A Cowboy's Angel
Pamela Britton
Uneasy AlliesMariah Stewart has a passion — to save racehorses from slaughter once they’re done racing. Zach Johnson has a passion, too — raising winners. Mariah and her protests are one more annoyance on a list that may cost him his family stables. And when his best horse goes down, she pesters him about his plans for it. The thing is, Mariah is also a vet. Her crazy proposal to save Dasher might work, and what does Zach have to lose?Only his sanity! Maybe his determined bachelorhood, too. Because Mariah just…gets under his skin. Zach knows she feels it — she heats up every time he’s near. But is the attraction between them enough to set aside everything they believe in?
Uneasy Allies
Mariah Stewart has a passion—to save racehorses from slaughter once they’re done racing. Zach Johnson has a passion, too—raising winners. Mariah and her protests are one more annoyance on a list that may cost him his family stables. And when his best horse goes down, she pesters him about his plans for it. The thing is, Mariah is also a vet. Her crazy proposal to save Dasher might work, and what does Zach have to lose?
Only his sanity! Maybe his determined bachelorhood, too. Because Mariah just…gets under his skin. Zach knows she feels it—she heats up every time he’s near. But is the attraction between them enough to set aside everything they believe in?
Zach almost laughed. And she still wouldn’t look at him, and that’s when he knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Mariah Stewart found him attractive.
Well, well, well.
Little miss animal rights activist was hot for him. He wasn’t sure if he should be flattered…or scared.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly, closing the distance between them and tipping her chin up.
She gasped.
He tried not to laugh. He had no idea why he did it except maybe he supposed it had something to do with the number of times she’d driven him insane with her actions and her comments and her innuendos and assumptions.
He pretended to examine her. “Your eyes aren’t dilated or glazed over, so no hypoglycemia.”
“That’s good,” she said softly.
“But if you fall down, I’ll catch you.”
He released her, and she blinked. He smiled. Oh, yeah. She found him attractive all right.
So what are you going to do about it?
Drive her crazy. Completely and utterly crazy. Maybe then she’d leave him alone.
Dear Reader,
Usually my book ideas are the result of a conversation I’ve overheard, or an idea suggested by a friend, but that wasn’t the case with A Cowboy's Angel. As a reporter for a local newspaper I was writing a story on the horse slaughter industry and its connection to horse racing. As I was working on the article I found myself thinking: What if?
What if a race horse owner met an activist? What if that activist hated horse racing? What if against all odds they started to fall in love?
I am a sucker for a horse tale. Throw in a hero with a passion for animals and I’m there. I had to pit that hero against a woman as outspoken as she was beautiful, but the resulting story, A Cowboy’s Angel, the first book in a series set in the fictional town of Via Del Caballo, is everything I always strive for in a tale. Fun. Fast-paced and, most of all, a fabulous love story…or so I hope.
You might be interested to know that I own a horse that came from a horse slaughter auction. I recently won my first buckle with that horse—proof that even our four-legged friends can have a happily ever after.
Best,
Pam
P.S. Look for Jillian’s story next!
A Cowboy’s Angel
Pamela Britton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With over a million books in print, PAMELA BRITTON likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that changed thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR.
But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews. She’s won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and a nomination for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® Award.
When not writing books, Pamela is a reporter for a local newspaper. She’s also a columnist for the American Quarter Horse Journal.
For Julie Craycroft
For sending Tiffany boxes, Halloween stickers, Christmas presents, and so many other things over the years. Thank you, Nanna. I can’t tell you how much your little packages mean to my child. Without you she wouldn’t know what it was like to have a grandmother. Thank you so much for stepping in and showing her the meaning of selfless love.
Contents
Chapter One (#uf1c92151-2c2b-5315-9491-b991ef1691b2)
Chapter Two (#u7da11496-853f-5278-8022-f849bfa5d573)
Chapter Three (#u7b6a34d4-a9a2-57cc-a7d3-9a9492637307)
Chapter Four (#ud978525e-7288-59c1-a37a-78e7ae6b0f0a)
Chapter Five (#u91eb453e-a7c3-5048-9bd4-da04d65a8543)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“So you’re just going to kill the horse?”
Zach Johnson groaned.
“Couldn’t you at least try to rehab him or something?”
Could this day get any worse?
He glanced at Doc Miller and his groom, Pat, their own faces frozen in what could only be called consternation. Nearby, horses stabled along the backstretch of Golden Downs raceway watched, too, with ears pricked forward as if curious what he would do.
Go ahead. Turn around, they seemed to say.
He didn’t want to. He really didn’t, but he knew if he ignored Mariah Stewart, she’d just come right around the front of him and start yammering in his face.
He slowly turned. “What makes you think I’m going to put him down?” he asked, wishing for the umpteenth time that she weren’t so damn pretty. It irritated the hell out of him that someone so insufferable could be so attractive. Today her red hair glittered as brightly as her eyes beneath the blazing-hot Southern California sun. He found himself wondering where she’d gotten that cute little snub nose and tiny chin of hers...and the freckles. He’d always been a sucker for freckles.
“Don’t you always?” She lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Your type likes to toss away anything that doesn’t make you money.”
He resisted the urge to raise his eyes toward the clear blue sky. God wasn’t going to help him on this one; he had better things to do.
“We’ve been over this before.” He glanced at his vet, knowing the man had as little patience for the woman in jeans and her CEASE—Concerned Equestriennes Aiding in Saving Equines—T-shirt as Zach did himself. “I don’t put my horses down.”
She snorted.
“I send them to auction.”
She uncrossed her arms. “Same thing.”
Next to them, Black in a Dash, the pride of Triple J Quarter Horse Stables, groaned. They’d tranquilized him pretty good, the horse hanging his head, injured back leg just barely touching the ground. Torn suspensory. That was what Doc Miller had just diagnosed. An ultrasound had confirmed Zach’s worst fears, yet even with the injury, Dasher would always have a home with him—not that she’d believe him if he told her that. Dasher was special. The last foal his dad had bred before his death. He wasn’t sure how he’d afford feeding him if he wasn’t out winning races, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
“Please,” he said to Mariah. “Can you leave us alone right now?” He glanced imploringly at Doc Miller.
The man seemed to take the hint. “As I was saying, euthanasia is one option.” Doc Miller clearly directed his words toward Mariah and sounded as frustrated as Zach felt. “But since he’s a well-bred stallion, you might want to keep him around.”
He thought he heard Mariah snort again.
“Then again, with an injury like this he could make a comeback in a year or two. I know you were hoping to race him in the Million Dollar Futurity this fall, but I think that’s out of the question, Zach. There’s other races coming up, though. Heck, some are even for aged stallions, so it might not be a complete loss if he does make it back in a year or two. We could try some stem-cell therapy and shockwave treatments and see what happens, but it’s a long shot, Zach—I’m not going to sugarcoat it. And it’ll cost some money along the way.”
Money he didn’t have, Zach thought. He was land rich and cash poor.
For a moment he considered calling Terrence Whitmore and telling him he could have it all. The farm, his parent’s home up on the hill, even all the broodmares—everything—just so he could be done.
“I want to buy him.”
He just about groaned again. Zach almost, almost, turned and gave her a piece of his mind, but his mama’s Southern upbringing stopped him cold—God rest her soul.
“He’s not for sale.”
“So what are you going to do? Use him to make more babies that will probably never be fast enough to race and that you’ll send to some horrible auction where, as you say, someone will buy them, all the while knowing deep inside that the someone in question is really a representative of a foreign meat company that only wants your horse so he can serve it up on a dish in France.”
Honestly, he was getting kind of tired of her spiel, but he held his tongue. She came around the front of him, blocking his view of Pat, who still held the lead line of his horse. “And if the horse isn’t fast enough, you’ll run it, likely ruining another good horse and tossing that one away, too.” She flicked her hands at him in disgust. “It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Ma’am, like I said earlier, I’m not like that. Not at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick horse to tend to.”
