Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren
found her in the office at the desk. She sat with her head in her hands. She seemed smaller. He longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.
She heard him open the door, started guiltily and busied herself with something on the pad in front of her.
“Here,” he said, and handed her the sandwich and soda.
She took both, unwrapped the sandwich and began to eat without taking her eyes off him.
“Now talk.” He sat in the straight chair on the other side of the desk.
“Eat now, talk later,” she said..
“I’m not letting go of this.”
“Fine. In the meantime, go exercise a horse or muck a stall or something.” She turned her back on him and took a swig of soda.
“Fine.” He walked out and shut the door behind him. He checked the white board outside the wash rack for the list of horses to be exercised, went to the farthest stall, pulled out a big gray mare, rubbed her down, tacked her up, swung into the saddle and walked her to the arena. If Vic made him groom and tack his own horses, as well as exercise them, this would take all day.
“So let her muck the stalls,” he said to the mare.
As if in answer, the mare wickered softly. Instantly the stallion’s head went up; he turned and cantered straight at the paddock fence.
“Not now, old son,” Jamey said gently. He began to whistle softly. The stallion slid to a stop a foot from the fence, snorted, pranced around a bit and walked off with his tail in the air. The mare, not cycling sexually this early in February, could not have cared less.
“If you’d gotten to her, she’d have kicked your bloody head in,” Jamey said in passing. The stallion ignored him and fixed his eye on the mare.
She did enough ignoring for them both.
“Women,” Jamey said as he took the mare to a trot. “Make you hanker after them, then kick you in the crotch when you come close. Remember that, old son, and protect yourself in the clinches.”
IN THE OFFICE Vic took an additional two bites of her sandwich, then divided the rest between the two dogs. She wasn’t certain she could keep down what she’d already eaten.
How long had it been since she’d panicked that way? Years. Last night she’d managed to head off a full-blown attack when Jamey had demanded she ride behind him on his motorcycle. She’d been so damned proud of herself, elated that she had done it. Even enjoyed it—well, enjoyed having her arms around an attractive man. Her psyche had set her up obviously, and then ambushed her all over again.
She was so used to the whole world knowing and accepting her inability to get on a horse. Nobody questioned her any longer, and now that Frank was dead, nobody ever laughed at her or called her a coward for it, either.
Well, now that Mr. Jamey McLachlan knew what happened when she was pushed, he’d have better sense in future. He could whistle his way back to Oban before she’d discuss it with him any further. She decided to ignore the incident and muck stalls. As she pulled the door to the office closed behind her, the telephone rang. She rolled her eyes, but went back to answer it.
“Vic?”
“Good grief, Albert, you sound worse than Linette did yesterday.”
“The woman’s given me the flu. She’s piled up in the bed and I’m piled up on the couch.”
“Oh, Albert! You need me to come see about you?”
“No! You stay as far away from us as you can and you start taking some zinc right this minute. Maybe you won’t get it.”
“Obviously you’re not coming in today,” Vic said.
Albert groaned in reply.
“Have you called the doctor?”
“Doctor says it’s a virus. It takes three or four days. I got fever, Vic. Grown men don’t get fever.”
“You sound like Linette did it on purpose.” Vic laughed. “Look after yourself and don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll call Kenny and get him to come by after school to help out,” Albert said.
Vic caught her breath. “That won’t be necessary. I, uh...I’m managing just fine.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
His reply was a fit of coughing and a strangled “Bye.” She felt guilty to think of Albert’s flu as a stroke of luck, but now she wouldn’t have to explain Jamey McLachlan to him for at least another couple of days. By then she’d have better evidence that the man was not a serial killer. She knew darn well Albert’s nephew Kenny would go snitch about Jamey to Albert if she let the boy within a hundred yards of ValleyCrest. And Albert would coming racing over, fever or no, to check the man out.
This time she made it to the center hall before the telephone rang again. “Botheration!” she said, and picked up the portable from the wash rack.
“Miz Jamerson?”
She sighed. “Yes, Mr. Wilcox. What is it now?”
“Can you come up to the house? I need a decision on where to place these electrical outlets in the bathrooms.”
“How should I know? Put ’em where you think they should go.”
“Not my place to do that. I can’t go on until you come see.”
She’d been watching Jamey exercise the gray mare in the ring as she talked. The mare usually hated work, but today she seemed relaxed and almost enjoying herself. He definitely did have a way with horses. She noticed, however, that his gloved right hand grasped the right rein loosely, and that his left compensated in a complicated crossover hold. Workmanlike, but hardly delicate.
But he rode with a fluid grace that seemed to make him part of the horse. The mare responded to the slightest tilt of his slim hips.
The man was too damned attractive for his own good. She could think of half a dozen wealthy women who would be willing to set him up in business just for the sake of his companionship after hours.
Good thing she didn’t have enough money to tempt him.
“I’ve got to go up to the house to deal with the contractor,” she called to him. He glanced over, nodded and continued to work the mare.
“Gee,” she whispered. “Sure is nice to be missed.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER the mare relaxed in the paddock farthest from the stallion, and Jamey sat atop a tall, lopeared Thoroughbred gelding that reminded him of that cartoon buzzard—sort of a good-natured klutz.
As he lolloped around the end of the ring, he saw a figure emerge from the stable. For a moment he thought it was Vic, then realized this woman had short curly hair and carried her right arm in a sling. He pulled his horse down to a walk.
She was staring at him with her mouth open. “And whose little boy are you?” she asked.
“Name’s Jamey McLachlan,” he said, and stopped. “You’d be the exercise rider with the broken wing.”
“Angie Womack, yeah. Trust Fund’s momma.”
“Fine animal. Opinionated.”
Angie giggled. “You might say. Where’s Vic?”
“Dealing with a contractor.” He swung off the horse.
“Don’t let me stop you. Where on earth did you materialize from?”
“I’m a fortuitous Scottish saddle burn come to rescue the damsel in distress.”
“And just my size,” Angie said. “My, my,