Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (29 page)

Voices rose around him, but Rafe was still too furious to hear their words.

“I say! What’s going on here?” Brantley shoved through the men gathered around Rafe and the gold rider.

“He has a blade in his whip,” Rafe accused. “He cut my horse.”

With the help of his employer, the gold rider struggled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Both eyes were almost swollen shut.

“What whip?” the horse’s owner demanded. He pointed at Rafe. “He’s the one who injured my man here. He hit him in the face with his bat, the bloody bounder!”

“Did your rider have a whip, Haverton?” Brantley demanded of the owner.

“Do you see one?” Haverton shot back.

Brantley directed two men to check the sorrel’s saddle.

As Rafe had expected, they found nothing. “He probably threw it into the brush.” Pulling his arms free of the restraining hands, he turned to Ash. “You saw it. Tell them.”

“Did you see a blade, Lord Kirkwell?” Brantley asked.

“I saw a cane that probably held a blade.”

“That’s absurd,” Haverton argued.

Brantley waved him to silence. “But did you actually see the blade, Lord Kirkwell?”

“I dinna need to. I ken it was there.”

Haverton pointed an accusing finger at Rafe. “That man shouldn’t have even been allowed to race. He’s an accused criminal awaiting deportation and should be disqualified. He attacked my rider.”

“That’s a lie!”

All turned as the boy in green trotted his spent bay across the ribbon on the ground. “It were just the opposite.” Reining in, he scowled at Haverton’s rider. “I saw ’im do it, just a’fore he tossed this into the brush.” Reaching under his saddle skirt, he pulled out the gold rider’s cane and showed the blade hidden inside. “’E’s the attacker. The man on the stallion saved me life, so ’e did.”

And as quickly as it had turned against him, the mood of the crowd swung back in Rafe’s favor.

He didn’t care. Now that the fury had bled away, he just wanted to check on Pems. Without a word, he turned and strode stiffly toward the stable.

Ash fell in beside him. “Brantley sent down his horse doctor.”

Rafe walked on, trying to ignore the muscles cramping in his back.

“The cuts dinna look that deep.”

He hoped not. To have Pems needlessly hurt again just to amuse his owner sickened Rafe. It sickened him even more that, this time, he had had a part in it.

“By the way,” Ash said as they entered the stable and hurried toward the small group of people gathered outside Pembroke’s stall. “Congratulations.”

Rafe looked at him.

“You won the race.”

 • • • 

An hour later, feeling drained and shaken, Rafe led the bandaged stallion from his stall. The injuries weren’t as bad as he had feared, and he knew horses could tolerate a lot of pain, but watching the animal suffer through the doctor’s ministrations had been difficult to bear.

The cut on his neck wasn’t dangerously deep but did require ten stitches. The one on his chest took three. Because the blade had been clean, and the wounds had bled freely, there was only a small chance of infection. Still, to be safe, Rafe intended to carefully follow the horse doctor’s instructions: a flush with a mild saline solution, a topical salve, and a new bandage every day. When the wound healed, Rafe could cut out the stitches—maybe in a week or ten days.

Pems would be fine. But that didn’t lessen Rafe’s guilt that he had exposed the valiant, trusting horse to more injury. He could hardly look at Josie when he stepped into the aisle, aware of how miserably he had failed to protect her beloved horse. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything, but stepped forward and slipped her hand in his. That simple show of understanding was a balm to his aching heart.

“Can we leave now?” she asked.

He nodded, as eager to be on their way as she seemed to be. “Get Jamie and meet me at the Kirkwell carriage.”

She gave his hand a squeeze, then hurried from the stable.

Lord Brantley, who had been talking to Ash and Thomas, turned to Rafe with a look of concern. “How is he?”

“He’ll make it. Thank you for sending your doctor so quickly.”

“A hellish thing. Puts a blight on the entire sport. Be assured Haverton will be blacklisted from ever racing again.” Brantley sighed and shook his head. “Apparently the man bet heavily on his horse to take second, but you stood in the way. I would have brought his rider up on charges, but he’s long gone.” He held out a hand. “You have my apologies, Mr. Jessup. And my deepest regrets.”

Rafe accepted the handshake and the apology. “I appreciate that.” He didn’t want to appear brusque, but he was anxious to get moving. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I’d best hurry if we’re to sail today.”

“Of course, of course.” Brantley stepped back. “Safe travels, Mr. Jessup. On your way, then.”

“On your way where?” Cathcart asked, walking toward them. “And where do you think you’re going with my horse?”

Rafe frowned. Josephine’s father showed none of the remorse or concern over Pembroke’s injury that Brantley had exhibited—in fact, there was a glint of malice in his dark eyes. “What are you talking about, Cathcart?”