He touched his horse’s black coat, stroking his smooth neck, admiring the way it glowed and then straightening a piece of black mane. For a stallion, Dasher was as well behaved as they came. He’d been looking forward to breeding him and passing along some of his easygoing personality, but if Dasher never had the opportunity to make a name for himself, nobody would care how good the stallion looked or how well he behaved. Without a winning pedigree, nobody would want to breed to him. Ever.
Damn it.
He fought against nausea and anxiety and an overwhelming sense of failure. Ever since his dad had died and he’d taken over the ranch, things had gone downhill.
“We’ll get you healed up,” he told the horse softly, but he didn’t know if he was speaking to Dasher or reassuring himself. Hell, he might have even been telling that red-haired harridan. “Don’t know if you’ll ever race again, but Dad would roll over in his grave if I didn’t at least give it a try.”
“Glad to hear you say that.” Doc Miller patted the horse’s neck, too. “He’s a good-looking stallion, Zach. I think he’ll make a great sire. I’ll send over my care instructions and some treatment options later. In the meantime, Pat, why don’t you put him away? He looks about ready to fall over.”
The groom did as instructed, Dasher as wobbly as a drunken race fan. Zach and Doc Miller watched him walk off, the both of them standing between two rows of stables, grooms walking horses back and forth, some in saddles, others wet from being hosed off after a hard workout. The smell of horse hung heavy in the air, a smell that usually soothed him. Not today.
With a sigh, he turned back to the veterinarian. “I appreciate your honesty.”
The two men shook hands before the veterinarian headed out. Zach thought he was alone until he heard that Stewart woman say from behind him, “So you’re not going to put him down?”
Though he told himself not to, he still sighed.
“I told you, no.” He heard his heel grind into the dirt as he turned. “It should be pretty obvious I’m not like other owners.” He motioned to the barn aisle behind them. “I only have three of my own horses in training and two for other people. Do I look like a big-time operation?”
She followed his gaze. He took in the red-and-gold stall boards nailed to the top doors—a JJJ in the middle of a triangle, their brand—and red hay nets filled with premium alfalfa hanging next to them. Pat was just putting Dasher in his stall. They both watched as he unhooked the nylon webbing that kept the horses inside without them having to close the heavy wooden bottom door. Though he might have been drugged, Dasher immediately turned toward his hay net, ears lazily pricked forward. It never failed. A horse had to be pretty sick not to eat. Dasher wasn’t sick, just really, really lame.
The nausea returned.
“Well,” he heard Mariah say, “you might not have as many horses as the other owners, but that doesn’t mean you don’t adhere to the same mind-set.”
She turned back to face him and once again he couldn’t help but notice she was cute, maybe even beautiful—if one liked loudmouthed shrews, which he didn’t.
“I don’t have as many horses because I don’t breed as many. My dad adhered to the concept of quality, not quantity. It’s a principle I still believe in.”
And that wasn’t making him any money, but he’d come up with something. Maybe Mr. Whitmore would be interested in a few of his broodmares. He had a couple yet that didn’t have foals by their sides....
“Quality, not quantity, yet you still sell your unwanted horses at auction.”
He let loose a sigh of impatience. Why did he bother? What did it matter what she thought of him?
Yet for some reason...it did.
“A reputable auction,” he explained. “A place where our horses have a chance of finding a new owner, and not the kind of owner that will turn around and sell our horses to the slaughter market you mentioned earlier. We give our unwanted horses a second chance at life, Ms. Stewart.”
Her brows lifted. “You know my name.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I hope so.” She raised her chin. “I hope people think of me as the voice of their unwanted horses. I hope racehorse owners have me on their mind when they sell their animals directly to a meat-processing company. I hope racehorse owners think of me when they travel to a foreign country and see cheval on the menu. Most of all, I hope you know I’m watching you and your ilk.”
Her passion was unmistakable, as was the determination in her golden-brown eyes. There was something else there, too, a lingering sense of sadness that seemed to call to him in some bizarre and unexpected fashion.
“Do you always make generalizations about people?”
“Excuse me?”
“I could do the same thing and call you a crazy crackpot activist, but I don’t.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “We only act crazy out of frustration. No matter how loud we scream, the racehorse industry just keeps breeding more and more horses.”
“Something they’ve been doing for centuries.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“And I suppose it’s right to block the entrance of the track so people can’t get to work?”
“We were trying to make a statement.” She flicked her long hair back.
“And picketing on race day?”
“It got everyone’s attention.”
He bit back a sigh of frustration. He could have sworn he heard her do the same thing, too.
“Clearly, your tactics aren’t working.”
“I know.”
“So why do it?”
“Because I’ve seen ten ex-racehorses crammed into the back of a four-horse trailer, panic in their eyes, open sores on their bodies from being kicked and bullied and knocked over by the other horses, barely able to stand because they haven’t been given any water, their once proud carriage completely demoralized. And it’s sad and it’s sick and I don’t want it happening anymore.”
His stomach turned. Yeah, he’d heard of that kind of stuff happening, too, but not to his horses, no way.
But could he say with absolute certainty that one of his horses hadn’t ended up that way?
No.
“Look,” she said, and when their gazes met, hers had softened, almost as if she’d spotted his guilty conscience. “If you really are different like you say you are, I have a proposition for you.”
She wanted to proposition him? Suddenly, crazily, his mood improved, although what he was thinking probably wasn’t the kind of proposition she had in mind.
“What kind of proposition?”
“Actually, it’s more like I want to discuss something with you, an idea I’ve been floating around. Not here.” She glanced past him. He could see a groom approaching with another wet horse, its coat glistening as if it were made of glass. “Later. At your farm.”
It was his turn to be surprised. She knew where he lived? Well, maybe that wasn’t so strange after all. She probably had a map on her bedroom wall, red dots marking where all the evil racehorse breeders lived, their pictures next to them, horns probably drawn onto their heads.
For that reason alone he should brush her off, but then he thought maybe for that reason alone he should do something unexpected. Hell, what did he have to lose? Maybe she’d “proposition” him with buying a few of his retired racehorses. Wouldn’t that be something?
As if reading his mind, she said, “It’s a way for maybe both of us to make some money.”
He should say no. Despite how much he could use the cash, he should tell her he wasn’t interested.
But with Dasher out of commission...
“Fine. Dinner. Tonight at six.” He turned away before he could change his mind.
“Wait. What? Dinner?”
He almost laughed. Eating with the enemy?
“What’s the matter?” He turned and cocked a brow. “Afraid I’ll poison your food?”
She drew back. “No. Of course not. I just—”
Didn’t want to think of him as a person. He saw that much in her eyes. Much better to keep him at arm’s length. He didn’t know for certain that was what she was thinking, but he had a pretty good idea because frankly, he’d had the same thought.
“Scared?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Okay, fine.” She sucked in a bottom lip, Zach watching as she nibbled it and then let it back out again. When she released the flesh, it was glossy and he found himself wondering how she’d taste.
Now you really have lost your mind.
“Can I bring anything?” she asked.
A negligee with frilly underwear.
Good Lord. Stop it.
“Just yourself.”
It was that damn red hair of hers. And the freckles. He turned away before she caught a glimpse of what he was thinking in his eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I promise, you won’t regret this.”
Actually, he already did.
Chapter Two
Mariah was as anxious as a cat in a room full of dogs as she drove down a lonely country road three hours later. Low-lying hills long since turned brown by the hot summer sun surrounded her. It was a view she usually enjoyed. Not today.
He’d agreed to see her.
Okay, okay, so there was the little matter of dinner. Any other owner and it’d be no big deal. Any other owner was at least sixty years old and could have easily been her dad. Zach Johnson couldn’t be much older than her twenty-six years and was, gosh darn it all, good-looking.
Thank God he had no clue how much he affected her.
