Carolyn McSparren - Mr. Miracle

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, if I weren’t married... Oh, well.”

She followed Jamey to the wash rack and leaned against the wall while he took the tack off the horse. Then she picked up a brush and began to groom the other side.

“Your marriage, my loss,” Jamey said with a gallant bow.

“Ooh.” Angie rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you the sweet-talking liar, though?”

Within two minutes she’d managed to ferret out every bit of information he was at liberty to tell her about his cover story.

“So you’re responsible for the blessed peace and quiet from Mr. Miracle?” Angie asked. “And you’re going to exercise and groom the horses, muck the stalls, clean up that hellhole upstairs, plus feed and water? You have a couple of clones hiding in the office?”

“There’s just one of me. But I work fast.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Angie whispered. For a moment her eyes went flat, but by the time he looked up she was smiling again. “Ready to ride another horse?”

“Ready for a change of pace. Come and talk to me while I muck out a stall or two.”

“I’d offer to help, but with this stupid thing...” Angie waggled her sling at him.

He set to work, balancing the manure pick with his weak right hand and using the strength of his left to lift. Angie watched him, unaware that each time he hefted the fork a twinge of pain shot from his fingers to his elbow. “How well do you know Vic?” he asked.

“Very well and for a long time. I grew up with her niece, Liz, the one who’s just gotten married and run away to Florida for two months. Why?”

“Why doesn’t she ride?”

“Not doesn’t. Can’t.”

He set the fork down. “Listen, I saw the woman ride once a donkey’s years ago when I was still in school. Now I mention riding and she flies apart at the seams.”

Angie looked at him a moment without speaking. “Nearly everybody on this side of the Atlantic and a good many people on the other side know the story. It’s yesterday’s news. Nobody mentions it—they just take it for granted.”

“So? How’d she lose her nerve? That’s what it is, am I right?”

“A little more than that.” She perched on a tack trunk and swung her feet. “You probably saw her not long before her accident.”

“Accident?”

“Yeah. She was riding a Grand Prix jumper at Madison Square Garden—the one with the lousy practice area—and some fool going the wrong way crashed into her over a jump. The horses escaped with a few bruises and scrapes, but the other rider was killed instantly, and Vic nearly cashed it in, as well. She had a concussion, cracked skull, broken pelvis and a bunch of other broken bones—I don’t remember all the details. Anyway, she was in a coma for a while, then in traction and casts and therapy and God knows what all for almost a year, during which time the other guy’s family sued the Garden, Frank Jamerson, who was her husband and her trainer, the city of New York, the American Horse Shows Association and probably God Himself, for all I know.”