Behind His Blue Eyes (34 page)

Epilogue

T
hrough shimmering tears, Lucinda watched Ethan lean down and kiss his bride. The wedding had gone perfectly, even to the point that Mr. Pearsall—with Winnie at his side—was able to walk his daughter down the aisle. Edwina had cried only slightly louder than her infant son, and the other Brodie children had behaved themselves. Thomas had even put in an appearance, stepping inside for the exchange of vows before disappearing again, and Lucinda's guardian, Mrs. Throckmorton—newly returned from Denver with her two chaperones, Mrs. Bradshaw and Buster Quinn—hadn't caused a single ruckus. Yet.

Now, as she and Tait followed the bride and groom from the church, Lucinda felt the prick of more tears, ones that were both happy and sad.

She was delighted to add these two new friends to her Heartbreak Creek family, and was overjoyed to have her guardian back. But she was upset that most of them would soon be leaving her again.

Within a few months, Mrs. Throckmorton and her escorts would accompany Maddie and Ash and Rayford Jessup to New York. When the Wallaces and Jessup went on to Scotland to complete the transference of the earl's title and purchase breeding stock for Ash's horse herd, her guardian would stay behind in Manhattan to close up her house and settle her affairs before returning to Heartbreak Creek permanently.

She would miss them dreadfully. Even Thomas, who would accompany the travelers as far as Indiana, where he would stop off to visit Pru. Hopefully they would all return in spring. By then, the depot would be up and running and the trains would be coming through regularly. Ethan would have the Wallace house finished, and would be nearing completion on the one nearby that he was building for himself, his bride, and her three charges.

And her Heartbreak Creek family would be all together again.

But it would be lonely with everyone gone—especially after Declan found a temporary replacement for his sheriff duties, and took his family to the ranch until fall. It seemed just when she was getting everything set up the way it should be, everybody was leaving.

“It's only a few months,” Tait whispered in her ear.

She gave him a look, wondering when he had become so adept at discerning her thoughts.

“And maybe without everyone to fuss over,” he added, “you'll spend more time tending yourself.”

She swatted his shoulder with her hanky. “I don't need tending.”

“Not you, perhaps.” His eyes glowed with that fierce protectiveness he had adopted of late. “But the baby might.”

“Rothschild is fine,” she teased.

“Uthred,” he teased back.

The tip of a walking cane poked Tait's calf. “It's rude to whisper,” a querulous voice behind him chided. “Especially in front of the partially deaf.”

“You're not deaf in the least,” Lucinda said, slowing to loop an arm through her guardian's. “You're just overburdened with a surfeit of curiosity.”

“She means nosy, doesn't she?” Mrs. Throckmorton asked Tait.

He simply smiled, and offered a hand to help her down the church steps.

They had told no one about the child she and Tait were expecting. Lucinda felt it would encroach on the wedding celebrations. This was Audra's day. Hers would come later in December—God help her. Besides, she wanted to wait a few more weeks just to be sure.

“After you close up the house in Manhattan,” she said to Mrs. Throckmorton in an effort to change the subject, “what are you going to do about Pringle?”

Pringle was her guardian's irascible butler—a testy old curmudgeon Mrs. Throckmorton put up with out of pity since she was convinced he had been in love with her for years—a conviction based on what, Lucinda had no idea. Still, he was part of the family, and if let go, would have a difficult time finding another position at his advanced age.

“I'm giving him to that foreign person.”

“Ash?” Lucinda looked at her in surprise. “You're sending Pringle to Scotland?”

“It's the perfect solution. Despite his strenuous objections, I have convinced Mr. Wallace that no self-respecting aristocrat should be without a manservant.”

Lucinda smiled, imagining that conversation. “And what if Pringle doesn't want to go?”

The old woman waved a hand in dismissal. “It's either that, or Heartbreak Creek, or the streets. At least this way, he can continue to harbor hopes of being reunited with me in the future.”

Tait started to laugh.

Lucinda scowled at him.

He laughed harder . . . until a cane bounced off his shin. “What are you carrying on about, you ruffian?”