She bashed her hand against the steering wheel of her ancient Honda Civic. She hated the fact that every time she spotted him at the racetrack, she found herself first noticing his tight jeans—and the nicely sculpted rear beneath—before she took note of the horses he schooled from the rail. The man was a bona fide hottie. She’d had that very conversation with her fellow CEASE members more than once, their discussion always ending with too bad he was a racehorse owner. It drove them crazy that anyone with the dark good looks of a soap opera star could race horses for a living. Not just race them but breed them and raise them, too. In some ways he was worse because he was one of the people responsible for the skyrocketing number of unwanted horses, those horses that would never be raced and that would ultimately end their days in the back of a makeshift horse trailer, transported to Mexico, where they would suffer at the hands of a meat processor.
Her stomach twisted.
Not if she could help it.
Up ahead the sign for the Triple J Ranch came into view. It was nestled in the heart of Via Del Caballo, California, and the land alone was worth millions. The residents of the area called it horsey central—with good reason. Farms were everywhere, their white fences intersecting the landscape as if God played an aerial game of tic-tac-toe. And what wasn’t horse farms was vineyards. The Triple J was right in the middle of it all. She’d looked them up on the internet once upon a time, back when she’d first spotted Zach Johnson at Golden Downs and been told who he was. Second-generation racehorse breeder. Quarter horses, not Thoroughbreds, which meant he specialized in sprinters. The fastest animal in a quarter mile, their breeders often touted. That wasn’t exactly true, but it made for great PR.
Her tires lost purchase on the gravel near the entrance to the ranch as she slammed on the brakes, nearly missing the turn. She cursed inwardly. Not paying attention. Too distracted by thoughts of Mr. Magnificent.
White fence rails guided her down a long straight road, one with trees on either side. To her left and right were pastures with emerald-colored grass clipped down by grazing horses. The two pastures were at least twenty acres apiece. Up ahead, perched atop a small knoll, was the main house, a huge behemoth of a structure whose windows caught the sun’s last rays turning them gold. Originally it’d been a single A-frame, but his parents had completely renovated the place by the early ’90s. Some said the remodel had caused Zach’s parents’ divorce.
That last part was track gossip, but she believed it because she’d heard from a number of sources that Samantha Johnson had damn near bankrupted the ranch after having the place overhauled, and then she’d run off with the general contractor, leaving James Johnson to raise his son. When he’d died two years ago, Zach had inherited the two-hundred-acre ranch, the racing operation and a pile of debt. More track gossip, only this time she wasn’t certain if it was true.
The place was stunning. Certainly well kempt. At the end of a drive sat a horseshoe turnaround. A sign pointed her to the right, the word Office painted in gold against a red backdrop. She followed the directions. A parking area had been set up straight ahead. A single-story barn stood to the left, and to her right, a flat-roofed building, the office, she presumed. She pulled up next to a golf cart already parked in a spot between the two structures. Another white fence stretched between the two buildings, yet another pasture on the other side. On the top rail someone had posted a reserved sign where the golf cart had been parked.
“Here we go,” she muttered, then took a deep breath, wondering if she should have driven up to the house and parked there. Great. He was probably watching her from his dining room window wondering what the hell she’d been thinking to park down at his barn. She almost backed out of the spot, but movement caught her eye.
Zach Johnson.
Her breath caught. He stood at the entrance to the barn, a straw cowboy hat on his head, his eyes shielded by the brim, but not his lower jaw. Its strong outline could be seen clearly, as could his mouth, razor stubble growing above and around it. He was one of those men who always seemed to have a five-o’clock shadow, no matter if it was seven in the morning or eight at night. Dark hair. Dark eyes. She’d always thought them brown until she’d noticed today they were a dark, dark blue, made darker by the thick black lashes that surrounded them.
Lord help her.
“Glad you didn’t go up to the house,” he said as she slowly stepped out of her car, the black short-sleeved shirt he wore revealing tan arms. “I’m in the middle of feeding. You want to tag along?”
Good-looking, friendly and willing to talk to her about how they might save unwanted racehorses’ lives.
“Oh, um...” Not really. “Sure,” she called back, hoping he didn’t see the way she wilted against the side of her car.
Maybe having dinner with him was a bad idea.
Go on. Move. He’s not going to bite.
No, but she wished he would bite the side of her neck, maybe suckle it—
Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it.
Why, oh why, did the man have this kind of effect on her? It was crazy how every time she saw him, her heart would beat like the skin of a drum. Her palms would grow sweaty. And her body would buzz and warm in places it had no business buzzing and warming. None at all.
“Come on. We’ll use the golf cart. I already fed the barn.”
He walked toward her. All she could do was nod and then push away from the side of her car.
Get a grip.
Sexual attraction. Inconvenient, inconceivable, stupid sexual attraction. In college she’d had the hots for one of her professors. Eventually it’d worn off. Hopefully, this would, too.
“Um, nice place.” She ducked beneath the canvas roof of the cart as she climbed in next to him and he smelled... Oh, he smelled sooooo nice. Like sage and sawdust with a hint of sweat.
“Thanks.” He started the engine, the reverse gear popping into place with a jerk, something that seemed to be universal to golf carts the world over. “My parents built the barns and the fencing, but the house is original to the property.”
Should she admit she knew that? Wouldn’t he find that stalkerlike? “I read about that on your website.”
He glanced at her quickly. Yup. Definitely thought her stalkerlike.
“I research all the racehorse owners.”
Beneath his straw hat, a mixture of amusement and devilry shone in his skyline-colored eyes. “Oh, I’m sure. I bet you have dossiers on all of us.”
He shifted the cart into first gear, and she had a feeling he looked away only because he’d been about to laugh.
“It’s nothing personal.”
Why are you defending yourself? Geez, get a grip.
Because it was personal with him, she admitted, and all because of this damn ridiculous physical attraction. She’d known it from the start too. Usually, she went online to find out more about a racing stable’s operations—the number of stallions they had, if they bred their own broodmares, how many foals dropped in a year, that kind of thing. She’d be lying, though, if she didn’t admit to clicking around on the Triple J Ranch’s website looking for more information about Zach. What had he called himself? Small-time? Something like that, and they were. The Triple J Ranch could easily house dozens of racehorses, but she’d only counted four broodies out front. They didn’t have a stallion at stud, either. She’d heard they’d had to put him down a couple years ago, but she couldn’t deny that all that information had been secondary to finding out if he had a wife or kids or a girlfriend.
She was such an idiot.
“Sorry about your horse,” she blurted, because there she went blushing again. They were driving toward a shed, one that served as cover for the pasture animals on one side and looked to be some kind of storage facility on the other side. “Bad luck.”
“You have no idea.”
A soft breeze wafted across her face. It blew the smell of him away from her and allowed her to focus more on what she was at the Triple J to do.
Thank God.
“If Doc Miller suggests a fasciotomy, don’t do it.”
She felt him glance over at her. She was trying to keep her eyes straight ahead, but it was hard to resist the urge to turn and meet his gaze.
“It’s an unproven procedure that might end up doing more harm than good.”
Don’t look at him. Do not look at him.
She looked at him.
Zap!
That was what his stare felt like. Zing. Zoom. Zam.
“More internet research?” he teased.
Breathe.
“Actually,” she all but wheezed, “I’m a vet.”
He slammed on the brakes. She had to throw her hands forward to avoid slipping off the seat.
“What?”
They’d made it to the shed, but one glimpse into his eyes and she realized she’d shocked him. Good. If she kept him on his toes, maybe then he wouldn’t spot the way she blushed every time their gazes met.
“A vet. Graduated two years ago. That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. I have some ideas about the aftercare of horses with an injury like Dasher’s.”
She really wished he would quit looking at her like that. It made her all kinds of uncomfortable and...quaky inside. Yes, quaky, especially since she was closer than she’d ever been to him before. She could see up close how perfectly his features all melded together into a picture of utter male handsomeness.
“Where’s your practice?”
“I don’t... Well, I mean, I do have one. I mean, I could if I wanted to, and I do, sort of....”
