Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (7 page)

He had only said what he thought. Any man who walked away from his own child and a woman like Josephine Cathcart was either blind, a fool, or too stupid to appreciate his good fortune. So what was she mad about?

“Hold on,” he said, coming up behind her in two strides.

She flung open the door to one of the empty stalls. “He’s in his paddock.” She pointed to an open door on the outside wall. “Through there.”

Rafe didn’t move. He knew now this wasn’t about the horse, but about his reaction to what she’d said. Had she expected him to be shocked? “I knew Jamie was your son. He has your smile. And I meant what I said. Any man who would walk away from a woman like you is a fool.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know you’re beautiful. And that you love your son and horses. And that you don’t like steeplechasing, or eating fish with the heads on, and that you’re beautiful.”

She fought a smile. “You already said that.”

“Bears repeating.”

The smile won. “You’re a confusing man, Mr. Jessup.”

“So I’ve been told. Did I pass?”

“Pass?”

“The test.”

He watched color rise up her long, graceful neck, and wondered if she would try to deny the obvious. Instead, she gave a grudging smile. “You’re still here, so I suppose you did. Pems is through there.” This time, she said it without rancor.

Figuring he’d gained back some of the ground he’d lost, Rafe let it go at that. Moving ahead of her, he went through the stall and ducked out the back door. Miss Cathcart followed as far as the open doorway.

The stallion stood by the fence on the far side of the small enclosure. Sleek and dark, with a proud headset, and a strong, deep chest. Good withers and croup. Straight legs. Nice slope in the pasterns and three white stockings.

A beautiful animal.

Since he was the intruder, Rafe remained by the doorway and let the horse come to him. After a moment, the stallion walked over, his big, dark eyes bright with curiosity.

He moved well. No outward signs of injury. Some weakness on the right side, and not as flexible as he might be, but that could be due to a lack of proper exercise. No menace. Confirmation square and solid, with good muscle and bone.

Attitude, style, and form. Perfectly balanced. No wonder Ash wanted him.

“How was he injured?” Rafe asked when the horse stopped in front of him, nostrils flaring as he took in his scent.

“A fall.”

Rafe ran a hand over the stallion’s right shoulder, then bent to stroke down to the white stocking of the lower leg. Nothing. He did the same with the left front leg without the stocking and found a lump below the knee that indicated an old splint injury. No heat or swelling, and the horse showed no tenderness or concern at Rafe’s touch. But bending closer, Rafe saw the telltale line of white dots along the dark fur of the cannon bone. “Seems okay now,” he said, masking his disgust.

“He is, physically. But he won’t cross water.”

Rafe looked back at her. “At all?”

“Not even a puddle.”

“What does he do?”

“He shakes, sweats, backs away. If he’s not on a lead, or you can’t hold him, he turns and bolts.”

Rafe rose, wondering what would send such a reasonable-appearing animal into blind terror. “I’m assuming he fell in water.”

“Worse. He was trapped under it.” She made a weary gesture and sighed. “Jamie’s waiting. If you’re through here, we’d best go on up. I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast.”

“H
ave you ever heard of the Grand National?” Josephine asked after the footman had cleared away their empty breakfast plates and Jamie had gone upstairs for his lessons. No use putting horrible images in a child’s head.

“Grand national what?”

“Steeplechase. It’s a hunt race run every April on the Aintree Racecourse in Liverpool. Over four miles—three-and-a-half furlongs. Two circuits, thirty fences. Many of the jumps are over five feet high and several have water hazards and ditches. It’s a brutal course.”

“Pembroke’s Pride ran it?”

“Only once.”

Smiling sadly, she traced a fingertip through a drop of spilled tea beside her cup. “Father started grooming him for the race when Pems turned four. He was fearless then. Stronger than any horse we’d ever had. Father was convinced if he could stay the course, Pems could win. In fact, he bet our futures on it.” She gave a bitter laugh. “In a way, Pembroke’s fall brought us all down. There’s some justice in that, don’t you think?”

When Jessup didn’t respond, she glanced over to find his gaze fixed on her with the same intense regard she had noticed on the ship. He had turned his chair sideways so he could stretch out his long legs, and now sat slouched, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, the other resting on the tabletop. He didn’t fidget, or drum his fingers, or jiggle his crossed foot, but seemed totally focused on each word, every nuance of expression, any movement within range of his sight. Relaxed, but intent. Always. It must be exhausting.

“Pems started out well,” she continued. “He went into the first jump at a good pace, and had no problems with the second. The third has a wide ditch in front of it that throws some horses off stride so that when they approach the fourth fence, they’re confused or out of balance. Each year several fall there or unseat their riders. But Pems handled both jumps beautifully. Others didn’t, and began to bunch up after they cleared the fifth fence and started toward the sixth. Becher’s Brook.”

A familiar tightness coiled in her chest. Realizing she had twisted her napkin into a wrinkled wad, she smoothed it flat on the table. Images flashed through her mind and suddenly it grew more and more difficult to take a full breath.

A big, rough hand closed over hers.

Startled, she looked up to see Mr. Jessup studying her with a look of concern in his deep-set blue eyes. “Walk with me,” he said.

