“Yes, Marshall,” Vic said patiently. “One of the three Arab stallions that were imported to Great Britain in the eighteenth century from which all Thoroughbreds trace their lineage. I’m not a total Philistine.”
“Ah, but Jock wanted to breed a single great foundation stallion. Like your Morgans. They were founded from one stallion that Justin Morgan bred.”
“What would be the point?”
“Who knows? National pride? Money? Fine horses he could mold to suit his own ideas? In any case, he spent his lifetime trying to come up with his foundation stallion, then died just as he felt he’d achieved his dream—tragic.”
“Achieved it?”
“Yes. Told me the last time I saw him that he finally had his stallion. Who could tell that kind of thing in a yearling colt? Madness, I assure you.”
“So where’s the colt now?”
“Who knows? He was one of the horses Robert sold out from under Jamey while he was in hospital. They were able to locate most of the animals and get them back by returning the money, but that stud colt simply vanished off the face of the earth. Dead, probably, although Jamey McLachlan is as mad as his father and refuses to believe it. Spent entirely too much money in the search, if you ask me. Nearly went broke over it, so I hear.”
“He says the cows and sheep are still doing well.”
“What cows? What sheep?” Marshall barked a laugh. “McLachlans never raised an animal that didn’t neigh, Vic. Wouldn’t know a sheep if it bit him, would Jamey McLachlan. And cows? Don’t make me laugh.”
Another lie.
“At any rate,” Marshall continued, “last I heard he thought he’d found the colt somewhere in Germany, but by the time he got there, some fool American had bought the thing and taken it home. His uncle Hamish got drunk last week at a hunt meet and swore Jamey’d steal the creature if he had to.”
Vic took a deep breath. “Did this mythical beast have a name, Marshall, before he disappeared?”
“’Course he did. Don’t remember what it was—some Gypsy word, probably.”
“Try to remember. It’s important.”
“No idea, old girl. Sorry. Jamey working out for you, is he? No problems, I hope. Feel responsible, sending him to you that way.”
“He’s working out fine, Marshall. He’s everything you said he was,” Vic said, and added under her breath, “and more.”
They moved on to other topics. As she was getting ready to hang up, Vic asked, “Marshall, the colt’s name. Might it by any chance have been Roman?”
“Got it in one!” Marshall said. “Amazing woman. Always said so.”
Vic placed the receiver back into its cradle very softly, as though it were a baby rattlesnake she didn’t want to disturb.
SHE HAD NO CHOICE. She had to confront Jamey and ask for his explanation. There was no sense in agonizing over theories when his explanation might be simple and straightforward. Miscommunication was the stuff of farce. None of this felt the least bit funny.
She planned a nice quiet dinner together in front of the fire with the dogs and cat, and then when they were sipping their brandy afterward, she’d tell him about overhearing his call to Hamish, and what Marshall Dunn had said to her. If they were going to have any possibility of maintaining a relationship, even a long-distance relationship, Jamey had to be honest with her.
Easy enough to say, but during dinner Jamey was distracted, barely noticing the pot roast she’d stuck in the oven after lunch, or the hot brownies with whipped cream. It all tasted like cardboard to Vic. Once or twice she felt a twinge of panic, but she forced herself to breathe deeply and fight back.
As they sat over coffee, the doorbell rang.
“Who on earth?” Vic said. The dogs began to bark, racing to the door, tails wagging.
“Great guard dogs you guys are,” Mike Whitten said as he walked in, then bent to scratch their ears. “Sorry to come without calling first. I finally got the mess settled with Singapore and wondered if you’d be interested in a late supper.”
“Come in,” Vic said. “We’ve already eaten, but there’s plenty. Let me fix you something.”
Jamey walked out of the kitchen with his napkin in his hand. Vic glanced at Mike and saw his eyebrows climb to his hairline.
“I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Not at all, man,” Jamey said with a smile. “Glad you showed up. Gives me a chance to apologize for being a horse’s ass this afternoon.”
Mike didn’t smile. “I passed on your assessment of the stallion to my wife this evening. She’s willing to be convinced.”
“She will be,” Vic said. “Please, sit. At least let me feed you.” When he hesitated, she continued, “Pot roast and fresh brownies?”
He grinned. “Who could resist your brownies?” He pulled up a chair. Vic glanced at Jamey. How could she manage to leave the two men alone long enough for Jamey to say what he wanted to Mike?
“What made you decide to buy that particular stallion in the first place?” Jamey asked.
“I was in Europe on a business deal, saw an ad for the auction and decided to buy my wife a wedding present.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “If I’ve learned anything in my business, it’s to trust experts. In this case I ignored my own advice and went with gut reaction.”
“Your gut apparently has a horseman’s instinct,” Jamey said. He picked up an extra fork and began to draw patterns in the checkered tablecloth. His voice was casual when he asked, “Do you know the date he was foaled? Or where?”
“The farmer who sold him said he was foaled in January four years ago. Why?”
Jamey’s hand stopped. Vic saw the muscles contract in his jaw. “Just seeing if he’s likely to grow any taller than the near nineteen hands he stands at the moment is all.”