She took a deep breath. “I work for nonprofits, mostly. Did a year in Mexico and Chile gelding stallions for rural farmers. These days I’m focusing on problems that are closer to home. I work for a temp agency that specializes in placing veterinarians. It means I have to travel a lot, but that’s okay. Working temp jobs gives me lots of free time to focus on CEASE.”
There. That hadn’t sounded so bad. He didn’t need to know that she’d been looking for full-time work for months now. Let him think she selflessly devoted herself to her cause.
He turned off the cart. “Be right back.”
“What? Wait. I’ll go with you.”
“No, no. Just stay there.”
He left her there sitting all alone.
She slumped against the seat in disappointment. She’d been hoping for a “Good for you,” maybe even a “Wow, I’m impressed,” but all she saw was his impressive backside disappear inside the shed.
You should be grateful he put some distance between the two of you.
Instead she dwelled on her disappointment at his nonreaction, and that worried her all the more. What did she care if he wasn’t impressed by her vocation? He was a racehorse owner. The enemy.
A handsome enemy.
She covered her face with her hands and groaned. She had the hots for him, all right. And she had them bad.
“Not good,” she heard herself say.
Not good at all.
* * *
A VET.
Zach pulled the string on a brand-new bag of grain, the threads sliding free with a pop-pop-pop-pop, all the while trying to figure out what would make a woman go through years and years of schooling only to toss them all away and found an organization like CEASE.
Crazy.
Well, he knew that. Everyone at Golden Downs knew it. When she and her buddies had picketed the entrance to the track, she’d arrived in a horse costume, complete with long flowing mane made out of yarn.
Crazy.
Outside he heard the rhythmic thud of horses’ hooves. Belle and Baby must have spotted his arrival and were now galloping to the shelter in anticipation of gorging themselves on grain. One of them nickered along the way.
“Hold on, hold on,” he said, opening a feed door along the back wall. Two anxious faces stared back at him, ears pricked forward, eyes bright. He smiled. “Did you honestly think I would forget about you?”
They nodded their heads as if answering his question but were really just exhibiting equine impatience, manes flying, forelocks waving. He poured out the feed. They acted starved. The two of them had all the grass in the world, but he gave them supplements to help the growth of their unborn foals.
“Slow down, you guys. You’re going to choke.”
“I, ah, I think I’m going to head on up to the house.”
He just about jumped. His horses, too, both of them lifting their heads as if to ask, “Who’s that?”
A pain in his backside.
She stood in the doorway, her pretty hair lit up like a sorrel-colored horse. He’d never seen hair such a golden-red before and not for the first time he wondered if it was fake or natural. He would bet natural.
“I brought something I should warm up, and so if you don’t mind...” She motioned back toward the parking area. “I don’t want it sitting in the sun, either.”
“Hang on. I’ll drive you.”
He tossed the horses some grain, then all but threw the scooper back into the garbage can he used to store their feed and closed the lid with a snap before turning back around and brushing by her, their arms grazing. She jumped as if he’d hit her with flames.
It drew him up short. “Did I scratch you or something?”
“No, no.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m fine. Just a little off-balance.”
He spotted the blush then. Saw how her pulse beat at the base of her neck. The way her gaze darted all over the place—anywhere but at him.
She was aware of him.
He stepped closer. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah. Great. Just hungry. That’s why I want to start heating up my dish. I didn’t have any lunch and I’m starved. I’m such an idiot sometimes. I really should eat. Surprised I don’t just keel over sometimes.” She made the sound of a splat, using her forearm to mimic falling over. “Plop. That’s going to be me one day. Not eating makes me light-headed. That’s all.”
Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or her?
He almost laughed. And she still wouldn’t look at him, and that was when he knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she found him attractive.
Well, well, well.
Little Miss Animal-Rights Activist was into him. He wasn’t sure if he should be flattered...or scared.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly, closing the distance between them and tipping her chin up.
She gasped.
He tried not to laugh. He had no idea why he did it except maybe he supposed it had something to do with the number of times she’d driven him insane with her actions and her comments and her innuendos and assumptions.
He pretended to examine her. “Your eyes aren’t dilated or glazed over, so no hypoglycemia.”
“That’s good,” she said softly.
“But if you fall down, I’ll catch you.”
He released her. She blinked. He smiled. She turned the same color as her hair.
Oh, yeah. She found him attractive, all right.
So what are you going to do about it?
Drive her crazy, he told himself. Completely and utterly crazy. Maybe then she’d leave him alone.
Chapter Three
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Mariah ran back to her car while he finished up with the pasture horses. With any luck, she’d have gained control of her emotions by the time they met up again, at least she hoped so, anyway, as she pulled to a stop in front of his home. She found herself pausing for a moment after reaching between the passenger seat and driver’s seat and grabbing a brown bag with her hors d’oeuvres.
She peered out the front windshield in curiosity. His home was gorgeous. A real showplace. Absolutely nothing of the original ranch remained. The outside consisted of three A-frames that sat side by side, with the middle portion bigger than the rest. Redwood siding complemented the massive windows along the front. The landscaping alone had to have cost 100 grand.
When she opened the car door and stepped outside, she could smell the redwood mulch used to line the planters of the gardens.
At least she didn’t smell him anymore.
He’d told her to go on inside, but it still felt odd to open one of the double doors.
“Wow.”
Okay. There was nice, and then there was niiiice. Cavernous didn’t begin to describe the place. Huge beams supported the middle-section roofline—like the rib cage of a dinosaur. A parquet floor stretched from the fireplace on her right to the entertainment center on her left. Straight ahead a trio of windows overlooked the backside of the ranch with a stunning view of low-lying mountains outside.
“Must be nice,” she heard herself mutter, heading to the left, where she could see the gleam of state-of-the-art kitchen appliances. After vet school she’d inherited a pile of debt and a liability insurance policy the size of a mortgage. It was why she didn’t have her own practice. Not yet, anyway. By the time she made her student loan payment and paid the rent and insurance, not to mention a medical truck payment, she’d be lucky to clear five hundred dollars a month, not enough to live off, and certainly not enough to start her own business. Getting hired by an established vet—someone who could split expenses with her—was the first step toward that happening. And so she waited, and in the meantime she filled in for vacationing veterinarians whenever she could, which wasn’t nearly as often as she needed. Thus the old jalopy outside.
The kitchen was just as spacious and grandiose as the foyer. Stainless-steel everything, light brown countertops with spots like quail eggs, tile on the floor instead of parquet. She set the bag down on the island in the middle, almost afraid to make a mess. If this was being small-time, where did she sign up?
Five minutes later she had just finished stirring the Parmesan cheese into her spinach dip when she heard the front door open.
Oh, dear.
Two seconds later he walked into the kitchen, the smell of him reaching her before he did: it wasn’t shavings she’d smelled on him earlier, but some kind of fresh-cut grass and sweat and some sort of pine-scented aftershave that had caused her just as much discomfort inside as it had outside.
“Whatever that is, it looks delicious.” He cocked his cowboy hat back a bit and peered into the dish. “What is it?”
He was tall. She liked tall men. They made her feel feminine and secure and somehow safe.
He’s a racehorse owner, the sane part of her screamed. Heck, and a horse trainer, too.
But he’d agreed to let her help him. That meant something.
“It’s cheesy spinach dip.” She tried like heck not to edge away from him, but she could feel the heat radiate off of him, which, in turn, made her feel flush. “There’s enough calories in that to clog an artery or two.”
He leaned down close to her, so close she could see the dark blue ring around his eyes. “You trying to kill me, then?”
He could have no way of knowing how just being next to him was killing her. No way at all, but she could have sworn she saw the glimmer of something in his eyes, something that made her skin prickle.
“It’s really good.” She sounded like a timid little girl.
He had really white teeth and a smile that made it difficult to hold his gaze. “What do we dip?”
She pointed with her chin toward the brown bag. The moment he stepped away, the muscles in her shoulders collapsed. Her legs damn near did, too.
