Read Online Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 by Where the Horses Run - Free Book Online
Authors: Where the Horses Run
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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
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
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