Free Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 by Where the Horses Run Page A

out in a grassy spot, he scattered the contents of the bag on the ground at his feet—from Josephine’s vantage point, it looked like bites of carrot or apple—then he put the empty bag into the pocket of his coat and stood quietly, arms relaxed at his sides. After looking around for a moment, he began to speak. She wasn’t near enough to hear his words, but the tone was slow and even. Every now and then, he gave a low, warbling whistle.
    Speaking to whom? There was no one else in sight. Curious to see what he was about, she continued to stand on the path and watch.
    He cut a striking figure—Heathcliff, wandering the moors around Wuthering Heights—mysterious, guarded, tortured. Although she suspected that Mr. Jessup’s reasons to be wandering about had more to do with horses than lost love. Still, there was something romantic about him standing motionless in the mist, tall and lean, the sturdy length of back and breadth of shoulder showing strength as well as grace. She could imagine him equally comfortable on a horse as on a dance floor.
    Did he dance? She loved to waltz. The whirling, fluid freedom of it was almost as exhilarating as riding a horse. Sadly, she rarely found suitable partners, being as tall as she was. All that panting on her breasts was quite distracting.
    Down below, Mr. Jessup continued to speak to the trees at the back of the pasture. A gentle breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair and sent mist swirling about his boots. She sensed he was waiting for something. Or someone. But she saw no one else and heard no other voices.
    Then shadows moved through the trees. Big. Dark.
    He whistled again.
    Slowly the shadows emerged, taking on form and substance as they stepped hesitantly out of the mist and into the open.
    The mares.
    Heads up to test the air, they edged closer to this unknown intruder, their gangly foals close at their sides.
    Mr. Jessup didn’t move. His voice remained calm, his occasional whistle cutting through the still morning air like a bird’s call.
    Prissy, the bossy bay matriarch of the herd, snorted, then stepped hesitantly forward, ears pricked. The other mares and foals followed. She reached him first and for her courage received a scratching along her jaw and first chance at the treats on the ground. The other mares pushed in, crowding around him as they searched out every last morsel. Jessup gave each pats and scratches, murmuring all the time. After they had all sniffed his hands and gotten their praise and treats, he turned and walked away. The mares watched until he swung over the fence and disappeared into the stable, then dropped their heads to graze.
    Bemused, Josephine continued down the path.
    “Good morning, Mr. Hammersmith,” she said when she saw the burly Scot coming out of the feed room in the center of the stable.
    He tugged the brim of his cap. “Morning, miss. Looking for Jamie, are ye?”
    “Have you seen him?”
    “Aye.” He tipped his head toward the other end of the stable. “He’s yon with Mr. Jessup, feeding the barn cats. He keeps bringing them treats, they’ll stop mousing, so they will.”
    “I’ll remind him,” she called back, hurrying along. The customary sense of welcome coursed through her as she moved past the long rows of split stall doors. Most of the top doors were open. In some, she saw horses nosing their feed boxes, hunting the last kernel of grain. Other stalls were empty, the occupants having been turned out into their paddocks so the grooms could clean up behind them.
    The snuffle and stomp of horses, the muttered voices of men working in the loft overhead, the smell of manure and hay and leather oils, even the dusty taste of the air, all combined to give her a deep feeling of peace.
    This was where she was happiest. Not in glittering ballrooms, or strolling the fashionable streets of London. Here, with Jamie and among her beloved horses, was where she belonged. How long before this joy was torn from her life forever?
    Pushing