Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (2 page)

APRIL 1871, NEAR EL PASO, TEXAS

S
ound 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 running 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.

The dog—a wolfhound, judging by the size and rough coat—bounded forward to do its own assessing, sniffing Rafe from every angle. When he offered no menace, Rafe reached out and rested a hand on the big, rough-coated head. The dog accepted it, gave a quick lick, then flopped in the dirt by Rafe’s boot.

“That’s Tricks,” Hendricks said, walking up. “This is his owner, Angus Wallace, although he says most call him Ash because of his hair. Ash, this here’s Rayford Jessup, the man I told you about.”

“The wizard with horses.” Wallace spoke with a strong Scottish accent, offering a firm handshake and a broad smile. “You’ll be needing magic, so you will, to deal with the lad tearing up the barn.”

“Ash is looking to start a horse-breeding ranch up in Colorado,” Hendricks explained. “Heard at the fort I had mustangs, so he and the wife came by to see what was available.”

Rafe didn’t have much admiration for Hendricks’s horses. Mostly scrubs. All the decent mustangs had been rounded up years ago, except for a few small herds that roamed back and forth across the border between Texas and Mexico. If the Scotsman was thinking to build a stable with these pickings, he wasn’t as knowledgeable about horses as Rafe had surmised.

Hendricks flinched when he heard a guttural whinny followed by a series of loud thuds and men yelling. “Well, come along,” he said, waving them toward the barn. “Best see if there’s anything you can do.”

As they walked, Hendricks explained that two sage rats had brought in the mustang several days ago. “Nice-looking stud horse. Or was. Animal’s tore up good and mad at the world. We barely got him locked in the stall before all hell broke loose. For two days, he kicked and screamed and snapped at anyone who dared open the stall door to throw him food. Wouldn’t eat or drink. Still won’t eat. Quieted down some yesterday, so I figured we’d try again.” He gave a snort of disgust. “You can hear how well that’s going.”

When they moved out of the glare of the midday sun and into the barn, the air cooled and grew thick with the odors of hay and sweet feed and manure. Comforting, familiar smells that reminded Rafe of his early years on the farm in Missouri. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw two men standing well back from a stall at the other end of the open center aisle. The stall had a divided door, but as they approached, Rafe could see splintered wood in the bottom half, and blood smears on the upper half where the door hung askew on a broken hinge.

Another shriek, more thuds rattling the timbers and sending puffs of hay dust sifting down through the gaps in the planked loft floor overhead.

“Don’t get too close,” Hendricks warned. “He’s already taken a bite out of one of my men.
Vamoose,
” he said to the two Mexican watchers. “See if any more new foals dropped today.”

As the ranch workers left, Rafe stepped up to the broken door. Staying out of kicking or biting range, he peered into the darkened stall.

Crazed eyes stared back.

The animal was a mess. Blood on his mouth where he had gotten splinters from biting chunks out of the door. Scraped knees, hind legs skinned, pasterns red with blood. It was a wonder the horse hadn’t shattered a hoof kicking the walls. Having seen enough, Rafe stepped back, almost bumping into Wallace, who had moved up beside him.

“Puir beast,” the Scot muttered, pulling the curious hound away from the bloody stall door. “I dinna think he’ll last much longer.”

Rafe didn’t, either. “What are your plans for him?” he asked, turning to Hendricks.

“Figure to breed him to my mares. Or sell him, if I can get a good price. But I can’t do either unless he’s at least broke to halter. That’s why I sent for you.” He met Rafe’s frown with a shrug. “Heard you could break a green colt without raising a hand. Thought maybe you could settle this one.”

Rafe doubted it. The mustang was too mature, too accustomed to running wild to ever be biddable. As for breeding, neither his conformation nor his attitude would make him a decent stud. Some horses were best left alone. This was one of them. Reaching into his vest pocket, he fingered the few half-eagles he’d brought with him. “How much do you want for him?”

Hendricks named a price that was more than double what the mustang was worth. Even if the animal survived being broken, Rafe doubted he would attract many buyers.

“I’ll pay you half that,” Wallace cut in.

Rafe looked at him in surprise, wondering if the man knew he was offering top dollar for a poor animal. He had thought the Scotsman had horse savvy, but apparently he didn’t. Frowning, he stepped back as the two men negotiated.

A wasted trip. He had hoped to pick up enough money to head north, maybe sign on with one of the big ranches along the Chisholm Trail, or find work at the stockyards in Abilene, Kansas. Then once he had enough set by, he’d look for a patch of land in Wyoming Territory where he could plant his stake and start over. Now that he was recovered and strong enough to do hard labor again, he was anxious to put Texas and all the bad memories behind him.

“You’ll stay for supper?” Hendricks asked Rafe as he walked past toward the front doors, several eagles and half-eagles clinking in his palm.

Rafe shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”

“Tell my wife we’ll be leaving, too,” the Scotsman called after him. “I’ll be in directly to help her pack her equipment.”

Seeing Rafe’s curious look, he grinned proudly. “That’s her wee wagon by the house. I drive her around in it so she can take her pictures. A.M. Wallace. She’s a famous photographer. You’ve heard of her, no doubt.”