“I’m asking you what you’re doing with my horse.”

“He’s not your horse.”

“No?” With a look of innocent confusion, the older man pulled a fat leather pouch from his pocket. “Then why did Lord Brantley present me with these winnings as the horse’s owner?”

“Because that was our arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” Brantley stepped forward. “Is there an issue here? The horse doesn’t belong to you, Mr. Cathcart?”

“Not since noon today,” Rafe snapped, never taking his eyes from Josie’s father. “And I have the Bill of Sale to prove it.”

“Excellent.” Spreading his hands in invitation, Cathcart looked innocently at the other men watching the exchange. “Then by all means, produce it.”

R
afe felt a chill in his gut.

Had Cathcart stolen the Bill of Sale? Was he the one who had gone through his trunk earlier that morning? Was that why he looked so pleased with himself?

A bitter taste rose on his tongue. “It was witnessed by Hammersmith, your own head groom. And Gordon Stevens, as well. Even if the bill is lost—or
stolen
,” he added, glaring menacingly at Cathcart, “they can vouch for it.”

“This is most confusing.” Brantley frowned from Rafe to Cathcart. “I’m afraid, Mr. Cathcart, that until this matter is resolved, I’ll have to rescind my offer on the stallion.”

Rafe swung toward him. “He tried to sell you the horse? But Pembroke isn’t his!” Whipping back to Josie’s father, he tried to keep the panic from his voice. “You signed the Bill of Sale over a month ago!”

“Prove it.”

Rafe started toward him.

Ash’s hand fell on his arm, his green eyes carrying a silent warning. “Here comes Stevens. Let him verify that he witnessed the sale.”

Seeing the smug smile on Cathcart’s face, Rafe knew the worst had happened. The Bill was gone. He stood shaking, his mind churning with fury.

“Stevens,” Ash said as Gordon limped up. “Did you witness a document drawn up between Mr. Cathcart and Mr. Jessup, concerning ownership of Pembroke’s Pride?”

Gordon shifted his weight off his bad leg. “I think so, milord.”

“You
think
?” Cathcart laughed, playing to the onlookers.

Brantley ignored him. “Did you, or did you not, witness the signing of the document?”

“I had just broken my leg, sir. I was taking laudanum. Things were a bit muddled at the time.” The beleaguered groom shot Rafe an apologetic look. “I’m fairly sure I did.”

Cathcart sneered. “
Fairly
certain is not the same as
absolutely
certain.”

“What about the other witness?” Brantley asked. “Hammersmith, I believe you called him.”

“He’s at the docks,” Ash said, “loading my horses for transport.” He turned back to Gordon. “Where is Jessup’s trunk? Perhaps the document is in there.”

“On the cart. But . . .” Another worried look at Rafe. “This morning before the race, it seems someone went through Mr. Jessup’s things. That’s why I’m late. I was checking with Lord Kirkwell’s grooms to see if they had seen anyone loitering about during the race.”

“And had they?” Brantley pressed.

“No, milord.”

Cathcart grinned nastily. “There you have it then. No Bill of Sale. No reliable witnesses. Just the word of a felon against an upstanding English businessman.”

Rafe glowered at him. Maybe they had missed it. Maybe they didn’t know he’d slipped it in the back of the tablet. He asked Gordon if he’d seen a tablet when he’d packed his belongings. “It would have been on the bookshelf by my cot. ‘Thomas’s Story’ was written on the front page.”

Gordon shook his head. “I couldn’t go up into the loft because of my leg. The master sent one of the footmen to pack your belongings.”

A footman. With loyalty to his employer, not a banished wrangler. Rafe would have hit something, if not for the muscles clenching into knots in his back. He couldn’t let Pems go back to Cathcart. It would be the horse’s death warrant if he did. Rafe would put a bullet in Pembroke’s brain before he’d let Cathcart abuse him again.

“Bollocks,” Ash muttered. “It must be somewhere.”

“If it even exists.” Cathcart’s smile broadened. Greed flashed in his dark, feral eyes.

“If what exists?” Josie came up, caught sight of Rafe, and her smile died. “What’s happened?” she asked, looking at the faces of the men crowded around the stallion in the stable aisleway. “Is it Pems? Has he taken a turn?”

Rafe couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even look at her.

A flush darkened Lord Brantley’s face. It was obvious he wished himself anywhere but caught in the middle of this mess. “There seems to be confusion about ownership of the horse,” he said when no one else responded to her question. “A missing Bill of Sale.”

“Missing?” Shock flared into anger. She glared at Cathcart. “What have you done, Father?”

