Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren

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      CHAPTER TWO

      “JOB? WHAT SORT OF JOB do you want?” Vic asked.

      Jamey McLachlan took another step toward her, apparently noticed her uneasiness and stuck his hands in his pockets.

      “General dogsbody,” he continued. “I can clean stalls, feed, water, exercise horses—”

      “Did you say exercise horses?”

      He nodded. “I can ride anything on four legs.”

      “Oh, you can, can you?”

      “Absolutely.” He leaned against the side of Vic’s truck, crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. He looked supremely confident.

      Vic took her time studying him. He was not more than an inch taller than she—five ten at most—and weighed perhaps ten pounds more, if that. He looked to be all muscle, but not the rippling weight-lifter kind. He was whipcord thin.

      His jeans looked dusty and worn, but expensive—European, black and skintight. She dragged her eyes away from the very obvious bulge at his crotch where the fabric had worn thin and slightly gray.

      His blue-black hair had been combed back. He wore it longer than Mike did—but then, this man probably couldn’t afford a barber’s shears often.

      He had on a black T-shirt under a leather bomber jacket that was creased and cracked with age. And dusty paddock boots, similar to her own.

      She also noted with a slight frisson of disquiet that he wore black leather gloves and a small gold stud in his right ear. His skin was dark—outdoor skin, the kind a ski instructor might have. Or a farmer. Or a drifter who rode a motorcycle without a helmet.

      He watched her out of eyes as black as that damned stallion’s.

      “Well, want me to strip?” he asked.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Way you’re looking at me, might as well stand here in my birthday suit. Do you like what you see?”

      “What I see is an overage drifter driving an expensive British motorcycle. You wouldn’t happen to have something like a passport, would you? God forbid you’d have a green card.”

      “Passport I’ve got. Green card? No. I don’t expect to stay anyplace long enough to need one.”

      “Oh, and why is that?”

      “Because I’m having a midlife crisis. I’ve left my stepfather’s farm in Scotland to work my way around the world from horse farm to horse farm. I want to see all of it—the world, that is. I bought the BMW in Lexington, Kentucky. It’s cheaper than a car, and I like sleeping rough.”

      “So you just show up here? Just driving down the road and, voilà, here you are?”

      He grinned. “You’re too suspicious for your own good.” He reached his left hand into the pocket of his jacket.

      Vic eyed his hand suspiciously.

      He caught her glance and grinned that wild grin again. “I’m not reaching for my forty-five. We Scots don’t go in much for firearms, and a man can’t hide a dirk or a claymore in this getup without doing himself an injury.” He brought out a white envelope. “Here, read it. You’ll know why I showed up here.”

      Vic reached out with two fingers and took the envelope, looked at it and blinked. She glanced up at him. “It’s addressed to me.”

      “Yes.”

      “What’s it say?”

      “Read it. It won’t bite.”

      She pulled the single sheet of fine vellum from the envelope and read. “Dear Vic,” the letter began. “This is to introduce a good friend of mine, Jamey McLachlan. I’ve known him for twenty years and trust him implicitly. He’s a good man, even if he has gone a bit middle-aged crazy at the moment. He’s got a mad drive to see the world on the back of a motorcycle and a horse. I can vouch for his honesty and his expertise. I hope you can convince him to give up this insane idea of riding himself around the world and get him to come home to Scotland and go back to work training my horses. In the meantime, try to see that he doesn’t starve. Give him a job if you’ve got one. He’s a fine rider and a hard worker. Sincerely, Marshall Dunn.”

      “Marshall Dunn?” Vic looked up. “I haven’t heard from him in five years. How do I know this is genuine?”

      “You don’t. But it is and so am I. Call him up and check it out if you like. I may not stay more than a month or so, but I’m hoping you could use some help. Am I right?”

      “How much?”

      “A bed, money to pay for my food and the occasional beer—although what you Americans call beer is definitely not the beverage I’m used to—and if I serve you well, a decent reference to one of your friends when I leave.”

      “Will you stay for two months if it works out between us?”

      Jamey caught his breath. He’d been making do with small duplicities, but this would be his first big lie. He didn’t like lying to her. She was a fine woman, tall and handsome and bright and full of spirit.

      He found the challenge in her direct gaze disturbing. He did not need the additional complication of actually responding to her physically. He forced his mind back to his negotiations.

      “My guess is you’ve got more to do here than you’ve hands for,” he continued. Nobody should be running a place this big alone, or even with one or two people. He had ten to fifteen working for him at home even in the lean times. Most of them were his uncles and his cousins, but they still required salaries. He steeled himself and said, “All right, if we work out, I’ll stay two months. But there’s something you need to know.”

      “Uh-huh, thought so. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”

      “Indeed there is. This is mine.” He pulled his right hand from the pocket of his jeans, held it in front of him and peeled the glove off with his left.

      Vic looked at the crooked fingers, the scarred and mangled skin, and felt her stomach lurch. She fought to keep from shuddering.

      “Sorry, should have warned you. It’s not pretty,” he said with an edge of bitterness. “I can exercise any horse you choose, ride them over fences, work them on the lunge line and on the flat. What I can’t do is the fine rein work—the tricky little dressage stuff that makes a decent horse into a brilliant one. I haven’t the motor skills any longer, do you see?” He slid the glove back over his hand.

      Vic nodded at the hand. “How did it happen?”

      “Got it caught in a hay baler. By the time they got the thing stopped and unwound me from it, it had pretty much mangled my hand and arm. The doctors spent a good long time putting everything back in place, but there’s only so much they can do. I’ve done physical therapy now for two years. This СКАЧАТЬ