Rafe hadn’t, but rather than admit it, he asked Wallace what he intended to do with the mustang. “He won’t go easy.”

“Aye. He’s a wild one, so he is.” As he spoke, the Scotsman led the wolfhound inside an empty stall, locked the door, then returned to the stallion’s. Watching the horse warily, he reached for the slide bar on the battered stall door. “Mind your feet, Jessup,” he warned in a calm voice. “He’ll come out fast.”

“You’re turning him loose?”

“He’s too proud to bend, and I’ll no’ break a horse I dinna need. He’ll find his way home. Stand clear.”

Rafe stepped out of the horse’s pathway to escape.

Wallace slid the bolt, eased open the top and bottom doors, then stood against the wall and waited.

At first, nothing. Then a snort.

Then the mustang burst out of the stall at a dead run, kicking up straw and dirt clods as he raced toward the light at the open end of the barn. A moment later, he was tearing through the brush, tail up, head raised in a triumphant whinny.

Free. Unencumbered. As he was meant to be.

It was a moving sight. One that made Rafe want to race along with him, just to feel the wind in his face and see what was over the next rise. He watched in silent envy until the horse topped the ridge, then turned to Wallace, who stood beside him with his newly freed dog. “You did a good thing, turning him loose.”

Those green eyes studied him. “You would have done differently?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” With a chuckle, the Scotsman threw his arm across Rafe’s shoulders and steered him toward the house. “So, lad. Where now? Back to the family?”

“No family. North, probably.”

“As free as the wind, are you?”

Wallace made it sound exciting and purposeful, rather than the aimless flight of a man trying to outrun a past too painful to face. “Mostly looking for work.”

“If ’tis work you seek, I can offer it. As Hendricks said, I’m putting together a herd.”

“Of mustangs?”

“Thoroughbreds.”

Rafe stopped so abruptly the Scotsman’s arm slid off his shoulder. “In Colorado?” Thoroughbreds were magnificent animals. He’d seen less than a handful of them this side of the Mississippi.

“Aye. In a wee mountain town called Heartbreak Creek. But first, I need a wrangler to go with me to get them.”

“Go where?”

“To God’s own heaven.” A rumble of laughter and a flash of pure delight in those moss-colored eyes. “To Northbridge, in the Highlands of Scotland.”

“Scotland? The country?”

“Is there any other? We’ll start in England. I’ve already contacted several stables there. But first, we’ll go to Heartbreak Creek so you can see the stable I’m building. Then we head east, leaving out of New York in four months. If you care to learn more, you can ride along with me and the countess as we head home.”

He must have seen Rafe’s surprise. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I carry a Scottish title. Earl of Kirkwell. The lass is my countess. We avoid the titles when in America, but since we’ll be going to Britain . . .” He shrugged, a crafty grin showing a wealth of white teeth. “I ken it’s a bother. But it gets me free drinks, so I dinna complain. And I can play my pipes at ceremonial events.”

“What am I supposed to call you?” Rafe wouldn’t “my lord” any man.

“In America, Ash. My wife will tell you to call her Maddie—she hates pretense. In public, just Kirkwell for me, and Lady Kirkwell for her.” That assessing look again. “So, are ye coming with me, lad? I’ll pay ye well.”

Steady work, steady pay, and thoroughbreds. How could he not? “Seems you’ve got yourself a wrangler.”

 • • • 

SEPTEMBER
1871, MANHATTAN

What the Scot didn’t tell Rafe was that in addition to his wife—a nice lady that Rafe liked right off—accompanying them to England would be the wolfhound, a foul-tempered manservant named Pringle, who had as much contempt for his employer as his employer had for him, and a Cheyenne Dog Soldier named Thomas Redstone. Rafe had met them all during his time in Heartbreak Creek when he had worked with several of the local men to track down a murderer terrorizing the town.

The Indian had been a late addition to their traveling group. Initially, he was only to take the train as far as Indiana, where he planned to stop off to see a woman named Prudence Lincoln. But something happened between the two of them, and without explanation, he had reboarded the train just as they were leaving and continued on with them to New York.

Generally, Rafe didn’t have a problem with Indians, especially ones who didn’t drink or steal. But he did have a problem nursemaiding one. Upon arrival in New York, the Scot had asked Rafe to keep an eye on the Cheyenne until their steamer sailed . . . a more difficult task than Rafe had anticipated, since the redskin had a tiresome habit of wandering off whenever the mood struck him.

One-quarter white and three-quarters savage, Redstone had a dry sense of humor and a smile that women seemed to admire. And he had presence. Perhaps it was the utter confidence in the way he spoke and moved and looked at the world. Heads would always turn when he came into a room because, without saying a word, he dominated it. Like Ash and the other men Rafe had met in Heartbreak Creek, the Cheyenne was a strong, resourceful, intelligent man. But with Thomas, there was something more. An unknown element. One never quite knew what he would do if pushed too far.

Definitely a law unto himself. And even after Thomas ordered a barber in New York to cut off his topknot so he would look more white, anyone who looked into those dark eyes knew Thomas Redstone was a man to reckon with. Rafe was curious to see how folks in England and Scotland would deal with the Dog Soldier. Or how Thomas would deal with them.