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

perfect angel. Faith, if I ever had a son, I would want him to be just like our Jamie. But I won’t be having a son anytime soon. Gordon makes certain of that.”
    “How?” Admittedly, she was ignorant of such matters, but if such a thing were possible, surely William would have thought of it back when they were consorting.
    Henny leaned in to whisper. “French letters. Or some use Dutch cups.”
    Josephine vaguely remembered mention of such things in one of her romantic novels, but hadn’t understood how a letter could stop the arrival of a baby. And she knew nothing about a Dutch cup.
    The maid must have read her puzzlement. “They’re preventatives. Baby preventatives.”
    “How do they work?”
    A wave of color almost drowned out Henny’s freckles. “The French letter is a thing . . . like a glove, but with only one finger, that fits over a man’s . . . part.”
    “Part? You mean his . . .”
    “Exactly. I have one in my cubby. I’ll show you.” She swept out the door.
    By the time she returned, Josephine was in her gown and robe, warming herself beside the small coal stove set inside the marble fireplace.
    “Sure, and Gordon’s not fond of them.” Henny pulled an odd flat thing out of a small box bearing the name
Dr. Power’s French Preventatives
. “He says they’re uncomfortable. Probably because they’re made of vulcanized rubber, rather than gut. The Dutch cup fits over the opening into a woman’s womb. I shudder to think how it gets there. You can have this one, if you’d like.”
    “My word.” Loath to touch the thing, she opened the drawer for Henny to drop it in. Why hadn’t William known of these preventatives? It would have saved them both from scandal and disgrace—although the latter was mostly on her part, not his. But then, if he put one on his . . . part, there would be no Jamie.
    But still. How liberating. And how shocking to have such a thing in her possession. She wondered if Rayford Jessup had ever heard of a preventative.
     • • • 
    Over the next several days, Rafe rode Pembroke’s Pride in the round training pen, working him at all gaits—in circles, figure eights, backing up, stops and starts. The horse responded well, changed leads when he was supposed to, and accepted Rafe’s commands without pulling or fighting the bit.
    Rafe praised him often and, after each session, rubbed him down for a long time, speaking to him constantly. The horse quickly became accustomed to his scent, his touch, the sound of his voice. The stallion was also beginning to lose some of his stiffness, and as he went through his gaits, his stride grew smooth and fluid as muscles strengthened and became more defined.
    Rafe kept the sessions short. Knowing Pems was intelligent and would easily grow bored with the same monotonous routine, he varied his activity by having Hammersmith work the stallion on a longe line each afternoon while Rafe watched from the fence.
    On the fifth morning, Rafe awoke to heavy gray clouds and an ache in his old shoulder injury that foretold rain. Knowing this was his chance to put Pems through his next test, he threw on his clothes, grabbed his hat and duster, and hurried to the stables.
    “You’re taking him out today?” Hammersmith questioned when Rafe came out of the tack room with the stallion’s halter and lead rope and a carrot. “Looks like rain, so it does.”
    “I hope so.” Plucking a curry brush from a peg, Rafe slid the bolt on Pembroke’s stall door and stepped inside.
    The horse whinnied in welcome. Having seen Rafe in his hat and duster several times, Pems wasn’t as concerned by Rafe’s altered appearance as he was the carrot in his hand. Rafe let him finish his snack, then buckled on the halter and led him out the rear stall door into his paddock. Stopping in the center of the open area, he took out the brush and began talking to the animal as he curried him.
    Pems stood quietly, enjoying the attention as well as the