Читать книгу Mr. Miracle - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

A TUBBY BASSET HOUND and a Labrador retriever with a gray muzzle met Vic at her front door with evident delight. Jamey hunkered down instantly and fondled them both. “Aren’t you the lovely boys, then?” he said. The dogs nearly wagged their bodies in two.

Vic stepped around dogs and man and walked into the living room. She was still shaking from the ride on Jamey’s motorcycle. She’d been scared, but elated, too.

“My niece, Liz, took the two Jack Russell terriers with her to Florida,” she said, “and a friend is keeping her parrot. He’s not fond of me.”

“Can’t imagine any creature not being fond of you.”

“Unfortunately my cat views the parrot as an entrée.”

“Cat? Where?”

“You probably won’t see him. He used to be a barn cat until he got an ear torn off in a fight. Now he’s a house cat, but he’s peculiar. Hides from strangers.”

“Does he really?”

Vic turned and saw Jamey—still squatting on the floor—with a large one-eared gray tabby climbing up his shirtfront to butt him in the chin.

“Oh.”

“Have names, do they?”

“The basset is Max, the Labrador is Sam and the cat is Stripes. We don’t go in for fancy names much around here.”

“We don’t at home, either.” He stood with the cat in his arms. Vic heard the purr from across the room. Surely a man so good with animals couldn’t be Jack the Ripper, could he?

“Going to call Marshall Dunn now? Check on me?”

His ability to read her mind was disconcerting. “It’s almost four in the morning in England, isn’t it? Marshall would kill me if I woke him now.”

“He probably would. But he’ll be up by six to watch the lads ride his Thoroughbreds across the Downs. You can call him before you go to bed.” He grinned over the cat’s head. “And push a chair under your door if you’re nervous.”

Vic felt her face flush. She’d been thinking of doing precisely that. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room.”

“Let me bring in my kit from the bike first.”

“Sure. I’m amazed you can carry a saddle on a motorcycle.”

“Easy. Set the roll bar up in back and strap the saddle to it. I can carry as much in the side holders as you can in the trunk of your average car.”

She watched him open the various holders, extract a pair of duffel bags and bring them in.

“Now I’m ready for that shower,” he said. “Then I’ll make you an omelette fit for a queen.”

“I’m a perfectly adequate cook, thank you.”

“You may be the world’s greatest chef, but I owe you for the job and the bed. Sit. I’ll find my way. You put your feet up.”

Instead of following his advice, she went to the refrigerator, checked to see that she had plenty of eggs and “a bit of cheese,” as well as English muffins. She poured herself a glass of white zinfandel, set another glass on the counter for Jamey and headed for her bedroom.

She’d moved her enormous old bedroom furniture down from the big house. Other than unpacking enough of her clothes to work in, she’d done precious little else. There was not a picture on the wall nor a knickknack on a table. Cardboard boxes sat stacked in every corner. The bed was made up with sheets, pillowcases and quilts, but she hadn’t bothered to put on the dust ruffle. There didn’t seem to be time these days for more than eating, sleeping and working horses.

She sat down on the bed, pulled off her paddock boots and her heavy socks, wiggled her toes, sipped her wine and lay back on the bed for just a moment.

“YOUR DINNER’S READY, lass,” a soft voice said.

Her eyes popped open and she sat up so quickly her head spun.

Jamey McLachlan stood in the doorway—no, lounged in the doorway. His skin glistened and his wet hair shone like an otter’s pelt. He wore fresh jeans and a bright red crewneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up his muscular forearms and only the one glove on his bad hand. He was barefoot.

Suddenly she felt very grubby. “Uh, give me a minute. I must have fallen asleep.”

“I hated to wake you. You looked so peaceful.”

She swung off the bed, pointedly shut the bedroom door in his face and walked into her bathroom. Yuck. She had probably slept with her mouth open and snored like a walrus. She repaired as much damage as she could and joined Jamey in the kitchen.

“You’re as good as your word,” she said half an hour later over the remains of omelette and green salad. “That was delicious. I didn’t realize I had any lettuce that wasn’t growing penicillin.”

He picked up the plates and took them to the sink.

“Nope,” she said. “I’ll clean up. You must be worn-out from riding a motorcycle all day.”

“I’d say it’s a toss-up which one of us is more tired. And remember, boss-lass, you said you intend to work me hard.”

“So I will, but you’re not on kitchen patrol. Go to bed. That’s an order.”

He saluted smartly. “Aye, aye, Captain.” At the kitchen door he paused. “Thanks for taking me in. I promise you Marshall will vouch for me.”

“No doubt.”

She waited until she heard his door close, stuffed the dishes and utensils in the dishwasher, turned it on and went to her bedroom. Marshall would be up by now. She laid her hand on the telephone.

Then she withdrew it. So long as Jamey McLachlan slept under her roof, she’d rather think he was everything he seemed. If Marshall had reservations, what would she do? She couldn’t kick him out in the middle of the night.