“I’ve done nothing, girl. Go back to the house. This doesn’t concern you.”

“But I—”

“Now, daughter!”

Rafe stepped toward Cathcart, hands fisted.

Ash pulled him back as Josie fled the stable. “Dinna make it worse, lad.”

Worse? The worst had already happened.

The argument continued around him, but Rafe couldn’t hear anything over the buzzing in his head. Gone. Josie. Pems. Everything. He’d been played like a fool.

“Stevens,” Ash prodded, “are you verra certain you dinna remember signing the paper as witness?”

“What do you expect him to say?” Cathcart broke in before Gordon could answer. “Stevens is now in Jessup’s employ. Of course he’ll back his employer if pushed hard enough. It means nothing unless we have the bill in hand. Which can’t be found—
if
it ever existed.” He turned to Brantley and the other men standing around them, as well as those who had wandered in from outside when word of an altercation had spread. “The horse is mine.”

Thomas stepped forward, but Ash stopped him and murmured something into his ear. The object of this discussion stood quietly, head drooping as if he knew the future that awaited him with Cathcart.

Rafe wouldn’t let that happen. “Send for Hammersmith,” he said in desperation.

“Give it up, Jessup,” Cathcart jeered. “You’ve been caught. Someone send for the magistrate.”

Whispers swirled in the still air. Men who had congratulated Rafe only a short while ago now avoided his eyes. Several of the owners didn’t bother to hide their disgust. Titled men. Protected by wealth and privilege. Affronted that a foreigner would cause a ruckus in their elite company. Even Lord Brantley began to edge away, apparently fearing condemnation by association.

Rafe’s back spasms escalated, making it hard to take a breath, hard to concentrate. Cathcart had well and truly boxed him in. As long as Rafe couldn’t produce the Bill of Sale, it was his word against Cathcart’s. And Cathcart had the right of it: who would believe a common wrangler—an American already accused of poaching and facing deportation—over a presumably wealthy English businessman?

“I will fix this, Rayford Jessup,” Thomas murmured beside him.

“How?”

Despite the thin smile, savagery showed in the Cheyenne’s dark eyes.

“No, Thomas. We’re already in enough trouble.”

“You will let him take your horse?”

“I’ll think of something.” But Rafe didn’t know what. He could hardly even think, much less come up with a coherent plan.

Hicks elbowed his way through the murmuring crowd of men still filling the aisleway. “Ready to go, fellows?” he asked in a low voice, eyeing the finely dressed men standing around. “I told the Constable I’d get you aboard ship this afternoon.” When neither Rafe nor Thomas made a move, he leaned closer to add, “Do I need the manacles?”

Too stunned to argue, Rafe told Gordon to put Pembroke back in his stall. “Maybe something will come up before we leave.” He could send for Hammersmith. Try to buy Pems from Brantley. He had to do something.

A high-pitched voice rose above the low male chatter. “Excuse me. Step aside, please.”

Turning stiffly, he saw Josie push her way into the tight circle around Pembroke. Shame twisted in his chest. He had failed her. How would she ever forgive him for losing her horse? How could he forgive himself?

She shoved a piece of paper into Lord Brantley’s hands. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Rafe froze, his heart drumming. Had she found it?

Brantley studied the paper. His frown deepened. “What is this, Cathcart?”

“It’s a Bill of Sale,” Josie cut in before her father could respond. “Conferring ownership of the stallion listed as Pembroke’s Pride to Rayford Jessup. Stevens?” She motioned Gordon closer. “Is this your signature?”

The groom limped over and studied the paper. “It’s a bit wobbly, but that’s my mark. Hammersmith’s, too.”

Rafe’s legs started shaking. He saw Josie’s smile of triumph and felt the knot of fear in his throat loosen.

“Well, there you have it then, lads.” Ash clapped Brantley’s back—the only man there who dared such familiarity, since they were of equal rank. “A foolish mix-up.” He swung his gaze to Cathcart, his smile spreading into a menacing show of teeth. “Right, Cathcart?”

When Josie’s father tried to stammer an excuse, Ash waved his words away. “I understand, Horatio,” he said in a robust voice. “As a man ages, he verra often forgets events of a week past, so he does. No ill intent, I’m sure. No doubt it will happen to all of us someday, right, fellows?”

Strained smiles. Nods of sympathy.

Cathcart’s face paled. His darting gaze scanned the faces around him.

Rafe waited to see if he would accept Ash’s insulting explanation, or try to bluster his way out of the fix he’d gotten himself into. Whichever tack he took, he would look the fool. Harsh punishment for such a prideful man.