Walk where?

But as soon as the question formed, she realized it didn’t matter. A walk would be good. There was too much emotion running through her and a stroll might help settle her nerves.

Without waiting for her response, he rose and came around to pull back her chair. By mutual unspoken agreement, they started down the path toward the stables. But when they reached the bottom of the slope, instead of continuing on to the paddocks, he turned toward the long grassy field that stretched all the way to the front gates. She followed, the hem of her woolen skirt collecting dew as they left the path and walked through the meadow, scattering the small herd of sheep pastured there to keep the grass from growing too tall.

The last of the summer wildflowers bobbed as they passed by, heads tucked, petals already curled. Soon they would wither, and the beech leaves would turn, and dewdrops would give way to crackling frost. But today the breeze was just enough to keep the insects at bay, and the sun felt like a warm hand on her back.

They walked in companionable silence, Mr. Jessup kindly adjusting his longer stride to match hers. There was at least a foot of distance between them, yet she was acutely aware of his sturdy presence beside her. He moved with a horseman’s grace, his eyes scanning the path ahead, his hands clasped at his back. He had left his duster on the veranda, and without it, he seemed less bulky, his form more refined. But the strength was there in the heavy shoulders and width of chest, as well as the unyielding line of his stubbled jaw. Clearly a man more suited to a life of hard work in the outdoors than one spent hunched over a gaming table in a smoky gentlemen’s club.

He didn’t rush her, which she appreciated. And when she felt she could continue, she took a deep breath, and picked up the story where she had left off.

“The jump they call Becher’s Brook is the most difficult obstacle on the course. It’s only five feet high, but the landing side is quite a bit lower than the takeoff side—nearly a foot, in places—and a brook runs along the base of it. It isn’t overly broad or deep, but it’s hidden in the approach. Often, when horses clear the hedge and see the water moving below them, they panic, especially since the drop is farther than they expect. Many have fallen there, injuring themselves as well as their riders. Several have died.”

They had reached the trees by then, and the burbling rush of the brook sent a chill through Josephine. She remembered that sound. Remembered the screams of the thrashing horses, the wild terror in their eyes.

Suddenly feeling a bit light-headed, she motioned toward a fallen log beside the water. “I think I’d like to sit for a moment.”

She wasn’t sure why she was dredging all this up. Perhaps she was hoping that if Mr. Jessup knew the entirety of what had happened, he might not take Pems away from her. Or maybe she hoped he could help. She’d seen the rapport he had with the mares. They trusted him. Perhaps Pems would, too.

He sat beside her, leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs, his big hands clasped between his bent knees. He was near enough that their hips almost—but not quite—touched, and even seated, he seemed to loom over her. Yet despite his size, and being in this secluded place with a man she scarcely knew, she wasn’t afraid.

Plucking a dried stalk from the grass at her feet, she began pinching off tiny bits of the long blade. “I’m not exactly sure what happened. From where we watched at the rail, everything seemed fine. Pems approached well. But as he gathered for the jump, the horse next to him shied and threw his rider into his shoulder. Pems faltered, yet collected himself and made it over the jump. But he landed poorly, half in the brook. As he struggled to climb out, the riderless horse came in on top of him. Both horses fell back into the water. Our race rider managed to leap clear even as more horses came over and piled on top of those already down. Suddenly there were several horses flailing in the water. With Pems on the bottom.”

She didn’t realize she had shredded the stalk until Mr. Jessup reached over and gently pulled it from her shaking hands. Then he took her hand in his and rested it on his knee.

He didn’t speak. Asked no more of her than to sit quietly beside him in the dappled shade beside the babbling brook, while birds flitted through the branches overhead and the past unwound around them.

His shoulder brushed against hers. She smelled horses, sun-warmed cloth, the coffee he had taken with breakfast. “I don’t need coddling,” she said, desperate to maintain some distance.

“I know.”

The vibration of his voice moved through his shoulder and into hers. She wanted to lean into it. Rest her head against his solid strength. Just for a while.

“Finish.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know how long he was under the water. Most of the horses scrambled up right away and ran off in wild disarray. But one had been kicked in the head and was slow to rise. Pems was under him.

“By the time we got him out, he was shaking, his sides heaving. I remember gulping at air along with him as if that might help him breathe easier. He could scarcely stand, yet he fought anyone who came near. Even me. I’ve never seen an animal’s eyes show so much white.” She shuddered at the memory. “It took five men on ropes to get him off the course. It was two months before he calmed down enough to accept a rider. Even then, he shied at the slightest noise. I fear he’ll never be the same again.”

“He will.”

She looked up at him, a bit irritated by his calm assurance in the face of such a horrid tragedy. “How do you know that?” she challenged.

“I’ll take away the fear.”

Anger rolled through her. “You think we haven’t tried to do that? We’ve done everything we could to get him to cross water, stand in water, let water run over his back. He becomes hysterical every time.”

“So you stopped trying?”

“What else could we do? Nothing worked and everything we did seemed to make it worse.”

“That must have upset you.”

