Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  He was between wives again, having been summarily dumped by wife number three, and he still called from time to time. Vic enjoyed his company, but felt no stirrings of desire for him. Everybody said he was a great catch—rich and good-looking and only in his midsixties—about the youngest man who would be interested in a forty-nine-year-old widow with callused palms.

  That Jamey McLachlan stirred her blood frightened her a bit. Angie was right. To a saddle burn, she probably looked like a good catch. She’d certainly proved to be malleable. One whistle and he was installed in her house and dragging her up on a horse when no one had been able to manage it before.

  She’d have to guard her heart carefully.

  Jamey worked beside her and thought the same thing. Last night, instead of sneaking back down to the arena to ride Roman under saddle as he’d sworn he’d do, he had, instead, slid naked into bed and dreamed of making love to her.

  At first it had been a wonderfully sexy dream, until he reached out to caress her breast with his mangled hand. The look of revulsion on her face brought him awake in a cold sweat. How could he make love to her with a glove on? She’d taken his hand that first day to seal their bargain, but he figured she’d repressed her shudder because she was a lady. A far cry from allowing him to touch her lovely smooth skin with the tips of his mangled fingers.

  “Hey, Vic, where you at?” boomed a deep voice.

  “Oh, Lord!” Vic said. She raised wide scared eyes. “It’s Albert! You stay here!” She dropped her manure fork, darted out of the stall and ran down the center aisle toward the door. “What on earth are you doing out of bed?”

  “I’m feeling a little better. You can’t go on doing all this by yourself.”

  “I’m managing beautifully,” Vic said with a show of ease. “See?” She raised her hands and turned in a circle. “Stalls mucked out, buckets washed, aisles swept—everything neat. The horses are all outside.”

  “Where’s Mr. Miracle?” Albert punctuated his words with a deep cough. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “He’s silent as a lamb out in his pasture. Take a look if you don’t believe me.” She put her hand under Albert’s arm and half dragged him to the arena door where he could see Mr. Miracle munching his way through the dry February grass.

  “Well, I’ll be. You dope him up or what?”

  “He’s just settled down. Now, you go on home right this minute before you infect me!”

  “Huh. Looks like you don’t need me. Kenny said you sent him off, too.”

  “Albert, my dear, I always need you, but not when you’re sick. You go on home and don’t even think of coming back for at least three days, you hear? I do not need to get the flu, and you’re probably contagious as the dickens. Can you drive?”

  “I got here, didn’t I?” Albert said with a disgruntled snort. “How come you’re always complaining about how much we got to do when there’s two of us, and here you are doing it all alone and happy as a clam?”

  “Adrenaline.” She shoved him. “Now go.”

  “Who’s that motorcycle belong to?” Albert said with sudden suspicion.

  “One of the clients is leaving it here until he gets a place for it cleaned up in his garage.”

  “Which one? We don’t have any clients dumb enough to ride motorcycles. Horses are bad enough.”

  “Uh...Kevin Womack.” She shoved him out the door. “Bye, Albert You’re a darling to try to come back to work so quickly, but really, you need your strength.”

  “Something’s going on here, Vic. What you been up to?”

  “Me?” Vic said with wide-eyed innocence. “Just working my little tail off and trying to stay well. Now git!”

  He grumbled some more, but finally got in his truck and drove slowly out of the driveway. Vic watched him with her heart in her throat before she went back inside.

  “Jamey?” she called.

  “What was that about?” he said as he poked his head out of the stall door. “You’re acting like a schoolgirl whose daddy caught her in bed with her boyfriend. You afraid of that man?”

  Vic sank onto the nearest tack trunk. “Certainly not. He’s my oldest friend. I’m simply too busy to go into a bunch of explanations.”

  “You don’t have hiring and firing privileges around here?”

  “Of course I do. But if Albert finds out, he’ll call Liz and Mike in Florida. Liz will call me and want to come home to check you out. Frankly I’m sick of justifying my decisions to the entire western world.”

  “The kids know, Angie knows, the clients know.”

  “I realize that. But the longer I can keep you a secret from my nosy family—of whom Albert is very much a member—the easier it will be for all concerned. Trust me on this.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Fine. It’s your call. He is a very large man, isn’t he?”

  Vic laughed. “Extremely. Kind, gentle and generous unless someone tries to hurt one of us.”

  “Like my uncle Hamish. Roughly the same size, although Hamish is probably a few years older and comes in Viking red. He’s my stepfather’s younger brother and firmly believes that loyalty to one’s clan did not end with the Forty-five.”

  “What’s the Forty-five?”

  Jamey gaped. “The Uprising of 1745? The Battle of Culloden in 1746? The Harrowing of the Glens when the British massacred the clans and froze them and starved them? You don’t know about the Forty-five?”

  “Oh. That Forty-Five.” She laughed. “That’s exactly the way Southerners speak of the Late Unpleasantness between the North and South. Not that much difference between our lost causes, I suppose.”

  “But we’ll get Scotland back one of these days. We’re coming closer all the time.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  He nearly said, “I’ll take you.” It was exactly what he wanted to say, what he wanted to do, but he knew that once he was gone, she’d never want to see or hear of him again except possibly to press charges.