“Your innate wisdom, madam,” he said with a light bow. “I can think of no greater amusement than watching Pringle bring Lord Kirkwell up to snuff. An inspired move.”

The crafty old woman smiled, her faded blue eyes twinkling with merriment. “I thought so myself. Almost makes me want to go with them simply to see how they get on.”

“Shall I book you passage?” he asked, hopefully.

“You shall not. But I will certainly be interested in seeing the changes in that Scottish rogue when they all return. Yoo-hoo,” she called, advancing on Buster Quinn, her man of all tasks, ex-Pinkerton watchdog, and today, chair carrier. “Take it over into the shade, if you will, Mr. Quinn.”

When they all return
, Lucinda thought. That could be in months. Perhaps an entire year. All sorts of things could delay them.

A feeling of panic gripped her. What if Maddie and Ash decided to stay in Scotland?

“We could go with them, you know,” Tait said by her ear.

She reared back. “To Scotland?”

Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her away from the well-wishers crowding around the newlyweds, and steered her past the little cemetery beside the church.

“Maybe not that far,” he said, once they were out of earshot of the others. “Not in your condition. But we could visit Pru, then go on to New York to help Mrs. Throckmorton with her move. Wouldn't you like to visit our old haunts in Manhattan?”

A chill seeped into her heart. “You miss it. You want to go back.”

“Back?” He swept his free hand at the distant mountains, the aspens crowding the creek, the children playing kickball behind the church. “And give this up for sooty air? Trade peace and quiet for the constant noise and bustle of the city?” Smiling, he shook his head. “No, Luce. I love Heartbreak Creek. It's my home—
our
home. This is where I want our children to grow up. But I wouldn't mind seeing a play or two and visiting a museum, or dining in some of our favorite restaurants, or standing at the rail of a ferry on the Hudson and watching the city lights come on.”

“But who would watch over Heartbreak Creek if we left?”

He laughed. “You're such a worrier.” Leaning down, he gave her a quick kiss. “You're going to be a wonderful mother. Especially with me there to rein you in.”

“You.” She poked his arm. “But really, Tait. With so many of us gone, who will oversee the bridge line, and start the new school, and run the hotel, and—”

“Ethan can handle the railroad part of it,” he cut in. “And it's time you trained Miriam to run the hotel. And with Audra available when she's not busy at the newspaper, and Edwina there to help once the Brodies come back from the ranch in the fall, everything will be fine.”

“As long as Ed stays out of the hotel kitchen,” she murmured.

They walked in silence while she considered the idea. It did have appeal. She could visit Pru on the way. And Mrs. Throckmorton could certainly use her help with all those knickknacks in her rambling Sixty-ninth Street brownstone. And it would be amusing to see how Ash and Pringle got along. Perhaps while she was in New York, she could refresh her wardrobe, buy some things for the baby, even pick up a few items for the hotel.

“We could be gone for only a couple of months,” she said after a while. “I want to have Uthred here, not in some boxcar in Missouri.”

“Rothschild.”

“In fact, we should have our own railcar. One large enough to accommodate Mrs. Throckmorton and Mrs. Bradshaw and Mr. Quinn, too. With a lavatory. And a decent cook. I hate those dime box lunches.”

“I'll see what the Denver and Santa Fe has available.”

“Perhaps you should get one for Maddie and Ash, too. They are titled, after all.”

“Yes, dear.”

She stopped and faced him. “You must promise me we'll come back, Tait. This is my home.”

“Mine, too, Luce. I would live nowhere else.”

She let out a deep breath and patted his arm. “All right, then. We'll go. But only as far as New York. And we'll be back by the first snow.”

“By the first snow. I promise.”

She lifted her face for a kiss, then looked past him at the musicians setting up on the church steps. “We'd best get back. Declan will be dancing soon, and that's a treat not to be missed.”

Smiling, she watched the people she had grown to love gathering to celebrate the latest Heartbreak Creek wedding. Yes, this was where she belonged. With her family. In the town she had helped build.

But a short vacation before she took on the exhausting role of motherhood might be just the thing. And surely the town could survive without her . . . just for a month or two.