“Of course it did! I raised him. Tended him. Loved him.” Horrified to realize she was starting to cry, she yanked her hand from his and swiped it across her eyes. “It broke my heart to see him fail time and time again.”

He didn’t respond.

Which only made her angrier. “What? You think that’s why? That I was too close to him and let my emotions get in the way?”

He shrugged.

She wanted to strike him. Did he think it was easy watching an animal suffer that way?
Officious ass.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she watched water bugs dip and soar above the brook as memories played over again in her mind.

She knew that horses were herd animals. As part of their survival instinct, they were highly attuned to the emotions around them. Like fear. If one ran, they all ran, even if they didn’t know what the danger was.

Slowly the anger faded. Could he be right?

She glanced over at the man beside her. He was staring off into the meadow, idly chewing on a long blade of grass. Had she done more harm than good in helping Pems? Had her worry only made the horse’s fear worse?

“What would you have done differently?” she asked him.

He thought for a moment, then pulled the grass from his mouth and dropped it between his feet. “I wouldn’t have stopped. I wouldn’t have cared when he failed. I’d have kept at it until he accepted that my will was stronger than his. Then I would have rebuilt his trust.”

“How?”

“With a lot of patience.”

He seemed so sure. So resolved. “Could you do that for Pembroke?”

“He seems reasonable. Smart. Willing. If I can reach him, I can teach him.”

“You mean that?” She wanted so desperately to believe. To hope.

He turned his head and looked directly at her. The impact of those eyes was almost a physical thing. “I always mean what I say, Miss Cathcart.”

When she continued to stare at him, not sure what to make of his bold assertion, he reached over and tucked a loose curl back under her scarf. “And I meant what I said about you, too.” Letting his hand fall back onto his knee, he gave that small, crooked half smile. “You really are beautiful.”

 • • • 

“The post rider brought a note from Kirkwell today,” Mr. Cathcart announced at dinner several days later.

Luckily there were no other guests in attendance, so Rafe was able to enjoy the meal without distractions other than the low neckline of Miss Cathcart’s pink dress. The color suited her well, and seeing her pretty face across the table went a long way toward easing his aggravation at having to put on his fancy clothes just to eat a meal.

“Will they be arriving soon?” she asked her father. “I need to alert the staff.”

“Near the end of the week.”

Rafe frowned. He wasn’t ready. Pembroke needed more work. If he left for Scotland now, who would continue his training? He looked up, met Miss Cathcart’s gaze across the table, and realized he wasn’t ready to leave her, either.

She looked away, a flush rising up her graceful neck. “How long will they be staying with us?”

“Only a few days. Then they’ll continue on to the Kirkwell lands in Scotland. Quit fidgeting, boy. And sit up. You look like a sack of turnips lumped over that way.”

This last was directed at Jamie, who quickly straightened, a red stain spreading across his cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

If there were no guests of consequence present—which apparently, Rafe wasn’t—the boy was permitted to dine with the adults. Judging by Jamie’s nervousness, eating in the formal dining room under his grandfather’s critical eye wasn’t as enjoyable as dining on the veranda with his mother. Rafe concurred. It was equally apparent that the boy feared his grandfather, which troubled Rafe.

“My daughter tells me you’ve been working with Pembroke’s Pride,” Cathcart said, turning his attention to Rafe. “How do you find him?”

“Unsettled.”

“Oh?”

“But he’s improving, Father,” Miss Cathcart cut in with a look of exasperation at Rafe—for what, he had no idea. “Tomorrow, Mr. Jessup plans to put him under saddle.”

“He’s been ridden before.”

“Not by me.” Rafe forked a piece of potato into his mouth, and watched his host while he chewed. He didn’t know why he disliked the man. They had hardly spoken. But he didn’t much approve of the way he treated his daughter and grandson. Not that Cathcart did anything overt—or that it was any of Rafe’s business how he treated his family. But Rafe was always suspicious of a man when his own kin feared him. Another holdover from his days as a marshal.

“What he means to say, Father, is that Pems is beginning to trust him.”

“Let the man speak for himself,” Cathcart snapped, motioning for more wine. After the footman poured, he downed half the contents, set down the glass with an unsteady hand, and fixed his gaze on Rafe. “A valuable animal, Pembroke’s Pride. Best bloodlines in England. Goes back over forty years.”

Rafe continued eating.

“Kirkwell would be lucky to have him. If I decide to sell.”

“And if he’s usable.”

“Usable?” The older man gave a loud bark of laughter. “Hell, the randy bugger is a bloody humping machine.”

“Are you finished with your dinner, Jamie?” his mother broke in, her mouth tight with disapproval. Or maybe embarrassment. Rafe couldn’t tell which.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then you’re excused.”

“What about dessert?”

“You may take it in the nursery. Say good night, please.”

The boy dutifully bade Rafe and his grandfather good night. “You’ll come up to read a story with me, won’t you, Mother? Before Nanny Holbrick puts out the lamp?”

“Of course, dearest. Off you go, now.”

After the door closed behind him, Miss Cathcart turned sharply toward her father. “I’d rather you not speak that way in front of him, Father. He’s only a boy.”