Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren
wife.” She walked to the feed room and began organizing dinnertime for the horses. A moment later Albert stuck his head in the door.
“I got to go,” Albert said. “Linette’s come down with the flu. Making her sick to her stomach. She’s afraid to drive home. She’s dizzy and throwing up.”
“Oh, Albert, I’m sorry.”
“I hate to leave you like this. The stalls are clean, so you just got to feed and water tonight, but I may not make it in tomorrow.”
“I’ll manage. You go look after Linette. And try not to come down with the flu yourself.”
Albert shook his heavy head. “Told her when she went back to teaching fourth grade she was gonna bring home every disease known to man, but would she believe me? No.”
“Go, Albert. She doesn’t need to be giving it to the rest of the school. And stay home as long as you have to.”
Albert called over his shoulder, “Want me to see if I can get Randy or Kenny to come in and help you out tomorrow?”
Vic shook her head. “Won’t be the first time I’ve cleaned twenty-five stalls, and probably won’t be the last. Shoo. Scat. Don’t you dare get sick.”
As soon as she heard his truck rumble out of the driveway, she sat down on the tack trunk again. She prided herself on not being one of those weepy women, but right now she needed a darned good cry.
She was strong enough and capable enough to handle this place by herself for a short time, but she was facing mighty sore muscles and long hours unless Albert came in to help her tomorrow.
ValleyCrest definitely needed more help. At least one groom, but preferably two. And one person capable of riding a dozen horses a day. She’d have to put another ad in the newspaper, not that ads had ever brought her anyone halfway decent in the past. Good help who knew about horses was rare and expensive.
Suddenly the stallion began to call again. “Oh, blast,” she said. “Albert’s not here to help me bring him in. I’ll never manage it by myself.” She raised her voice and shouted, “You may have to stay in the pasture all night.” She pulled herself to her feet. “Serve him right. Why should he be comfortable? I’m not.”
“Miz Jamerson?” A voice called from in front of the stable. “Miz Jamerson, we got to see you right now.”
She ran a hand down her face. What now?
Two big men in jeans, one considerably younger than the other, stood in front of a truck outside the barn. Neither looked happy.
“Jackson here hasn’t finished the rough plumbing in the new bathroom up at the house, and I got a whole wiring crew scheduled first thing in the morning,” the older one said.
“Not my fault,” Jackson said. “I told him I’d need two days, didn’t I?” He turned to the older man and said truculently. “I told you.”
“Yeah, well, a halfway decent plumber with a crew the size of yours ought to be able to do that little bit of rough plumbing in eight hours max.”
“Who the hell—?”
“Whoa!” Vic shouted. “Knock it off, both of you.”
The two men turned to her. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Jackson, you’re scheduled to be done with the plumbing tomorrow, am I correct?”
“Yes, ma’am, just like I said.” He cut his gaze to the other man.
“And, Mr. Millhouse, your crew is coming in tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am, just like Mr. Whitten’s specs say.”
“Then split the difference. Mr. Jackson, get your men in here an hour early and get that rough plumbing done before noon, whatever it takes. Mr. Millhouse, bring your crew in at one in the afternoon and work until dark.”
Both men spoke at once. Vic held up her hand. “Mr. Jackson, Mr. Millhouse, I suggest you do it, because Mr. Whitten is not going to put up with shoddy workmanship, and I am not going to put up with tantrums from any more damned males today. I’ve had it up to here with testosterone. Do I make myself clear?”
Both men stared at her, then looked at each other and nodded slowly.
“May I suggest you get back to work—both of you,” Vic said. “You’ve got at least an hour of daylight left.”
The two men shared a look that damned to eternity the weirdness of females. They walked to the truck, climbed in and drove off up the hill.
After a few moments, Vic turned to go back into the barn and jumped. A man sat astride a large and very dusty motorcycle beside her truck. Vic sensed in that instant how alone she was out here without Albert or Angie or any of the horse owners.
“Where did you come from?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm. “I didn’t hear the motorcycle.”
“I rode up while those men in the truck were driving down. Must have covered the sound.”
“That was five minutes ago. What have you been doing since?” So he’d waited silently until she was completely alone? Disquieting.
“Waiting for you to have time to talk to me.”
The man had an accent of some sort. “Irish?” she asked.
He grinned, showing a mouthful of incredible white teeth and a couple of dimples that made her heart lurch. “I’m a Scot,” he said. “From up Oban way.”
“Do you have a name?”
He climbed off his motorcycle and walked toward her. She backed up a step.
“Name’s Jamey McLachlan, lass. And I want a job.”
CHAPTER TWO
“JOB? WHAT SORT OF JOB do you want?” Vic asked.
Jamey McLachlan took another step toward her, apparently noticed her uneasiness and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“General dogsbody,” he continued. “I can clean stalls, feed, water, exercise horses—”
“Did you say exercise horses?”
He nodded. “I can ride anything on four legs.”
“Oh, you can, can you?”
“Absolutely.” He leaned against the side of Vic’s truck, crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. He looked supremely confident.
Vic took her time studying him. He was not more than an inch taller than she—five ten at most—and weighed perhaps ten pounds more, if that. He looked to be all muscle, but not the rippling weight-lifter kind. He was whipcord thin.
His jeans looked dusty and worn, but expensive—European, black and skintight. She dragged her eyes away from the very obvious bulge at his crotch where the fabric had worn thin and slightly gray.
His blue-black hair had been combed back. He wore it longer than Mike did—but then, this man probably couldn’t afford a barber’s shears often.
He had on a black T-shirt under a leather bomber jacket that was creased and cracked with age. And dusty paddock boots, similar to her own.
She also noted with a slight frisson of disquiet that he wore black leather gloves and a small gold stud in his right ear. His skin was dark—outdoor skin, the kind a ski instructor might have. Or a farmer. Or a drifter who rode a motorcycle without a helmet.
He watched her out of eyes as black as that damned stallion’s.
“Well, want me to strip?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Way you’re looking at me, might as well stand here in my birthday suit. Do you like what you see?”
“What