“Just so,” Cathcart finally mumbled, wiping a hand over his sweating brow. “A mistake. Completely forgot. Been in such a rush these last few days . . .”

But men were already wandering away, glad to separate themselves from the taint of either attempted theft, or advancing senility. Cathcart was ruined either way.

“Carry on, then.” With forced joviality, Lord Brantley thrust the Bill of Sale at Rafe. “Sorry about this, Jessup. Dashed embarrassing.” Leaning forward, he added, “We’ll have to keep an eye on him, what?” He straightened and offered Rafe his hand. “Excellent ride today, my good man. Excellent horse. Would have made a wonderful addition to my stable.”

“Thank you, sir. Now if you’ll excuse us.”

“Quite. Safe voyage and all that. Off you go, then.”

Rafe handed Pembroke’s lead to Gordon, hoping the groom didn’t see the tremble in his hand. “Tie him to the back of Kirkwell’s carriage. We’ll be in the constable’s wagon behind you, so I can keep an eye on him.” He followed Thomas and Hicks out of the stable, half-afraid his legs wouldn’t hold him.

He’d won. It was over. Pems was safe.

A slim hand slid into the crook of his arm. Sudden emotion clogged his throat. Josie didn’t speak. Didn’t offer excuses or platitudes or words of comfort. Just walked beside him. God love her.

“How did you find it?” he asked after he’d gotten himself in hand.

“I snooped in your room after the constable took you away.”

At his curious look, she smiled sheepishly. “I wanted a memento. Something to cling to until you returned. I found the Bill of Sale in the tablet, and knowing it was too valuable to leave lying about for sticky fingers to find, I decided to keep it safe for you.”

His chest swelled with pride. “You can cross the river with me any day, sweetheart.” Seeing her puzzlement, he added, “That’s a cowboy expression. It means I know you’ll always have my back, even when I make foolish mistakes and disappoint you and cause you worry. It means I trust you. And love you.”

“Oh?” That impish smile. “Do cowboys say that often to one another?”

He gave a wobbly laugh. “Only if they’re smitten.”

When they reached the wagons that would take them to the docks, she pulled back. Looking up into his face with a tremulous smile, she said, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, for what my father tried to do to you.”

He took in a deep breath and let the anger go. He loved this woman too much to let her father’s actions come between them. “I know.”

“But he’s still my father. And I need to tell him good-bye.”

“But you’ll come back?”

“Always.”

Reaching out, he brushed his fingertips over her cheek, needing the contact, wanting the goodness and strength of character within this remarkable woman to drive out the ugliness and pain of these last turbulent hours. “Want me to go with you?”

“No. You’ve suffered enough at his hands. But if your watchdog could wait a few minutes, you can get Jamie while I talk to Father. He’s in Henny’s room. It would be a great comfort to him to know that you and Pems are all right. Also,” she added with a small frown, “he has a kerchief he wants to give you. I’m not sure what that’s about.”

Rafe smiled. “I’ll get him. You do what you need to do.”

After Josephine walked back to the stable to find her father, Rafe gripped the edge of the wagon with both hands as muscles tightened like a vise around his back. He’d suffered back pain before, after a fall from a horse. This was no worse. With rest, it would pass. All he had to do was get to the ship.

“Load up,” Hicks said, climbing into the driver’s box.

“I need a minute,” Rafe said through clenched teeth.

“And I need to get home before the wife locks me out. She’s a stubborn wench with an evil tongue, but a bloody fine cook. I’d hate to have to start over with someone else.”

Ash pulled something out of his carriage and walked back toward the cart. “Would a wee bottle of Highland nectar make the delay worth your while, Private?” He held up a half-empty bottle of his famous brew.

Hicks’s eyes lit up. “The whole bottle?”

“Whatever’s left.”

The guard smacked his lips. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Relieved, Rafe headed toward the house to get Jamie.

 • • • 

When Josephine went looking for her father, she saw that most of the crowd had dispersed and were now strolling toward the tents on the front lawn.

One figure walked alone. Father, head down, angling toward the terrace, the square set of his shoulders an indication of the anger and humiliation that still gripped him. She tried to be empathetic. But all she felt was anger at what he had tried to do to Rafe, and a building dread of this last confrontation in a lifelong troubled relationship.

Still, he was her father. She would probably never see him after this day—in truth, she didn’t want to see him again—but she did owe him a good-bye.

He was ruined now. Within a matter of days, all his possessions, collected over decades of hard work and unfettered ambition, would go on the auction block. He might even be sent to debtor’s prison. A sad end for a man who had once had the vision and strength to claw his way out of the dark and into the light of a better life. How sad that he hadn’t the courage or character to find contentment there.