  “I’ve got one more horse to ride before the youngsters show up after school,” he said, and set his fork against the wall. “Rom...the stallion.”

  “Oh, dear. You sure?”

  “He’s just a horse.”

  “A huge young untrained horse overflowing with testosterone. I’ve ridden plenty of stallions. Hard to keep their attention.”

  “He’ll pay attention. I guarantee it.”

  An hour later as Jamey cooled the stallion down by walking him around in the ring on a loose rein, Vic had to concede that Jamey, as usual, had been right. “He’s got no more manners than a warthog,” she said, “but he does move superbly, at least with you on him.”

  “He’ll move even better with you aboard. I don’t have the hands to control him properly.”

  “Oh, yeah, right, like I’m ever going to ride him.”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  She looked at his lopsided grin, the tilt of his head, the lift of his eyebrow. “You know, I do not have the faintest idea.”

  THAT EVENING Vic did everything in her power to make Jamey forget that he intended to get her back on a horse. She stayed busy on the telephone at the far end of the stable. Her heart lurched every time she thought of attempting to repeat last evening’s performance. Jamey’s holding her against his body again was lovely, but not if she was too busy hyperventilating and throwing up to enjoy it.

  “Time for dinner,” she said blithely. “What say we drive into town and get a cheap steak somewhere?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Did you think I’d fall for such a transparent trick?” He pointed behind him. The mare stood on the wash rack in the enormous saddle, her head drooping in the cross-ties, already half-asleep.

  “I can’t.”

  “You did.”

  “A fluke.”

  “No. Not a fluke. Come on, follow me out to the ring. The night is as tender and fragile as a virgin maid of sixteen. If you’re right about the snow and ice storms to come, then we’d best en
joy this night while we can.”

  He climbed aboard and took his left foot out of the stirrup. “Get up on the mounting block and put your foot in the stirrup,” he said. “If you’re going to ride again, you can’t do it facing backward with your arms around my neck, pleasant though that may be for me.”

  “I can’t.”

  He reached out to her. “You’re going to have to move your right leg over her neck to get to the other stirrup. If you try to do it the normal way you’ll do me an injury that’ll have me limping for weeks.”

  She felt her breathing become labored, her heart speed, the palpitations, the knot at the base of her throat, the hot and cold flashes, the nausea—all of it.

  “Your hand to my hand. Your eye to my eye,” he said softly. “Look at me. Give me your hand.”

  Later she had no memory of mounting, of sliding her feet into the stirrups. She remembered only Jamey’s soft voice in her ear, his strong arms around her holding her against his body, the smell of his sweat mixed with the sweet odor of molasses from the feed.

  “Open your eyes, lass.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  She did.

  “Now, reach down and pick up the reins off her neck.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well, somebody’d better steer this creature, and I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

  She felt the leather between her fingers. Her hands remembered as though only an hour had passed since she’d last held reins. The mare walked forward. Vic heard herself make that keening sound again.

  “Shh, Jamey’s got you. Take her to the rail. We’ll just walk a bit and enjoy this lovely night.”

  She had no idea how long they walked. Her hips began to pick up the rhythm of the horse’s footfalls, her spine remembered, her shoulders began to relax, her thighs to tighten, her heels to drop in the stirrups. All the while Jamey crooned and whistled to her. It was as though he’d sent them to another dimension where there was only night and horse and Jamey.

  “Move her up a bit, lass. Do you remember how to post when the horse trots?”

  She caught her breath and every instinct fought to get her away. She began to struggle, but he was incredibly strong.

  “You can do it, lass. Squeeze your knees just a little.”

  She managed only a few steps before she lost her nerve, but Jamey sighed with satisfaction.

  “There’s my girl. Now, I’m going to slide off...”

  “No!”

  “Listen. I’ll slide off her back and take the reins to hold her steady while you dismount. I won’t let go of her.”

  Before she could protest further, she felt the sanctuary of his arms withdraw and heard his feet thud into the arena behind her. The mare heard it, too, and grunted, but Jamey had her reins before she could move. “I’ll walk you to the mounting block so you can get down like a lady.”

  She fought to stay aboard while her breath soughed in her chest and her eyes filled with tears of terror.

  “All right, down you get.” He held out his bad hand to her in its black glove.

  She took a deep breath. “Turn her loose,” she whispered. “And walk beside us.”

  He closed his eyes. “There’s my gallant lass. On you go.” He turned, stuck his hands in his pockets and meandered alongside the mare. “Oh, and you might consider breathing out at some point.”

  She walked for five minutes, feeling the energy from the mare flood into her with such joy she thought she’d faint with it. Then she stopped in the center of the ring, kicked her feet out of the stirrups and dropped to the ground.

  He lifted her and swung her around. “You did it!”

  She shouted so loud with glee the horse snorted and danced half a dozen paces away.

  He slid her down his body slowly and brought his lips to hers. He held her and kissed her gently, tenderly, his tongue probing her mouth, hers tasting his. His hands slid up her back, beneath her sweater. She felt the difference between the smooth skin of his good hand and the slightly rough leather of his glove. Somehow that very difference was exciting, as though she were being caressed by an alien being that knew where her every nerve ended and wakened each one with a touch.

