Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  But a miracle was exactly what she needed.

  Jane held out her hand to seal the deal.

  Curran locked gazes as he reached out, seemingly in slow motion. As his flesh slipped over hers, she started. The contact was potent. A surge of something strange and frightening made her want to pull her hand free. To step out of his seductive aura. To protect herself.

  But he held fast and her impulse to fight him waned.

  His gentle touch was as intimate as any embrace.

  Warmth flowed through her, and for a moment, her world went off kilter. Her breath grew shallow, and the thud of her heart filled her ears.

  Fool! Jane silently chastised herself, realizing her body was betraying her, growing taut with an unnamed yearning. She was attracted to the man and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it.

  JANE’S RAPID PULSE shot from her wrist through Curran’s fingertips. Again he was beset by the sensation that had startled him that morning—the one he normally got only with horses.

  So, it hadn’t come from Finn, after all.

  He concentrated and his own pulse changed tempo in unison with hers.

  Fear…longing…anger…

  A spray of black across a silvered night. Blood? Hers or Finn’s?

  Trying to explore deeper, he was stopped cold…Curran let go of her hand and resisted the impulse to slide his arms around her and just hold her.

  Jane Grantham had built walls of protection around her as sturdy as her iron will. He could knock at those walls all he wanted, but until she was ready—or off guard, as she had been when he’d watched her with the stallion—she wouldn’t be welcoming him in.

  “Tomorrow morning, then,” he said, backing off, his pulse steadying.

  “At eight.”

  Curran left her standing there, arms curled around her middle, as if she was determined to shield her inner self from him.

  Surely she couldn’t know…

  The “gift” that he’d inherited from his grandmother Moira wasn’t something he advertised.

  He hurried toward the guest house, his stride reflecting his satisfaction in having masked his true intentions when he’d negotiated with Jane about the purse. He’d let her save face. Better that she feel as though she was being taken than feel as if she was taking charity from a stranger. He doubted that her pride would have allowed that.

  The money wasn’t the important thing here. Finn was. And Jane Grantham herself.

  She and the stallion seemed bound by the mysterious “accident” that she kept secret. A secret that he needed to know—would know—if he was to help them.

  His gift had never meant so much as it did now. And somehow, it had mutated to include Jane Grantham. Or would include her if he found a way in.

  Could that be what Moira McKenna had meant in her deathbed letter to him?

  Curran thought about the possibility as he approached the two-story guest house that had probably been meant to serve as the farm manager’s quarters, assuming the manager hadn’t also been the owner. Three bedrooms, two baths, eat-in country kitchen with a woodstove, large living room and dining room with French doors opening onto a covered porch.

  Comfortable digs that pleased him, especially since the porch overlooked the three stables and paddocks.

  Not that he would be there long. Two weeks at best.

  Upon entering the house, he went straight upstairs to the main bedroom and his shoulder bag, yet unpacked. He pulled out his trainer’s journal, whose pages were filled with notes on horses he’d worked with and thoughts on training techniques.

  In a plastic sleeve attached to the back cover, the journal housed the letter.

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he unfolded the worn missive that he’d read hundreds of times since his Grandmother Moira’s death.

  To my darling Curran,

  I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days of your thirty-third birthday—enough time to know what you are about—you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in another’s behalf, and my legacy will be yours.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Moira McKenna

  P.S. Use any other inheritance from me wisely and only for good, lest you destroy yourself or those you love.

  Curran knew his grandmother had left the same message for each of her nine grandchildren, but every time he read the letter she’d written to him, he could hear her beloved voice lilt through his mind. And he could imagine she was speaking to him alone.

  Act selflessly in another’s behalf…

  Selfless had been his grandmother’s life code. She had helped heal any injured creature that came her way, whether animal or human.

  In reading the letter, he’d always believed she’d meant the horses—he’d gotten his love for Irish Thoroughbreds and his understanding of them from Moira herself. From the time he was a child, he’d had a special bond with them through his gift. For a while, he’d shared that bond until playmates deemed him crackers, even as disbelieving, rude adults had called Moira a crazy old hag.

  And so he had learned to keep the equine whisperings to himself.

  The gift had served him well. Mostly.

  And now it was time to pay back. To use Moira’s inheritance selflessly as she had deemed proper.

  Moira had known things, Curran remembered.

  Could she have foreseen his second chance to make Finn into a winner? A Classic Cup triumph would be a dream come true, but what was the dream she meant?

  As for the other possibility—her so-called legacy of love and danger—Curran couldn’t help but be skeptical considering the shambles of his one venture in a love relationship.

  And yet his sister Keelin and cousins, Skelly, Kathleen and Donovan all swore by the prediction. Each of them had overcome great dangers to find the loves of their lives.

  A nice fairy tale.

  But it was too late for him, for today happened to be the thirty-third day after his thirty-third birthday, and the only woman in his life or thoughts was a slightly crazed Jane Grantham.

  His time for that part of the legacy had run out.

