Carolyn McSparren - Mr. Miracle

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.”