Still, better to have him upstairs where she’d hear him if he went out than have him at the stable. He didn’t look like a drug user, but there were plenty of drugs in the locked medicine cabinet that the average druggie would thoroughly enjoy. And there was plenty of tack worth stealing. No. She’d check him out in the morning. “Stripes?” she whispered. “Ready for bed?”

The cat did not respond. So he was hiding, after all. Just a fluke that he’d come to curl around Jamey. Somehow that made Vic feel a little better.

She propped her slipper chair under the door handle before she got ready for bed. Just in case. As she lay awake, she could hear Jamey moving about over her head.

She was used to unexpected company. Riders from other parts of the country who came to town for horse shows often wound up sleeping in her bedrooms, on her Hide-ABed, even in sleeping bags on the floor. Some of them she knew well, and some she knew hardly at all. They, like Jamey, were friends of friends. Sometimes the only recommendation they brought was verbal.

Male or female, it never seemed to matter when there were four or five or more.

This was different. She was much too aware of Jamey McLachlan—a lone male sleeping upstairs. Nude.

Now where had that come from?

Okay, so he looked like the sort of man who slept naked. She’d never find out. Unfortunately she could imagine. She rolled over and dragged the pillow over her head. Just when she’d thought her hormones were under control, they started going berserk. Jamey McLachlan wasn’t the only one going middle-aged crazy.

VIC CAME INSTANTLY AWAKE as she always did in the morning. The clock read six-thirty. She sighed. Time to rise and shine. Horses to feed and water, stalls to clean, horses to put out in paddocks and bring in again, the endless grooming and exercising to get through, then a couple of lessons if the weather warmed up enough. Kids arriving after school. Clients checking on their horses. Then more feeding and haying and watering.

Occasionally Vic wondered what kind of life normal people had.

She sat on the edge of the bed, checked her address book and put in a call to Marshall Dunn. If he was going to be in his office, now would be the time to catch him.

“Dunn here,” came the gruff voice.

“Marshall? It’s Victoria Jamerson from America.”

“Ha! So Jamey chose you, did he?”

“What do you mean, chose me?”

“He called me last week from Kentucky, asked me to express him some referral letters. Wanted to stay in the south for the winter. I gave him Charlie Wright in Ocala, Meg Harwood in Southern Pines, Ted Russelwhite in Phoenix and you. Frankly I thought he’d pick Florida.”

“Essentially the same letter?” Vic asked.

“Mm. Essentially.”

“Why me? I’m hardly a high-profile operation.”

“Don’t remember, really. Maybe he mentioned he wanted to see Graceland or the Mississippi River or something. He seemed very pleased when I mentioned your name.”

“Did he now? Can you really vouch for him?”

“As to his honesty, absolutely. Knew his stepfather for donkey’s years. Jamey idolized Jock. Had a run of bad luck the last few years, what with his hand and losing his wife and brother that way. Not surprising he’d want to get away for a while, especially given his heritage.”

Vic had been caught short by the mention of the death of Jamey’s wife and brother and had planned to ask Marshall for particulars. That is, until his last words caught her attention. “What do you mean, given his heritage?”

“Suppose they do prefer the open road, really. In the genes or something. Surprising he stuck it out in Oban this long. With his parents gone, there’s nothing to hold him in one place any longer.”

“Marshall, I do not know what you’re talking about, and I am growing increasingly exasperated.”

“Ah. Well, of course, you can tell by looking at him, can’t you? The earring, I mean. Dead giveaway. Amazing man with horses, though, and as I say, always been as honest as the day is long with me. Excellent reputation that way.”

“Marshall, what are you talking about?”

“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 struggled to sit up.

His hand on her midriff held her down. “Sit up now and you’ll probably pass out again.”

“Pass out? Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve never passed out in my life.”

He smiled. “Tell me another. I promise I didn’t deck you.”

“Let me up!”

“Answer a question first. Did you have any breakfast before you came trotting down here this morning?”

Vic thought of the cheese and apple in her pocket. “No, actually. Of course, that’s it. Low blood sugar. Too much caffeine, not enough protein.”

“If you like.” He stood and she realized he’d been kneeling beside her.

“How’d I get here?” She closed her eyes, “Oh, Lord, you actually carried me? Probably herniated a bunch of disks in the process. Don’t bother asking for workman’s comp.”

“Stop it.” His voice sounded harsh. “I could carry you one-handed.” His grin came back as he held out his gloved right hand. “As a matter of fact, it took one and a half, which is all I have available at the moment.”

She sat up slowly and carefully. For a moment her head spun, then it stabilized. Her heart rate had returned to something close to normal. Thank God the attack passed quickly this time. “I’m terribly embarrassed. I should know better than to skip breakfast.”

He turned away. “Come off it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Low blood sugar my ass. I’ll go up to the house and bring you something to eat, and then you’re going to tell me what in hell has kept one of the finest riders I ever saw out of the saddle for twenty years.”