  Chapter Three

  When Jane arrived at the barn at eight sharp the next morning, she was disconcerted to find Curran in the middle of the paddock. Disconcerted because he’d brought in a chair and was sitting there and reading the local newspaper rather than making preparations to start working with Finn.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  He lowered the paper and raised a dark eyebrow. “I thought it was fairly obvious. Catching up on world events.”

  Chagrined at his careless attitude toward his odd behavior, she protested, “But you’re in the middle of the paddock!”

  “Sitting outside the paddock won’t get me too close to Finn, now, will it?”

  “Why are you sitting at all?”

  “Trying to be unobtrusive.”

  Chagrin advanced straight to irritation. “Well, it isn’t working!”

  “All right. Make that nonthreatening.”

  To whom? she wondered. To Finn? Or to her?

  Leaning her arms against the fencing, she studied Curran’s wickedly handsome features—piercing blue eyes, engaging mouth drawn into what seemed to be a knowing smile, dimpling cheek—and tried to debunk the effect they had on her. But the longer she stared, the stronger her reaction to him. He didn’t even seem to notice the tension. His long legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He seemed to have the corner on relaxed.

  Especially when he asked, “Well? Aren’t you going to get Finn?”

  The casual order was enough to raise her hackles. “And do what with him?”

  “Bring him into the paddock, of course. You’re less of a threat approaching him than I am.”

  Nothing like stating the obvious. “And you’re going to do what?�
�

  He indicated the newspaper. “Read.”

  Her spirits fell. What a loony Irishman. If he thought this was a valid method of working with a half-crazed Thoroughbred, he might as well pack it in now.

  But Finn would be the proof of the thing, so she went inside the barn and fetched him as ordered. Basically that meant holding open his stall door and standing back, while the mares looked on from the other side of the barn and whickered softly for attention.

  “Sorry, girls, it’ll be your turn soon,” she promised.

  Jane set her cane to the side so as not to spook Finn.

  “Come on. Time to stretch your legs. And make mincemeat of yet another trainer,” she muttered.

  Not that she wanted him to do any such thing. Hope had actually crept into her while she’d slept, and she had risen feeling more positive than she had in months.

  Now she didn’t know what to think.

  Eyeing her suspiciously as he did every morning, Finn exited the stall and was out of the barn in a flash. But when he saw the man whose back was to him, he stopped short and whinnied. Then he wheeled around as if to get back inside, but Jane was in the process of closing the barn door. More calmly than she was feeling, she limped to the fence, thinking to climb up and watch the show. And then she remembered that pleasure was no longer allowed her.

  Instead, she slipped out the gate and stepped up on the bottom board so she could lean on the fence and watch.

  The powerful stallion was vibrating with tension. He pranced, then ran full steam around the perimeter of the paddock several times. Suddenly, he stopped short and faced Curran, who continued to blithely read his newspaper as if he were in the breakfast room having his morning coffee.

  The stallion pawed the ground and lowered his head, reminding Jane of a bull ready to charge. A knot tightened her stomach as his neck bowed into an arrow, his head the deadly tip. He would charge—she’d seen him do it to other trainers. If Curran had any sense of the danger he was in, he was so nonchalant that she couldn’t tell. He continued to read and ignore Finn mac Cumhail as if he weren’t there.

  Then with a squeal, the stallion was off and Jane prayed that neither horse nor human got hurt.

  A red ball of rage, bulging neck extended, mouth open, teeth bared, Finn flew across the paddock. Catching every nuance, Jane gripped the fence board hard. Then, just as the stallion was within yards of his goal, Curran calmly ruffled the newspaper and looked up.

  Finn swerved and barely brushed Curran, who murmured, “Finn, my lad, you need to calm yourself. You’ve worked yourself into a grand lather,” so softly that Jane barely caught his words.

  But she swore Curran’s mesmerizing voice did the trick. Not only did his gentle words flow down to her toes, but she could see Finn’s fury simmer down.

  The horse circled once and made another approach, but this time he missed Curran altogether.

  “There’s a lad. You’ll be wanting to pace yourself, then,” Curran singsonged in a persuasive tone that set Jane’s spine tingling, “or you’ll spend yourself out. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  Finn wasn’t so easily convinced. As he swept around the arena yet again, mane and tail flashing in the full sun, she followed until a middle-aged man with reddish-brown hair watching from the other side of the paddock caught her attention. Her gaze hesitated on him. He must be Ned Flaherty, Curran’s assistant whom she hadn’t yet met. Though why he’d brought an assistant for one horse that no one but she could touch, Jane didn’t know. For the Thoroughbred Millions, if they made it that far, she guessed.

  Something kept her staring at Ned for a moment—he seemed so familiar. From another Kentucky farm? From one of the tracks? But he’d just come from Ireland with Curran.

  Unable to place Ned, Jane tucked the question away as Finn advanced on Curran a third time, and she refocused her attention where it belonged.

  “Surely you’re tiring of this game, now,” Curran said, deliberately crossing one leg over the other.