He found the pieces of the French loaf she’d cut up earlier, his look of pleasure as he dipped a fluffy piece of bread, lifted it to his mouth, then chewed doing strange things to her insides.
“Forget dinner. We should eat this.”
“That’s okay with me.”
He smiled. “Nah. I have something special planned. Braised short ribs with a port arsenic reduction.”
It took her a moment to follow his words, which just went to show how discombobulated she was. “Uh-huh.”
All right. So he made her feel all silly and tongue-tied and teenager-like inside. Oh, well. She’d get over it.
“Just kidding.”
He was? She straightened in embarrassment. How had she missed that?
You were too busy ogling him.
“Seriously,” he said. “I’m making fajitas. Simple.” He went to the fridge and began pulling out the ingredients—a package of beef, a bell pepper, an onion and grated cheddar cheese—and then set them on the island next to her brown bag. “Only takes a moment. Sit down while I brown the meat and onions. You can tell me your plans for Dasher.”
She told herself to focus on what she’d come to do, not how the light from a window along the front of the house cast a glow onto his face, highlighting the dusky outline of his whiskers. He had a chin right out of a comic book and the shoulders to match. Hours out of doors had turned his skin a deep mahogany that emphasized the cobalt of his eyes. He kept peeking at her as he unwrapped the meat and set it on a cutting board.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
She took a deep breath. Okay. Focus.
“I bet Dr. Miller suggested stall rest and some kind of therapy for Dasher.”
He nodded as he began chopping the meat. “And maybe surgery.”
“Don’t listen to him.”
He paused. “You care to tell me why I shouldn’t listen to a doctor with thirty years of experience caring for racehorses?”
“For exactly that reason.” She spotted a barstool beneath the center island far enough away from where he stood that maybe she could concentrate. “He’s old-school.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
How could someone so handsome do something so deplorable for a living? It was hard to reconcile the man in front of her—good-looking, cooking dinner for her—and the mental image she’d built up of him as some kind of evil ogre.
“I wrote a paper my senior year on high suspensory tears in equines. In it I completely disproved the validity of the traditional treatment options used by modern-day veterinarians.” She frowned. “Although not without ruffling a few feathers.”
Including Paul’s, but she wasn’t going to think about that.
“I’ll bet,” he said, pulling a pan from somewhere and scraping the meat into it. “You’re good at ruffling feathers.” But he shot her a smile meant to take the sting out of his words, his grin causing her to shift her gaze to the granite counter. No, not granite, marble, she suddenly realized.
“They didn’t like that I was right.” When she lifted her gaze, it was in time to see him turn away, pan in hand, the click-click-click of the gas burner filling the air. “I might not have had as large a control group as they wanted, but I proved that conventional medical treatment guaranteed no more success than my method. In fact, my method actually had more success, something the review board chalked up to luck.”
And it still burned her when she thought about it. Luck. As if fate had had something to do with the successful rehabilitation of two show horses.
“And what is that method?”
The sizzle of cooking meat made her stomach growl. She reached for a piece of bread and scooped a bit of the dip. She was pleased with how good it tasted.
“Let me ask you something.” She resisted the urge to snatch up another piece. “If you were to tear your ACL or your meniscus, what do you think the doctors would prescribe as treatment?”
His back was still toward her as he shrugged, and Mariah couldn’t help noticing the muscles beneath his polo shirt. They were as well defined as a professional boxer’s. Must be all that hay he lifted.
“Rest. If that didn’t work, surgery.” She watched as he moved the meat around the pan. “Therapy afterward.”
“Exactly.” She gave in and scooped up more of the dip. Chewing gave her a moment to gather her thoughts. “Therapy. But what do they suggest you do? Lock your horse up for months on end, then walk him for another two months. No turnout. No movement. No real exercise. Nothing but rest, and that’s not good for an animal that’s genetically programmed to roam the range. Keep them cooped up for a few weeks and what happens?”
He turned, glancing up at her as he grabbed the onion pieces. “They blow.”
“Exactly,” she pronounced again. “And then you’re right back where you started from, sometimes in an even worse position. I’ve seen some injured horses go crazy in their stalls from lack of activity. So you drug them, but you can only keep them drugged for so long before they have health problems, and then what?”
He went back to cooking and it smelled divine, especially when he grabbed some spices from a rack above the stove. The scent of whatever he sprinkled caused her to close her eyes and inhale.
“So what do you suggest we do for Dasher?”
She had to force herself to open her eyes, because it was far easier to concentrate when she wasn’t looking at him. “Minimal stall rest, enough time to let the injury heal, then right back to work. Not,” she quickly interjected, “regular work, but therapeutic activity, the same type of therapy your own doctor might prescribe. Stretches, leg lifts, weights, followed by massages and hot-and-cold therapy.”
“You going to put Dasher on a treadmill, too?”
“I just might.”
Once again he turned around and she couldn’t mistake the laughter in his eyes, or the curiosity. He might be somewhat distracted cooking his scrumptious-smelling fajitas, but not so much that he hadn’t heard what she had to say. What felt like butterfly wings brushed against her stomach. She had to look away, for fear he’d see the pleasure in her eyes.
He’s the enemy. Best to remember that.
“My research shows it’s important to keep a horse moving.”
Too bad her professors had dismissed her findings. As if torn suspensories grew on trees. It would take years to compile enough data to appease them. Meanwhile, horses would continue to languish.
She shook her head. “Just like for a human, a lack of movement can cause the supporting tendons and muscles to atrophy. Standing still is the last thing you want them to do.”
He went to the refrigerator and pulled out tortillas, then went back to stirring the pan.
“So what you’re saying is you’d like me to do the exact opposite of what Doc Miller says.” He picked up the pan and flipped all the ingredients like a master chef, and Mariah tried hard not to seem impressed when he glanced back at her afterward. “I’m supposed to just trust you.”
Well, when he put it that way...
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I also know I’m right.”
With a quick flick of his wrist, he turned off the stove, pulled out a pot holder from a drawer, tossed it on the counter, then set the steaming pan down on top of it.
“That smells so good,” she said.
“Help yourself.” He motioned toward the tortillas.
“No, no. You go first.”
“Absolutely not. Ladies first.”
A gentleman. Figured he’d be the exact opposite of what she’d expected.
“There’s cilantro in the bag there if you want some.” He pointed. “Oh, and I have salsa, too.” He moved to the fridge and pulled a jar off a shelf. “Here.”
She piled some meat and veggies onto a tortilla, hardly paying attention to what she grabbed because he was right next to her again and she’d begun to realize that being close to him was dangerous to her peace of mind.
“Thanks,” she said.
Why did he have to be a racehorse owner? Why couldn’t he have been a regular horse trainer? The kind that showed animals. One of the good ones, because even show-horse trainers could be bad. He wasn’t. He was a racehorse trainer and owner. So she found herself ducking her head and trying like the devil not to notice how gorgeous his eyes were and how his smile came with dimples.
She couldn’t retreat to the far end of the island fast enough. She nearly lost her appetite when he took a seat next to her.
“Do you like it?”
Had she taken a bite? Goodness, she hadn’t even noticed. “Yes. It’s great.”
And it was. Great cook. Good man. Gorgeous dimples. Crap.
She’d finished half her plate before she said another word, and then only to say, “Thanks for cooking.”
“My pleasure.”
Was there any way she could get up and move without seeming rude? Probably not. So she forced herself to stop eating and say, “I really think with a few months of therapy, Dasher could be sound enough to ride. Not to race, of course, but good enough to go on to a career as a show horse or something. I’d want to see the ultrasounds Dr. Miller took today, of course, just to make sure, but I don’t anticipate I’ll change my mind. A torn suspensory is a torn suspensory.”
“I’ll have them for you first thing in the morning.”
“It’s okay. Take your time. He’s going to need at least a month off. Then we’ll get to work.”
“You’re going to help me rehab him?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
She couldn’t take it anymore. She hopped up, scooping her plate up with her. “I’ll do your dishes for you.”
