Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren
“Well, of course, Vic, everyone knows he’s a Rom.”
“What the hell is a Rom?”
“Vic, old thing, the man is a full-blooded Gypsy.”
“So?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Vic—I like Jamey enormously. Glad to write his letters for him. Turned a couple of my hard-case Thoroughbreds into winners. But let’s face it, old dear, whatever veneer Jock McLachlan gave him when he gave the boy his name, he’ll never be a gentleman.”
Vic was too stunned to speak. And then too angry. Finally she simply shook her head at the telephone. “Marshall, your attitudes belong in the twelfth century.”
Marshall rumbled his great laugh. “Possibly. Still, they do me well enough. As for Jamey, enjoy him while you’ve got him. No doubt he’ll be moving along in a month or so. Now, I hear you have a new nephew-in-law and a grandniece. Tell me about them.”
After several more minutes Vic hung up the phone, sat back against the pillows and decided she would do precisely what Marshall had suggested. If a moss-backed bigot like Marshall Dunn considered Jamey McLachlan honest and competent, who was she to question?
Twenty minutes later, dressed and ready to meet the day, she moved the slipper chair from under her doorknob and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. Apparently Mr. McLachlan liked to sleep in. She started up the steps to call him and was met by Stripes coming out of the open door of his room. The cat stalked downstairs, tail erect.
“You spent the night with him, you fickle thing?” Vic said. Then she noticed the dogs were gone. She glanced out the front door and across the porch.
The motorcycle was missing, as well. How could she not have heard him leave? Was he gone already? Along with the silver, perhaps? Or the drugs? She paused at the kitchen door and saw a piece of paper from the memo pad beside the telephone propped against an empty mug. She walked over and picked it up. In an obviously European hand, it read, “Coffee is fresh. See you at the yard. J.”
“The yard?” Oh, yes. The British word for stable.
And that was where her truck had spent the night—in front of the barn. She’d have to walk down.
She grabbed a piece of cheese from the refrigerator and stuck it and an apple in the pocket of her heavy down jacket. She pulled on a knit cap and work gloves, poured herself a mug of coffee, turned off the coffeemaker and, cradling the steaming mug, stepped out into the morning.
The dawn barely tinted the eastern edges of the horizon. The wind was picking up. A blustery February day, then. The horses would all spook at the slightest distraction.
She wore silk long johns under her jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, but the breeze still nipped. “Yesterday, fifty degrees. Today, it’s thirty. Tomorrow, who knows?” she said to the open sky. “Make up Your mind, why don’t You?”
The dogs met her at the door of the barn. Her truck stood where she’d left it, alongside Angie’s car. The motorcycle stood beside it. When had the man gotten out of bed? And why hadn’t she heard him leave? He must move like a ghost.
And a ghost he was. She walked the stalls. Horses watered, fed and hayed. The muck cart already set out beside the last stall ready to be picked and fluffed. The aisle swept of stray hay.
And all peaceful. Quiet.
Quiet? It shouldn’t be quiet, not with Mr. Miracle waking up with the roosters. She trotted down to the stallion’s stall.
Empty. His gate was open. She ran to the door and looked toward the paddock. The stallion grazed at the far end, quiet as a gelding. He seemed to have turned from a terrorist into a wuss overnight.
But where was that damned man?
“Morning, boss-lass,” he said from somewhere behind and above her. She nearly dropped her coffee.
He hung from his good left hand with his feet four rungs from the bottom of the hayloft ladder. He let himself drop and thrust his hands into his pockets as he sauntered over to her with that muck-kicking grin on his face. “I thought I’d start by sweeping up the mouse manure and work up to the horse manure after the morning got a trifle warmer,” he said.
“You are seriously sticking it to me, aren’t you?” Vic answered. She finished her coffee and set the empty mug on the wash-rack shelf.
His grin widened. “See, I figure if I impress you today, I can get away with slacking off from here on in.”
That was when she noticed what he was wearing. A down vest over a skintight black turtleneck sweater, tucked into equally tight beige riding britches and well-worn black riding boots that already had a coating of dust over what had obviously been a spit shine. It was like an anatomy lesson. Every lean muscle defined. And very, very male. She gulped. “Uh, we don’t usually dress up around here except for shows.”
“Ah. This is my usual uniform at home. It’s as comfortable for me as jeans for you, probably. Besides, I get a better grip on my horses in boots. Does it bother you?”
Yes, as a matter of fact it bothered her quite a lot, but not in the way he meant. “N-no, of course not.” She looked away. “Whatever turns you on.”
“Then let’s get to it. How about I alternate exercising horses and cleaning stalls? If we each ride our share, we can be done by lunchtime, and then I can spend the afternoon cleaning out that pigsty upstairs.”
Vic stared at him. He didn’t know? Surely Marshall Dunn had warned him. But perhaps it was such old news that Marshall had not thought it necessary to say anything. Oh, nuts. “I don’t ride,” she said flatly.
“Come on, life’s too short for games.”
“I do not ride.”
“I remember your name from years back. You were on the U.S. equestrian team for a while, weren’t you? You’re just what that big old boy needs to teach him his business.”
“Mr. McLachlan, watch my lips. I have not put a foot in a stirrup in over twenty years. I do not, I can not ride a horse.”
Without warning, the shaking began at her fingertips. She clasped her arms tightly across her chest and felt her racing heart beating in her neck. The pain in her chest was like a vise. She clamped her teeth against the rising nausea and fought to keep them from chattering.
It hadn’t been this sudden or this bad in years. She’d thought she was over the worst of it—the panic, the shattering fear, the sudden desire to run and keep running until she was curled up in her own bed.
She fought to breathe. Last night dealing with the motorcycle had been a piece of cake compared to this.
And dammit, he knew!
“Oh, lass,” he said, and his voice was full of such sorrow and pity that she wanted to scream at him, except that her teeth remained clenched so hard she felt tears well in her eyes.
In an instant he wrapped her in his arms. She wanted to fight him off, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only stand there toe-to-toe and vibrate with the force of her heartbeat.
“Breathe. Take a long breath through your nose,” he said. “Do it!” His voice was harsh. She could feel every muscle of his arms tight around her, his thighs against hers, his body fitted against her. She began to struggle, but he held on. “Let it go,” he whispered. “Let it go.”
She drew a single breath that shuddered throughout her frame. It was as though that breath had hit her body’s off switch. She saw waves of red behind her eyelids...
“WHAT THE HELL am I doing down here?” she said. She felt the rough hay beneath her body and realized she was staring up at the roof of the barn—and into the concerned eyes of Jamey McLachlan. “Oh, drat!” she said, then put her hands against the bale of hay beneath her and