A Cowboy's Angel. Pamela Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ groom did as instructed, Dasher as wobbly as a drunken race fan. Zach and Doc Miller watched him walk off, the both of them standing between two rows of stables, grooms walking horses back and forth, some in saddles, others wet from being hosed off after a hard workout. The smell of horse hung heavy in the air, a smell that usually soothed him. Not today.

      With a sigh, he turned back to the veterinarian. “I appreciate your honesty.”

      The two men shook hands before the veterinarian headed out. Zach thought he was alone until he heard that Stewart woman say from behind him, “So you’re not going to put him down?”

      Though he told himself not to, he still sighed.

      “I told you, no.” He heard his heel grind into the dirt as he turned. “It should be pretty obvious I’m not like other owners.” He motioned to the barn aisle behind them. “I only have three of my own horses in training and two for other people. Do I look like a big-time operation?”

      She followed his gaze. He took in the red-and-gold stall boards nailed to the top doors—a JJJ in the middle of a triangle, their brand—and red hay nets filled with premium alfalfa hanging next to them. Pat was just putting Dasher in his stall. They both watched as he unhooked the nylon webbing that kept the horses inside without them having to close the heavy wooden bottom door. Though he might have been drugged, Dasher immediately turned toward his hay net, ears lazily pricked forward. It never failed. A horse had to be pretty sick not to eat. Dasher wasn’t sick, just really, really lame.

      The nausea returned.

      “Well,” he heard Mariah say, “you might not have as many horses as the other owners, but that doesn’t mean you don’t adhere to the same mind-set.”

      She turned back to face him and once again he couldn’t help but notice she was cute, maybe even beautiful—if one liked loudmouthed shrews, which he didn’t.

      “I don’t have as many horses because I don’t breed as many. My dad adhered to the concept of quality, not quantity. It’s a principle I still believe in.”

      And that wasn’t making him any money, but he’d come up with something. Maybe Mr. Whitmore would be interested in a few of his broodmares. He had a couple yet that didn’t have foals by their sides....

      “Quality, not quantity, yet you still sell your unwanted horses at auction.”

      He let loose a sigh of impatience. Why did he bother? What did it matter what she thought of him?

      Yet for some reason...it did.

      “A reputable auction,” he explained. “A place where our horses have a chance of finding a new owner, and not the kind of owner that will turn around and sell our horses to the slaughter market you mentioned earlier. We give our unwanted horses a second chance at life, Ms. Stewart.”

      Her brows lifted. “You know my name.”

      “Doesn’t everyone?”

      “I hope so.” She raised her chin. “I hope people think of me as the voice of their unwanted horses. I hope racehorse owners have me on their mind when they sell their animals directly to a meat-processing company. I hope racehorse owners think of me when they travel to a foreign country and see cheval on the menu. Most of all, I hope you know I’m watching you and your ilk.”

      Her passion was unmistakable, as was the determination in her golden-brown eyes. There was something else there, too, a lingering sense of sadness that seemed to call to him in some bizarre and unexpected fashion.

      “Do you always make generalizations about people?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I could do the same thing and call you a crazy crackpot activist, but I don’t.”

      She propped her hands on her hips. “We only act crazy out of frustration. No matter how loud we scream, the racehorse industry just keeps breeding more and more horses.”

      “Something they’ve been doing for centuries.”

      “Doesn’t make it right.”

      “And I suppose it’s right to block the entrance of the track so people can’t get to work?”

      “We were trying to make a statement.” She flicked her long hair back.

      “And picketing on race day?”

      “It got everyone’s attention.”

      He bit back a sigh of frustration. He could have sworn he heard her do the same thing, too.

      “Clearly, your tactics aren’t working.”

      “I know.”

      “So why do it?”

      “Because I’ve seen ten ex-racehorses crammed into the back of a four-horse trailer, panic in their eyes, open sores on their bodies from being kicked and bullied and knocked over by the other horses, barely able to stand because they haven’t been given any water, their once proud carriage completely demoralized. And it’s sad and it’s sick and I don’t want it happening anymore.”

      His stomach turned. Yeah, he’d heard of that kind of stuff happening, too, but not to his horses, no way.

      But could he say with absolute certainty that one of his horses hadn’t ended up that way?

      No.

      “Look,” she said, and when their gazes met, hers had softened, almost as if she’d spotted his guilty conscience. “If you really are different like you say you are, I have a proposition for you.”

      She wanted to proposition him? Suddenly, crazily, his mood improved, although what he was thinking probably wasn’t the kind of proposition she had in mind.

      “What kind of proposition?”

      “Actually, it’s more like I want to discuss something with you, an idea I’ve been floating around. Not here.” She glanced past him. He could see a groom approaching with another wet horse, its coat glistening as if it were made of glass. “Later. At your farm.”

      It was his turn to be surprised. She knew where he lived? Well, maybe that wasn’t so strange after all. She probably had a map on her bedroom wall, red dots marking where all the evil racehorse breeders lived, their pictures next to them, horns probably drawn onto their heads.

      For that reason alone he should brush her off, but then he thought maybe for that reason alone he should do something unexpected. Hell, what did he have to lose? Maybe she’d “proposition” him with buying a few of his retired racehorses. Wouldn’t that be something?

      As if reading his mind, she said, “It’s a way for maybe both of us to make some money.”

      He should say no. Despite how much he could use the cash, he should tell her he wasn’t interested.

      But with Dasher out of commission...

      “Fine. Dinner. Tonight at six.” He turned away before he could change his mind.

      “Wait. СКАЧАТЬ