“Hell, no, you won’t.” He jumped up, too, grabbing her arm and turning her around midstep. “Let me take that.”
Instinctively, she pulled her arm back. He closed the distance and reached for her plate. Their midsections brushed. Her cheeks heated like a nuclear reactor. She tried to step away, but the counter kept her from moving.
“Thanks,” he said softly, taking the plate from her and setting it on the counter behind her.
Should she dart past him? Push him out of the way? What?
The man clearly read the dilemma in her eyes.
“Now what are you going to do?” he teased softly.
Chapter Four
If she’d still been holding the plate, she would have smashed it over his head, Zach thought, trying not to laugh.
“Let me go.”
Her whole body had tensed. Her eyes briefly darted to his lips. She couldn’t look at them for long.
Maybe it was all the times she’d caused him grief at the track. Maybe it was because she tried so hard to pretend there was nothing between them when it was clear as day that there was. Whatever the reason, he liked messing with her. Something about her gorgeous red hair and flashing brown eyes. Something that challenged him. No. Something that defied him. Her eyes seemed to silently accuse him of pushing her buttons on purpose...and he did.
“I thought you had a proposition for me,” he whispered.
He saw her gulp, as if she suspected he meant a different type of proposition but didn’t dare call him on it. “I do.”
Her hands had stopped pushing. They lay flat against him in a spot somewhere between his breastbone and his abdomen, and it was all he could do not to bring their lower sections together again. Then he felt it, the gentle flexing of her fingers, the tips of them pressing against his chest, sliding downward.
Agh.
He let go. But when he looked in her eyes, he knew. She’d known exactly the type of proposition he’d had in mind—and it’d infuriated her.
“My proposition was to treat all of your injured horses, not just Dasher.” She was shorter than him but somehow she managed to look down her nose. “I recognize they’re under the care of Dr. Miller, but I can help them in a way he can’t, free of charge.”
He’d gone from being amused to feeling like a putz in two seconds flat. “How do you know I have more than one injured horse?”
“Track gossip says you have three, and that one of them is still undiagnosed despite spending a small fortune in vet fees.”
Holy—he’d have to talk to his staff about blabbing to perfect strangers.
“One of them had a fractured sesamoid. There’s not much you can do about that.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you let me decide that?”
“When?”
“The sooner we start, the better.”
He should tell her no. He didn’t need her poking around in even more of his business. Lord, for all he knew, this might be a ploy. A way for her to get into his business. To find something she and her friends at CEASE could use against him and maybe other horse breeders.
“Look, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t exactly afford to pay you for experimental vet care. With Dasher out of commission it’s going to make it hard for ends to meet as it is.”
“I told you, there’s no need to pay me.” She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’ll do it all for free.”
Wow. She must really want to get the dirt on him.
Yet as he stared into her eyes, he didn’t think that was true. She didn’t look at him with malice in her eyes. Sure, she might still be irked over his whole “proposition” comment, but that wasn’t what this was about. She stared up at him earnestly, and he could tell she waited with bated breath for him to answer.
Free vet care.
He’d spent a small fortune on Summer, the bay filly he’d been hoping to race and then breed. They’d found nothing wrong. Doc Miller had suggested he haul the horse up to UC Davis for a full-body scan, something he had neither the time nor the money to do, and it’d been heart-wrenching to admit they couldn’t do anything else for her. He’d still breed her when she was old enough, but if he could discover what was wrong...
“Be here tomorrow around ten. I’ll pop in after morning workouts and show you what we’ve got.”
She hadn’t expected him to agree. He saw her golden-brown eyes widen for a moment.
But then she relaxed. “Okay, then,” she said with a glance toward the food she’d brought. “I’ll just pick that up tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Dinner was great.”
She sidled toward the door.
He leaned back against the counter and asked a question that had been on his mind all afternoon. “Why?”
She paused. “Why, what?”
“Why are you doing this?”
She stood in his kitchen, her red hair so wild and untamed his fingers itched to grab a curl and tug it. The tips of it sparkled like the depths of a fire opal, the gold flecks matching the sparkle in her eyes.
“I want what’s best for your horses. All horses. So many ex-racehorses are tossed away, but if we could get yours better, send them on to second careers, it might help your bottom line and help me to prove there’s no need to kill a horse simply because it can’t race again. Plus, if something I do helps them, then it might help others, and maybe there’ll be one less horse sent to slaughter.”
Something in her eyes changed while she said the words. She no longer seemed nervous. She wasn’t peeking glances at his lips anymore, either. She faced him square on and he knew she’d remembered who he was then and, more important, what he did for a living. He doubted she’d ever let him get close to her again.
Too bad.
* * *
SHE HAD HERSELF firmly under control the next morning, or so she told herself. Still, her pulse raced as she pulled into the same parking spot as yesterday. It’d dawned another cool and crisp day, the kind of day that made horses frisky and the scent of fresh-cut grass hang in the air. The sun against the side of the white barn nearly blinded her. She took a deep breath as she emerged from her car, wondering where he was.
“In here,” she heard him call.
She headed toward the barn, and the moment she spotted him standing in the middle of the aisle, a friendly smile on his too-handsome face, she knew she’d been kidding herself.
Control. Bah.
“Welcome back,” he called.
His black brows lifted when he smiled, and the edges of his eyes crinkled, and it was such a damn friendly smile it made her teeth click and then jam together. Handsome, hunky, hazardous-to-her-health son of a gun.
“Bet your racehorse friends would keel over if they saw me here today.”
It was the only thing she could think to say, but it was true. She knew she wasn’t liked at the racetrack, and that was okay. As long as she saved horses’ lives, that was all that mattered.
“You’re probably right, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
In other words, he didn’t want it known that she was helping him. The words shouldn’t surprise her or bother her, but they did. She tried to hide her disappointment by saying, “Wow. This is nice.”
Like the house on the hill, the stable was a showpiece. She’d been so distracted yesterday she hadn’t paid much attention, but today she’d noticed that while the outside might be nondescript—a simple whitewashed building with an A-frame roof—the inside was a different story. Old-fashioned open-box stalls stretched down both sides, the kind with three-quarter walls and swooping Regency-style grills atop them. The bars were made out of black iron, higher in the back than in the front, but the change in altitude was accomplished with an almost roller coaster–like curve—very swanky. The face of each stall had the same type of bars, one on the left side and one on the right, gently swooping toward each other and meeting in the middle at the stall door. It was as if she’d been transported back two hundred years—well, except for the rubber mats covering the barn aisle. They even had tack trunks—large wooden boxes that held bits and bridles and maybe even a saddle or two—in between the stalls, although they were covered in red vinyl, the crimson color matching the blankets and halters hanging from the stall fronts.
“Actually, more like amazing,” she amended.
“Yeah, my mom had pretty good taste.”
He’d just come from the track, and so he wore a red polo shirt with JJJ stitched across the left breast. She could smell the sweat and horses on him and it should have served as a reminder of what it was she was here to do. Instead she found herself simply inhaling the scent of him and then fighting the urge not to close her eyes.
Way to rein in those hormones!
Clearly fifteen hours away from him had done little to cool her jets.
“I like the old-fashioned look of the place,” she admitted.
He lifted his cowboy hat, then ran a hand through his ample hair, leaving indented rows where his fingers had touched. “Yeah, although my dad complained the entire time that everything was just fine the way it was.” Like a cloud covering the sun, a shadow formed in his eyes. “He never understood the need to show off.”
Unlike my mother.
The words were unspoken, but she gleaned what he wanted to say from the tone of his voice.
“You should open up the place for horse boarding.” She hoped he picked up on the change of subject, because she didn’t like the way staring into his troubled eyes made her heart soften. “I know some hunter/jumper trainers that would kill for a place like this.”
“I don’t have an arena.”
“You could build one. I saw a small track out behind the barn. Build one in the middle.”
He tucked his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Alas, that drew her eye to his midsection and what she knew would be a ridge of muscle just beneath his belly button. Did he have hair there, too? Dark hair that formed a V above his...
