart. “Even an American agrees. Certainly her devotion to Albert’s memory is commendable, but it’s time for dear Victoria to put aside her mourning. No one looks good in black. Especially at her age.”

  Apparently she had forgotten that she wore the next best thing—gray.

  “Yes, dear,” her husband said. “You’re right. As always.”

  “But then,” she went on with a dreamy look on her kindly face, “it’s so gratifying to see a love that reaches beyond the grave, don’t you think, Mr. Jessup?”

  Actually he thought it sounded ghoulish. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

  “You’re not married?”

  Distrusting that avid gleam in her faded eyes, Rafe shook his head.

  “Well.” Reaching over, she patted his arm with a gnarled, blue-veined hand. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

  “Oh, dear,” her husband murmured.

  Undeterred, the old lady went on, “We should introduce him to the Campbell twins. Lovely girls. And I doubt either of them would mind marrying an American.” Leaning toward Rafe, she added, “They’re quite tall, you see. And sturdy. Easily able to leave their mark in your Wild West, so to speak.”

  Their host, seated at the head of the table and as far away from the other four as he could get, belched quietly and signaled the footman for more wine.

  Miss Cathcart hid behind her napkin, her shoulders shaking.

  Laughing? At him? Rafe sent her a “what’d I do?” look.

  Her shoulders shook harder.

  Beautiful shoulders, with rounded curves and delicate collarbones that drew his eye to the hollow at the base of her graceful neck, and from there, down to the gentle swells rising above her low neckline—swells that were quivering with her efforts not to laugh. Jiggling, actually. Pressing so hard against the thin fabric of her purple dress he could almost see—

  “Where exactly did you say you were from?” the vicar asked, jarring Rafe back to at
tention.

  The face. Focus on her face. “Texas, mostly.”

  “He was a lawman there,” Mr. Cathcart put in, his bleary gaze sliding from his daughter to Rafe. “A Texas Ranger.”

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal,” Rafe corrected. “The Rangers were disbanded last year, although I suspect they’ll be reinstated soon.” The rampant corruption of their replacement, the newly formed State Patrol, was one of the several reasons he’d left Texas.

  “What’s the difference between Rangers and Marshals?” Mrs. Bohm asked.

  “Jurisdiction.” Rafe studied his empty plate, wondering if it would be rude to ask for seconds. “One is state, the other is federal.”

  “This is Mr. Jessup’s first trip to our country,” Miss Cathcart said, having finally gained control of her amusement.

  “Is it?” Mrs. Bohm beamed. “And how do you find it, Mr. Jessup?”

  “Wet.”

  Thankfully, the footmen stepped into the breach his comment caused, and began removing plates and serving dessert—another of those pudding things the English seemed to favor. Conversation wound through other topics and Rafe let his mind drift again, until he looked up from his admiration of Miss Cathcart’s bosom to find her glaring at him.

  He pretended innocence, but didn’t think she bought it.

  The remainder of the meal progressed with little conversation. Other than a nod or two when cornered, Rafe avoided further participation until their host stood and herded his guests into the drawing room for brandy or tea.

  Rafe wanted neither. But it would be rude to refuse, and since he had already made enough mistakes for one night, he dutifully folded his long frame into a delicate, overly ornate settee he was half afraid would collapse beneath him. Sadly, it didn’t, and for the next hour, he sat sipping tepid tea from a tiny china cup and feigning interest in gossip about people he didn’t know and places he had never been.

  It was apparent to him these people didn’t have enough to do.

  To pass the time, he mused on possible ways to avoid future dinner gatherings and take his meals with the grooms, then realized if he did so, he would miss the treat of seeing the beautiful Miss Cathcart and her alluring attributes across the table each evening.