  When her feet made contact with the ground, she felt him against her, aroused. His kiss deepened and his hands slid down to cup her bottom against him. Her hips began to move sensuously, remembering the rhythm of love as well as she remembered the rhythm of riding. She felt his energy flow into her, dancing through her body and burning with heat.

  “Ah, lass,” he whispered when at last he broke the kiss. “My gallant lass.”

  At that moment he seemed to awake from a trance. His eyes widened and he stared into her face as though she was a total stranger. He released her and stepped away. For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed to be at a loss, his arrogance gone in an instant’s confusion. “I can’t...” he said, and began to shake his head. He grabbed the mare’s reins, turned away and walked quickly out of the arena, leaving Vic gasping, her loins aching with need.

  Well, that certainly put her in her place. She straightened her sweater and gave it a vicious yank down over her hips.

  She cleared her throat and sauntered after him. “So, Scotsman, how about that steak?”

  “WE SCOTS HAVE the best beef in the world,” Jamey said as he pushed away the remains of the biggest porterhouse steak Vic had ever seen one man consume.

  “The Japanese and the Americans would both dispute that.”

  “We Scots are also never wrong.”

  She chuckled and reached for her wallet. His hand came up and covered hers.

  “Not this time. You’ve done enough. This is by way of a celebration, after all. I ought to be buying you the finest champagne—”

  “Scottish, no doubt.”

  “There you have me. But the finest whiskeys. Even you’ll admit that.”

  “Granted. Are you sure?”

  “I’m not destitute, whatever you may think. And I’m looking forward to my princely wages from you at the end of the week, remember. So this dinner is on me.” He pulled a worn leather wallet from the hip pocket of his jeans, opened it and removed some bills. As he picked it up, Vic leaned over and looked at a photograph on one side of the center panel. “What a beautiful woman.”

  He glanced up and smiled. “My mother. And the redhaired giant beside her is Jock McLachlan, my stepfather.”

  “Everyone always says married people grow to look like each other after a while. Not in this case.”

  “Hardly.” He snapped the wallet shut.

  “And they’re both gone?”

  “Yes. Jock died four years ago. Heart attack. Very sudden. My mother theoretically lived another six months. In actuality, her soul died the instant he did.”

  “How sad. They must have loved each other very much. And yet they look as different as chalk and cheese.”

  “Jock used to say they were as well matched as a Clydesdale stallion and a fell pony. It was a stormy marriage. My mother was not given to reining in her emotions. Still, she settled down to learn to be the laird’s lady. She succeeded remarkably well considering that she was a seventeen-year-old semiliterate gypsy with a six-month-old baby boy when he stole her.”

  Vic blinked. “Stole her? How did he steal her?”

  Jamey signaled the waitress for another cup of coffee, and while she filled their cups, he shoved the money over to her and smiled. “Don’t need change.”

  She smiled back and left.

  “Jamey, you cannot say something like that and just drop it!”

  He leaned back. “All right. Jock retired as a full colonel from the Queen’s Own when he was over forty and his father died. As the eldest son he inherited McLachlan Yard. My uncle Hamish had been running it single-handed for the last several years and continued to do so, but Jock came home specifically to breed sport horses. He was a prize catch among the country set, but none of the local ladies managed to cat
ch him. He’d been gone from home for years, so he didn’t know that each year a small band of Gypsy horse dealers had been camping out in the copse down by the river from April through November. The men worked for the McLachlans during the summer. Some still do, for that matter. The Rom have a long tradition of horse training and trading.

  “He knew the men and liked them, but the women stayed very much to themselves. Then one day he was in the village—it was pelting rain—and he passed a Gypsy girl drenched to the skin and holding an equally drenched baby.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. At first she refused to get into his car. He kept on, however, and eventually she accepted. She’d been in town at the local lending library trying to take out a book, but they wouldn’t let her. Afraid she wouldn’t return it, I suppose,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “Things have changed a good deal in forty years, but at that point there were signs in pubs all over England that said No Dogs or Gypsies Allowed.”

  “How could they justify that?”

  He glanced at her quizzically. “Ask Albert about racial discrimination.”

  “Of course. Stupid of me. But a book? They wouldn’t let her borrow a book?”

  Jamey shook his head. “When Jock found out, he wanted to go back to town and raise hell, but my mother was terrified just to be seen riding in a car with the laird. He had to let her out away from the camp. The next day he went looking for her on his big Irish hunter with a satchel full of books in his saddlebags. After that they met several times. He found out she had been married at sixteen to the leader of that particular group—my father—a man who had already killed two wives with childbearing and abuse. My father was no good, but my grandmother didn’t have enough power to stop him when he offered a good bride price, and my mother’s brothers couldn’t dissuade her. She knew the family needed the money. She grew to hate him almost as much as she feared him.”

  “They fell in love? Your mother and Jock McLachlan?”

  “He said he fell in love with her two minutes after she got into his car. I think it took her a little longer. Nothing happened between them, not even a kiss.