Carolyn McSparren - Mr. Miracle

“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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“BLOODY HELL!”

Jamey trotted up the hill toward Vic’s cottage with both dogs trundling along behind him. The last thing he needed was a woman who had full-blown panic attacks, no matter how much he enjoyed her company.

Liz Whitten wouldn’t be back with her new husband and child for two whole months.

Unless one of ValleyCrest’s boarders was an extraordinary rider—doubtful, judging from the rest of the horses he’d seen at ValleyCrest—Vic Jamerson was the only one who had experience on a horse like Roman. All right, so it had been a few years.