Bittersweet. Laura Browning

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СКАЧАТЬ for the stallion’s accident. Had it been the first time Rafael had been involved in something, he might have been a bit more understanding, but the man did not pay attention to the horses the way he needed to. Most of the animals in this barn were worth five or six figures, and he couldn’t afford carelessness. Staying in town this weekend instead of flying out to watch some of his horses had turned out to be a wise decision. Bart was the best stallion on the place, and Chris had high hopes for what he would contribute to the future of the farm.

      The stallion munched hay. At the sound of Chris’s approach, the big horse raised his head, pinned his ears and tossed his muzzle as if to say “Back off, I’m not in the mood.”

      Chris chuckled and turned off the light switch next to the stall. After closing the barn for the night, he walked the quarter mile along the narrow gravel drive to his house. Fincastle Farm had been there for two hundred years, and the large stone house in which he lived was the oldest building on the farm. It contained part of the original log structure, but had been added onto over the generations. His mother had never cared for the house, though, so his father built her a more modern home even deeper on the property. Chris often saw those lights from the veranda of his house.

      After grabbing a beer from the refrigerator in his study, he returned to the veranda and settled in one of the rocking chairs there. He lit a cigarette and sighed as he leaned back, studying the glowing ember while he let his thoughts wander. He had needed a break. That’s why he was home. After showing all winter in Florida, Chris had decided to spend the spring and summer working with the younger horses on the farm and leave the showing to his assistant trainer and a couple of talented younger riders. On top of that, there was Bess, his favorite mare. After two years, she had finally settled late last breeding season and was due to foal any time.

      Those excellent reasons aside, the truth was he was tired of the constant travel. After years of competing, the showgrounds looked alike. Even the people he met blurred in his mind. Now here he sat, thirty years old and alone.

      There were always plenty of people on the show circuit to stroke an ego or anything else a person desired, but he’d discovered how shallow such a lifestyle was last year when he caught his girlfriend screwing one of the grooms right in the tack room. He had kicked them both out then gone to a friend’s party to get as plastered as possible. He didn’t remember much of the night except that he awoke in a spare bedroom the next morning with no clothes on and one hell of a hangover.

      Something had had to change. He had quit the hard partying and started watching some of the people on the circuit he had always admired, like Nelson and Wynter Anderson. They seemed so normal. He envied them. The more he thought about it, though, his parents managed a similar relationship. His father had showed years ago, but they maintained a normal life, picking and choosing when they would travel, and doing it as a family. And why the fuck was he thinking about that now? The pretty vet and her baby? He stubbed his cigarette. No, the answer was a whole lot simpler.

      His mother was nagging him to start his own family. The thing was, Chris had started to consider it too, until the incident with Sydney last year. He shook his head. He’d come close to asking her to marry him, but not for any of the right reasons. He understood that now.

      Since then, he hadn’t dated. Hell, he hadn’t even been with a woman. His absence and abstinence were no doubt fodder for the show circuit gossips, but he was beyond caring. If and when he got married, he would do it for the right reasons and to the right woman. Let them think he pined after Sydney. If those thoughts kept the groupies out of his hair, so much the better.

      A sudden vision of Dr. Barlow popped into his head, her cap of sable curls bent forward as she looked at the baby nursing at her breast. The feeling stabbed him right in the gut. Chris shook his head. Now why did he keep thinking of that irritating little vet? She had a chip on her shoulder where her work was concerned. That was what bothered him about most of the women large animal vets he encountered. They were often militant and irritating.

      He finished the beer and headed inside. The phone rang as he stepped from the kitchen into the study–his private line.

      “Christopher. It’s your mother.”

      He smiled. As if she needed to announce herself. “Hi, Mom, what can I do for you?”

      “Your father is leaving to go on his fishing trip on the Santee-Cooper. I’d like you to attend early Mass with me.”

      Chris sighed. He wanted to be on the farm when Dr. Barlow came to recheck Bart, but he supposed she wouldn’t arrive that soon. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

      “Six-thirty will be fine.”

      “I’ll be there.”

      “On time?” his mother prompted.

      “I’ll be there, Mom.”

      He was a couple of minutes late the next morning. Other than a pointed glance at her watch, his mother had the good grace not to say anything. Chris hid a smile as he held the door for her. He supposed he owed her silence in part to the fact that he had put on a coat and tie. He’d long ago given up the argument that no one dressed for Mass anymore. As far as his mother was concerned, church was a dress-up occasion, period.

      They arrived early, as always. His mother was a stickler for punctuality. As Chris pulled his vintage BMW into the parking lot, few other cars occupied spaces. What surprised him was the Redfield Clinic truck parked there.

      As they stepped inside the church, Chris found himself glancing around until he spotted the short, dark curls of Dr. Barlow near the front of the church. Without waiting, he guided his mother to a pew a couple of rows behind the vet. Why, he wasn’t sure. Curiosity? He had a hard time envisioning the irritating munchkin he’d met last night attending Mass like a good Catholic.

      His mother gave him an odd look, but made no remark as she genuflected and sat. The handle of the baby carrier next to Dr. Barlow was just visible over the back of the pew. She must have Becca with her. He wondered where Mr. Dr. Barlow was. His mouth twisted. If there even was a husband. Plenty of women these days were single moms, but the thought disturbed him in some odd way.

      The baby fussed. Chris watched as Dr. Barlow’s head turned. In profile, long, sooty lashes dropped over blue eyes set below arched brows. A too-straight nose and full lips now cooing to her daughter completed the picture. As the baby continued to fidget, she lifted her from the carrier and rocked her. The girl rested her head on her mama’s shoulder and gazed around her with those big blue-gray eyes.

      His mother stilled before glancing sidelong at him. “What a beautiful child,” she whispered, “like an angel with golden hair and those beautiful eyes.”

      Chris grunted. No way would he have agreed with his mother, even though he thought the same thing. She was getting bad enough about dropping hints concerning his single, childless status. The last thing she needed was encouragement from him.

      The service began. As they stood, he found himself studying Dr. Barlow, not the priest. No figure-concealing coveralls this morning. Instead, some sort of blue-flowered dress hugged her tiny form until it flared below her hips. Beneath the short skirt, a slender length of tanned leg drew his gaze. She continued to sway back and forth as she held Becca. Her hips and derriere mesmerized him. God, did she need to advertise the wares quite so much?

      His mother jabbed him in the ribs. “Sing!” she hissed. Her sharp eyes hadn’t missed where his gaze was fastened. Damn. He did not need to give her additional fuel for her time-to-settle-down-and-raise-a-family speeches.

      He СКАЧАТЬ