Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.”

      “What happened?”

      “In the end she won, but it cost a fortune in legal fees before the thing was settled, and cost her a good deal more in anguish. Then when she finally did get home, the first day she came down here she went totally berserk. Took months before she could touch a horse and months more before she started working with them. She didn’t drive a car for years, and I don’t think she’s driven the tractor or flown on an airplane since.”

      “There are therapies and medication to control panic attacks.”

      “Oh, she tried ‘em. They helped some, but the doctors said she didn’t have a real phobia—what she had was ‘remembered trauma.’ Maybe if she’d been able to climb back on that horse five minutes after she crashed, she’d have been all right. When I fell, I got back on the horse and walked around the arena while I waited for the ambulance. I was in agony, but I was more scared that if I walked away, I’d be like Vic—and I couldn’t bear not to ride again.”

      “And she’s all right with it?”

      “As all right as you can be when the thing you’ve lived your life for is suddenly taken away from you.”

      Jamey nodded. “Maybe it’s time she got it back.”

      Angie’s eyes widened. “Don’t even try! I mean, she’ll pass out or have a stroke or something. Let the poor woman be.”

      He smiled. “Of course. Not my place.”

      “It certainly is not. She’s perfectly content the way she is.” Angie took a breath. “She’s the toughest, most organized person I know. There’s not a need she doesn’t meet. I mean, here she is running this barn single-handed, overseeing the house renovation, teaching lessons, medicating the horses and being everybody’s mother confessor. She’s amazing.” Angie turned her head and a broad grin spread over her face. “And heeeere’s Victoria.”

      Vic strode down the aisle toward them. “Those contractors are going to drive me into an early grave. Hi, Ange. How’s the collarbone?”

      Jamey leaned against the stall door and remembered Angie’s words There’s not a need she doesn’t meet. Maybe it was about time somebody starting meeting a few of hers. And that somebody was going to be Jamey McLachlan.

      

      ANGIE ELBOWED VIC into her desk chair and plunked herself down across from her. “Have you lost your mind?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Oh, I agree he’s gorgeous, but you can’t take strangers in off the street and put them to work.”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