Stop it!
She couldn’t help herself. The man was pure good-looking. He could be the spokesperson for a cologne commercial. Sell whiskey to the Amish. Rocks to a coal miner.
“Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards right now.”
Because of his finances, she immediately realized. “Maybe if I help you sell one of your horses, you could do it then.”
What are you doing?
You shouldn’t be helping him to stay in business. Frankly, helping him go out of business should be her goal.
His hands slipped from his pockets. He crossed them in front of him. “So you’re a veterinarian and a horse broker now?”
She shrugged even as inside she mentally sucker punched herself for offering to help him out. Again.
“I’ve come into contact with a lot of different people through vet school, and a lot of really good racehorses are off the track.”
He grinned, but it was a small one, the man seeming almost bemused. “You know, I thought for sure you’d be a real pain in my rear, but you’re surprisingly nice.”
Aww, how sweet....
She had to swallow back her irritation at herself. “Give it time. I promise to offend you soon.”
The smile on his face grew. “You sound like you don’t really want to be friends.”
“I want to do what’s best for the animals.”
“It’s better than being enemies, though, isn’t it?”
No.
She needed him to be an adversary. He was easier to resist that way.
Who was she kidding?
Ever since she’d first spotted him at the racetrack, she’d been smitten. He’d caught her gaze and everything inside her had gone, “Oooh.” She’d contained her reaction only by telling herself the man was a jerk—a racehorse owner—so he was ugly inside. Only he wasn’t ugly inside. At least, she didn’t think so.
She moved toward one of the stalls, berating herself the whole way, but when she caught a glimpse of the animal inside, she said, “Wow.”
The dark bay animal took her breath away—huge shoulders, massive hindquarters, long legs, and all topped off with the prettiest head and large brown eyes she’d ever seen. The horse hardly spared her a glance, though; he was napping, back leg resting, ears cocked back casually.
“What a gorgeous animal.”
“Yup. He’s a dandy, all right,” he said with pride. “Dandy of a Dasher, that’s his registered name. Dandy for short.”
“Is Dandy one of your injured horses?”
He came up next to her and whatever aftershave he wore wafted toward her on a breeze. Sage again. And pine. And then something different, yes, there it was...leather and horses. Her two favorite smells in the world, and they emanated from her enemy.
“He’s the one coming off the sesamoid injury.”
“How bad of a break was it?”
“Doc called it an apical fracture. No tendon damage. I could probably race him, but...”
If he did, the odds of the horse breaking down again were huge, and the next time might be catastrophic. She clutched the front of the stall, her stomach doing that odd little flip thing again, the same thing it’d done when she’d first spotted him at the track. Most owners would send a horse back to work—damn the long-term consequences. That he didn’t, well, it was one more reason to get her lust under control. She could never get involved with a man who raced horses for a living, even if he was one of the nicer ones.
“Did the bone chip?” she asked.
“No. Just a hairline fracture. Enough to make him lame. He’s been off since November.”
That translated to six months. “He should be nice and healed by now.”
“Doc said he is. He gets daily turnout and I haven’t seen him take a lame step in months. Just not sure what to do with him.”
Okay, brace yourself.
She turned and faced him. “This is exactly the type of horse I think I can help you with.” She cleared her throat. “As long as there’s no bone chip or full fracture, there isn’t any reason why he couldn’t go on to perform in a dressage arena or maybe even a jumping pen. I’d want to see his X-rays before I make a judgment call, but if they look good, and you don’t mind, I’d like to put some miles on him under saddle, maybe take some new film in a few weeks to see how he’s holding up and, if it looks good, call a few friends of mine.”
“You want to ride him?”
She took a deep breath before facing him again. Why was he looking at her like that? “Yeah. You know. Leg him up, get a feel for what’s going on up here.” She tapped her head. “Maybe take some video so I can assess how he moves. See if he has any potential.”
He’d done it again, moved closer. She hadn’t even noticed. “You’re really determined to help me, aren’t you?”
It felt as if she’d swallowed an air bubble all of a sudden. “Not you,” she choked out, “your horses.”
“I see. I’m still the enemy?”
She steeled herself. “As long as you race horses, you will always be the enemy.”
When she snuck a glance at him, he seemed disappointed and almost hurt.
Ignore it, she told herself.
“Good to know where I stand.”
“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Oh, we are.”
She nodded. “I’ll partner with you, but only for the horses’ sake.”
“Got it.”
She took another deep breath, telling herself she should be grateful he understood.
Why do you feel like such a jerk, then?
“So my first bit of advice is to list your horses on this website I know about. It’s for off-the-track racehorses. A lot of trainers keep an eye on what’s being posted there.”
“Just give me the URL.”
“But before we do that, I’ll need to ride him first.”
“And are you any good at riding?”
She imagined the double entendre to his word. No way was he flirting with her again after what she’d just made clear.
“I grew up on horseback.”
“Oh, yeah? Were you one of those spoiled horse-show kids?”
He wasn’t being mean, just curious. And, yes, she had definitely imagined the double entendre.
She gave her attention back to the horse. “No. My family couldn’t afford riding lessons, so I hung out at the local riding stable. The resident horse expert took pity on me.” She tipped her chin up proudly. “It took a lot of hard work, but I learned to ride well enough that I qualified for a national scholarship. Rode for my college team until entering grad school. So, yes, I ride.”
“I’m impressed.”
Don’t fall for his soothing charm.
“If I hadn’t learned how to ride, I doubt I would have ever gotten into vet school. We couldn’t have afforded it.”
When she dared to look into his dark blue eyes again, she saw interest there, maybe even admiration.
“Lucky for all the abused racehorses in the world that you did.”
Except his horses didn’t look abused. Far from it. Dandy was the picture of good health.
“It’s been a while, though,” she admitted. “Haven’t been on a horse in a few months.” She was at the mercy of whoever had a horse that needed exercising since she couldn’t afford one of her own, not that she needed one. She had her hands full.
“Why not get back on right now?”
She straightened in surprise. “Oh, I don’t know. Dandy’s injury...”
“Doc cleared him for work weeks ago.”
“Yeah, but I’d still like to look at his chart.”
“You don’t have to work him. Just walk him around. He’ll be fine.”
He was challenging her—she could see it in his eyes. Maybe all her talk of being wary adversaries had gotten under his skin. Or maybe he just wanted to see what she was capable of and what he was getting into, not that she blamed him.
“What if he gets away from me in his excitement at being ridden again?” She shook her head. “I’d rather come back tomorrow.”
Regroup. Get her head screwed on straight, because right now she had a hard time remembering what he did for a living and that as much as she’d like to succumb to his friendly blue eyes, he could never be her friend.
“Okay, tomorrow it is, but did you want to see the last horse with an injury? It’s a filly. No one can figure out what’s wrong with her.”
“Why don’t you get her chart, too?” Because she really just wanted to escape.
He rocked back on his heels, examined her, a hand lifting toward his chin and stroking the razor stubble. “Okay, but she’s right over there.”
He wasn’t going to stop, and it did seem silly to not at least have a look, especially since that was the whole point of her visit this morning. She followed his gaze, spotting a bay filly out in the pasture, an animal as beautiful as Dasher and Dandy.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Intermittent lameness,” he said as they walked to the wooden gate. The thing opened with barely a sound, at least not to her ears, but the filly heard them. She lifted her head.
“I thought at first it was a growth issue, but her joints all look fine. Had her scanned up one side and down the other. A shame, too, because she showed real promise.”
Promise as a racehorse. And what better a reminder than the young horse they approached. Beautiful. Sleek. A racehorse. One potentially ruined by him.
“And if I can make her sound again? What then?”
Clearly, he knew the direction of her thoughts. Just as clearly, he didn’t want to answer her. “She’ll return to work.”
“As a racehorse?”
He shrugged.
Well, of course. What did she expect? That he would have a sudden change of heart where racing horses was concerned? Hardly.