Read on for a sneak peek of the next Heroes of Heartbreak Creek novel

SOMETHING IN HIS SMILE

Available July 2014 from Berkley Sensation

Prologue

APRIL 1871, TEXAS

R
ayford Jessup was still a quarter of a mile away from the Hendricks place when he heard the screaming.

He nudged his horse into a run. Fifty yards closer and he could tell the sound 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 loud bangs and shouted cries. His own horse snorted, head up, ears pricked, his steps sidling and hesitant. Feeling the beginnings of a shy, Rafe murmured softly and reached down to run a hand along the chestnut's neck, reminding the young gelding he wasn't alone, and that he needed to pay attention to his rider, not what was going on in the barn.

Stopping in front of the house near an odd sheepherder's-style wagon, Rafe sat for a moment, keeping his hands and legs calm, his voice even and unhurried. While he waited for the gelding to settle, 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 wood-and-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, 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 came out of the double barn doors.

One was tall—probably as tall as Rafe, but leaner—with graying hair, and 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 turned and studied the stranger.

Despite the gray hair, the man wasn't as old as Rafe had first thought—not much older than his own thirty-two. And probably ex-cavalry. In addition to the tight buff-colored trousers tucked in to knee-high, polished boots, and the small military-style case attached to his belt, he had a confident, 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 U.S. marshal for several years, Rafe recognized the probing look, and knew when he was being assessed.

“This here's Angus Wallace,” Hendricks said, stopping before him. “Although he says most call him Ash because of his hair. Ash, meet 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 his wife came by to see what was available.”

Rafe didn't have much admiration for Hendricks's horses. Mostly scrubs. 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, before they got ahold of him. Animal was 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 some food. Wouldn't eat or drink. Still won't eat. Quieted down some yesterday, so I figured we'd try again. But you can hear how well that's going.”

As 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 by 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 go too close,” Hendricks warned. “He's already taken a bite out of one of my men.
Vamoos,
” 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 bitten 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 holes in the walls. Rafe stepped back, almost bumping into the Scotsman who had moved up beside him to study the mustang.

“Bollocks,” Wallace muttered. “I dinna think the puir beast will make it much longer.”

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

“Figured to breed him to my mares. Or sell him, if I can get a good price. But 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. And 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 coins he'd brought with him. “How much you want for him?”

Hendricks named a price that was double what the mustang was worth, even if he could be broken, although broke or not, Rafe doubted the animal would live long enough to attract any buyers.

“I'll pay you half that,” Wallace broke in.

Rafe looked at him in surprise, wondering if the man knew he was offering good money for a bad animal. He had thought the Scotsman had horse savvy, but apparently he didn't. Frowning, Rafe 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 called back to Rafe as he walked 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. “She's a famous photographer,” he said proudly. “A.M. Wallace. And verra good, so she is. You've heard of her, no doubt.”

Rafe hadn't, but rather than admit it, he gave a noncommittal smile. “What are you going to do with the mustang? I doubt he'll go calmly.”

“Aye. He's a wild one, puir lad.” Moving closer to the stall, the Scotsman watched the horse warily as he reached for the slide bar on the lower door. “Mind your feet, Jessup,” he warned in a calm voice. “He'll be coming out fast.”

“You're turning him loose?”

“He's too proud to bend, and I'll no' break a horse I dinna need any more than you would. He'll find his way home. Best stand back now.”

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

Wallace slid the bolt and eased back the stall door. Holding it open, he stood against the wall and waited.

At first, nothing. Then a snort.

And suddenly, the mustang burst out of the stall at a dead run. Tufts of hay and dirt clods flew as he raced toward the light at the open end of the barn. A second later, he was tearing across the field, 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 and disappeared from view. Then Wallace startled him with a hard clap on his shoulder.

“So, lad. Where you headed? Back to the family?”

“No family. North, probably.”

Looping an arm over Rafe's shoulder, the Scotsman steered him back through the barn. “As free as the wind, are ye?”

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 it's 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?” Pure thoroughbreds were magnificent animals. He'd seen less than a handful of them this side of the Mississippi.

“Eventually.” That broad grin again. “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 green eyes. “Northbridge, in the highlands of Scotland.”