  Finn wheeled and gave him a wide berth and slowed to a walk, stopping near Jane. He stood there, closer to her than normal, as if he trusted in her protection. He was a true herd animal. As frightened as he was of most humans, he still had the instincts to protect himself by becoming one of a group.

  A group of two, she thought with irony. And the moment that she would reach out to make a true connection, he would be off again. So she held herself back. Held her breath to see what Curran would do next.

  What Curran did next was sing.

  He set down the newspaper at his feet and began singing the words to “Oh, Danny Boy,” substituting “Finny” for “Danny.”

  At first Jane was aghast, but her dismay was soon replaced by amusement. And Finn was tuning in to the song—his ears rotated like twin antennae as he listened to the silky tenor. After a few minutes of Curran’s crooning, the stallion snorted and nodded his big head as if in approval. And the muscles beneath his red hide seemed to soften.

  Jane began to relax, as well.

  Maybe Curran McKenna knew what he was doing, after all.

  When he’d finished, Curran picked up his newspaper again. “Perhaps you could let Finn back into the barn, then.”

  Despite the fact that he’d surrendered to the serenade, the stallion was happy to comply.

  Jane was just closing his stall gate when her head groom entered the barn through the far exit. He was a narrow man and his dark head was bald. He was as quiet and unassuming as his wife was bossy and colorful. She waved him over.

  “Udell, I have someone I want you to meet.”

  He ambled down the aisle toward her. “The Irishman.”

  “Melisande told you about him?”

  “She said Mrs. Grantham has great faith in him. I got a look at his technique on the way over here. Curious,” was all he said about it.

  Jane couldn’t argue with that. And Udell said nothing further. She appreciated that he took his time when analyzing a situation. He didn’t make rash judgments about horses or people.

  When they exited the barn, Curran was talking to his assistant. The closer she got to Ned, the more certain she was that she’d seen him somewhere. The bushy reddish-brown eyebrows were especially familiar.

  “I’m not feeling right about this, Curran.” Ned’s arms were crossed over his burly chest and he was frowning. “I’m not used to standing around and whistling in the wind.”

  “I have nothing for you here at the moment,” Curran said. “I need to establish myself with Finn before introducing you to him.”

  “I could see that.”

  “But what you could do is drive over to Louisville, get the feel for Churchill Downs.”

  Ned seemed to roll the idea around, then asked, “You’re that sure you can have Finn ready for the Classic?”

  “I’m feeling more confident now, yes, though our success will also depend on finding the right jockey. You could ask around—”

  Jane joined the conversation. “The top jockeys are already spoken for.”

  “I didn’t say top, I said right. We’re going to need someone who can do nothing but work with Finn once I get him to accept a rider.”

  Which meant even more money. Jane sighed. This was to be an all-or-nothing proposition, so she might as well stop worrying about every dollar.

  “I’ll be on my way, then,” Ned said, bowing out.

  Curran waved him off.

  Jane was worried about the jockey situation. “Finn has to be able to take more than one rider.”

  Any jockey that would be free to work with him to ready him for the race probably wouldn’t be the level of jockey needed to win it.

  “Of course. Just not in time for the Classic. The safer he feels, the better.”

  A statement that revved up her nerves again. Surely he wasn’t serious. She shook away the negativity. One thing at a time. First, Curran would have to be able to touch Finn, to halter, bridle and saddle him. And Finn was as far as he could be from
being ready for all that.

  Udell finally stepped forward and let his presence be known. “Jimiyu could do it. He never met a horse that didn’t like him.”

  “Curran, this is Udell Stams, my head groom. Jimi is his son. He’s also an apprentice jockey.” One who might solve the immediate problem, she thought. “He’s always been good with horses from the time he could walk, actually.”

  “Then it’s something to consider. What about his race schedule from now until the Classic in two weeks?”

  “He would do anything for the Granthams,” Udell said. “He’ll make himself available whenever you need him.”

  “Good.”

  “Thank you, Udell.”

  “Gotta get to work now.”

  The groom backed off, leaving Curran and Jane alone together.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We take a break and start again at nine. And then on the hour, every hour, until we make some progress.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  “That’s the point. To exhaust all Finn’s energy so he can concentrate on me.”

  “He was concentrating on you.”

  “But in a negative way. I’m wanting to spark his curiosity.”

  “‘Oh, Finny Boy’ did that,” she said dryly.

  “A technique I developed myself.”

  His grin got to her. Made her feel breathless and eager for something she didn’t want to recognize. Uncomfortable with yet another inappropriate physical response to the Irishman, she whipped away from him and headed for the house.

  Over her shoulder, she called, “I’ll see you at nine.”

  At nine, Curran sat in the chair minus the newspaper. He did have a boom box playing traditional Irish music, however. Finn kicked up his heels, but the sheer animosity was gone.

  At ten, so was the chair. Curran stood in one spot. Finn eyed him suspiciously and made one attempt to rush him. Speaking to the stallion in a low tone, Curran refused to move. He stood square to Finn and faced him down.

  At eleven, Finn stopped coming to Jane for protection, and Curran began moving around the paddock, seemingly paying the stallion no mind.