The filly turned toward them, nostrils flaring as they approached. Something about their scent must have titillated her senses, because her tail suddenly lifted. Her neck arched. She bolted toward them. If Mariah hadn’t known better, the filly would have looked sound, but years of training had taught her to spot the telltale signs of lameness, and she saw it in the horse’s gait, especially when she broke into a trot, the filly coming to a halt a few feet away, ears pricked forward, eyes bright.
“Hey there, pretty girl,” she heard Zach croon. “How you feelin’ today?”
Voice so soft, eyes so kind, hand outstretched as he sought to soothe the fractious filly.
The evil racehorse owner. The horrible horseman. The man responsible for so many lost lives—equine lives, but just as important to her as human lives.
He cared.
The man took a step closer, whispered soothing words, placed a palm against the horse’s neck.
“It’s the right front,” he said softly.
“I saw that.” She approached cautiously. “Has she gotten any better since you put her out to pasture?”
He shook his head as he stroked the animal’s mane. “It comes and goes. Sometimes she seems almost sound. Other days—”
Bad. Like today. “And they found nothing on X-rays or scans.” Not a question, more of a statement.
“Nothing.”
His disappointment had nothing to do with the loss of a valuable racehorse and everything to do with the health of his animal. She knew that, though how she knew it, she couldn’t say.
“I’ll need to see her chart, too.”
He nodded, still petting the horse.
“And perform my own diagnostics.”
He faced her again. “Anything you want.”
Dear Lord, she didn’t want to like the man, but it was hard not to when he stared at her so hopefully.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I would appreciate that.”
She found herself backing away before she could stop herself, as if he were a dangerous tiger about ready to pounce.
“Call me if you can’t get those records. Some clinics can be weird about releasing information.”
“I’ll let you know.”
He moved away from the horse, falling into step next to her as she hurried toward the exit. The horse followed along, Mariah glancing back in time to spy the limp. Poor thing.
“Thanks for coming out today.”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t forget the way he’d studied the filly like a man worried about his best friend. It disturbed her, though not in a bad way.
“Can I take you to lunch? As a way of thanking you?”
“No, no. I, ah, I have another appointment to go to after this.”
He didn’t say anything, not for the longest time. She saw him scan her face, spotted the way his gaze lingered on her lips, and then his eyes sprouted the faintest hint of a challenge. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she lied.
He knew she didn’t have anything more important to do than watch YouTube videos for the rest of the afternoon. Just as he knew she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary, and not because of what he did for a living. Oh, no. She didn’t want to spend more time with him, because despite what she told herself, she really did like him.
Fool.
There was no denying that she was.
Chapter Five
She hated horse racing.
Zach reminded himself the next morning, and it was all the reason in the world to give Mariah a wide berth. Yet oddly, he kept glancing at his cell phone’s clock as he oversaw his morning workouts and then later, on the way back to his ranch.
That cell phone chimed as he turned off the main road. A quick glance revealed what he suspected: email alert. Doc Miller’s office. They’d pdf’d the information Mariah needed. When he arrived at his ranch, he headed toward the barn and figured Mariah must already be there, judging by the car parked out front. She had to be in the stall with Dandy because he didn’t see her when he glanced down the barn aisle as he headed toward his office. It took him just a moment to print out a black-and-white copy of Dandy’s radiographs and the accompanying chart.
Mariah the vet, he thought as he did so. Mariah the champion equestrienne. Mariah the enigma.
She was right where he’d figured she’d be, inside the stall with Dandy tied to an iron bar, an English saddle on his back. She glanced up at him, but it was a quick look, as if she didn’t trust herself to make eye contact.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she echoed.
He tried to come up with something to say, but all he could think about was how strange it was to have her in his barn. After months of being adversaries it was still hard to wrap his head around Mariah being a friend, not a foe.
“I see you brought your saddle.”
She nodded.
“English, huh?”
“No other way to ride.” She flipped up the flap of the saddle and buckled the girth.
He almost smiled. “If you say so. Myself, I prefer a Western saddle.”
She dropped the flap, eyeing the gelding critically. “Not me.”
It was the most mundane conversation in the world, which made him all the more aware of the fact that this was Mariah Stewart in front of him. And she wore breeches and boots. Women in skintight pants and leather boots should be outlawed, he thought, especially women who looked like Mariah. She had the sleek curves of one of his racehorses and the fiery mane of loose hair to match, and he always, always noticed even when he told himself not to pay attention.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the chart up in the air so she could see it. “All my horses’ charts.”
She reached through the bars and took the papers from him. He watched as she flipped to the first sheet but only for a moment, her fingers flying to the next sheet and then the next. It was his first chance to observe Mariah the vet in action, and he had to admit, she sure looked like a professional, lips pursing as she paused from time to time. When she got to the radiographs—pdf copies on regular-sized paper—she turned them this way and that, at one point dipping toward the bright end of the barn so she could get a better look. He had no idea if it was the filly’s or Dandy’s that she studied so intently.
“Dandy’s latest scan looks great.”
He hadn’t realized how tense he was until that moment. “Good.”
“Hairline fracture at the most. You can hardly see where it was in the most current film. I doubt it’d even show up in a vet check...as long as he’s sound.”
“He’s sound, but I wouldn’t be comfortable selling him to someone who didn’t know his history.”
She glanced up sharply. “No. Of course not.”
“And the filly?”
“Puzzling,” she said with a frown at the papers in her hand. “The only thing I can pinpoint are some narrow margins between the coffin bone and the navicular. Most horses have more padding between the two, but it still shouldn’t cause her any pain.” She looked up at him again. “But you never know. Just like people, some animals are more sensitive than others. I’d want to begin there.”
“Great.”
She handed him the papers back. “Meanwhile, I’ll focus on Dandy.”
“If you need a bridle, there’s more than a few in the tack room at the end.”
“Already grabbed one.” She bent and scooped something up. “I assume it’s okay to use this one?”
She held up a snaffle bit. A relic of days gone by, back when his mother used to ride, although he noticed she’d cleaned it up some. His mom had been gone from the ranch for nearly a decade, but reminders of her still remained. She’d ridden English, too, but she’d trotted right out of his life the day he’d graduated high school. He sometimes wondered if she’d planned it that way—get him older, then leave.
“The snaffle is fine. That’s all we ever work our horses in around here.”
“Where can I ride?”
“Out on the track if you like.” Memories of his mother were never pleasant.
She slipped the bridle on Dandy, then opened the stall door, and what had looked like a shapely body before suddenly turned into va-boom. It was hard to keep his eyes up as she walked by. The woman could be the main act at a men’s club. Shazam. Just give her a whip and a rope to hang from and she’d be all set, especially with that long red hair of hers hanging down....
“...safety.”
He blinked. She stared. He realized she’d asked him a question.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
She’d spotted him ogling her. He felt his face color for the first time in ages. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly they were back on familiar ground. Protagonist/antagonist, only this time for a whole other reason.
“I asked if you had a helmet.”
He nodded. “One of our tack trunks.”
He had to hide his chagrin as he turned toward a large wooden box, lifting the chrome lid. Sure enough, an old white skullcap lay inside.
“I don’t know if it’ll fit.” He handed it to her.
She took the thing from him, eyeing the inside skeptically, probably for spiders, before somehow gathering all her hair atop her head and covering it with the helmet.
“It’ll do.”
She looked nice with her hair tucked away. It accentuated the shape of her face.
Her eyes narrowed.
She’d caught him staring again.
“That type of helmet always reminds me of a gumball.” He threw the excuse out, although he half hoped to tease a smile to her lips, though why he bothered he had no idea. It was clear she didn’t want to be his “friend” any more than he wanted to be her ally—at least, that was what he told himself.
“How long did you say it’s been since he’s been ridden?” she asked.
“A while. You sure you’re still up for this? We could always have one of my guys get on him first—”
“No need for that.”
“Might be safer.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Actually, I’m more worried about a lawsuit from your heirs.”
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