“God, I hope not! Liz says he’s already too big.”
“But not for dressage. Have you considered selling him?”
“Every horse is always for sale for the right price. At least that’s what my wife says. I’m still new at this.”
“And the price would be?”
“More than I paid for him.” Mike looked at Jamey carefully. “Do you know someone who might be interested?”
“I might. But I doubt I can come up with enough cash. A down payment with terms might be arranged.”
“Not worth it. I’d rather keep him for a while. If he’s as good as you and Vic say he is, he can only be worth more with better training.”
“You’re willing to invest in him, then? Send him off for training? Campaign him for a year or so? That’s what it’ll take, you know.”
“Depends.” Mike took a final bite of pot roast. “How come you never taught Liz to cook like this?” he asked Vic.
“I did the cooking while she did the riding. She didn’t need to learn.”
“Once we’re all back in the same enclave, I intend to con you into feeding us as often as I can. And maybe giving Pat some lessons.”
“If Vic’s available,” Jamey said softly.
Mike glanced at him, but said nothing.
“Coffee with your brownie?” Vic asked. “And a little ice cream on top?”
“Yes to the coffee, no to the ice cream. Liz may plan on waddling like a duck in a few months, but I doubt she wants me to.” He turned to Jamey. “So tell me, how come you wound up here?”
Vic sat down. Now, if ever, was the time for truth. She listened to Jamey’s story about his midlife crisis with a sinking heart. She excused herself, shut her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it. Obviously Jamey had made up his mind that Mr. Miracle really was his stepfather’s missing stallion.
The fifty thousand pounds was not a loan, but an offer to purchase. And not good enough. Hamish had told Marshall Dunn that Jamey would steal the horse if necessary. Did he still intend to do that? How could he manage it? A giant black stallion wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one could smuggle into Scotland in the lining of a suitcase.
She took a dozen deep breat
hs, pasted a smile on her face and rejoined the men. Mike was getting to his feet. “Thanks for rescuing me from another lonely restaurant meal,” he said to her. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow, so I’d better get back to the apartment.” He turned to Jamey. “Nice to have met you,” he said automatically.
Vic followed him to the front door and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you for marrying Liz,” she whispered.
“The shoe’s on the other foot. I’m the one who should be grateful.” He kissed her cheek, gave one quick look over her shoulder at Jamey and left. A moment later his car roared off down the driveway.
“That’s torn it,” Jamey said.
“You can’t be sure. You could just be having dinner with me before going off to your room in the barn or someplace.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back against his body. “No, love. The man’s no fool. I can’t keep my feelings for you out of my eyes or my voice.” He turned her to face him and wrapped his arms around her. “He handled it well, though, I thought. Didn’t act the protective male relative and get out the shotgun.”
“But he’ll call Liz the minute he gets back to his apartment,” Vic said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you or my feelings, it’s just that it’s nobody’s business. I don’t need advice from my niece or Albert or anybody else.” She clung to him. “Why can’t the world leave us alone?” This time she didn’t see it coming, but all at once she found herself sobbing in Jamey’s arms.
“Love,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
She ought to tell him. She had to tell him, but she couldn’t find the words. One more night together without his lies poisoning the air between them. That was all she wanted. Tomorrow she’d tell him what she knew.
BUT SHE DIDN’T. Not over breakfast or while working horses or mucking out stalls. There just didn’t seem to be a right time.
By afternoon the barn was alive with people once more. The weather had softened and warmed. Vic found herself coaching half a dozen of her intermediate students while Jamey and Albert handled the chores. The longer she waited, the worse she felt.
Jamey, alert as ever to her moods, asked her several times if she was coming down with something; he even offered to forego the training session scheduled for the evening on Mr. Miracle. Or Roman, she supposed she should call him.
The days had begun to grow longer, so it was almost seven before the last patron waved goodbye. Albert had gone home an hour earlier, and finally she and Jamey were alone. He led the stallion out of his stall, cross-tied him on the wash rack and began to groom him.
Vic stood in front of him and took a deep breath. Her nerves were giving her fits, but normal fits. No heart palpitations. No cold sweat. Oddly enough, no anger, either. She’d begun by assuring herself he had a reason for everything he’d done. She’d progressed to anger, and now she was left with only a hollow despair and a desire to get their discussion over with.
“He’s a truly fine stallion,” she said quietly. “Jock would be proud.”
“What?” Jamey’s head whipped around.
“I said Jock would be proud of Roman.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But he did. His face had gone still.
“I’m curious. After you steal him, how do you plan to get him back to Scotland?”
“Why would I do that?” He tried grinning, but it was a poor attempt.
“Don’t, Jamey. Just don’t. I probably don’t know it all, but I know most of it. Was I simply the means to an end?”
He dropped the brush and reached out for her. “No. Never.”
She backed away. “Please don’t touch me, Jamey. When you touch me I can’t think straight.”
“Then don’t think straight.” He sounded grim.
“I overheard part of your conversation the other night. I didn’t plan to, and the moment I realized you were on the telephone, I stopped listening, but I heard enough. So yesterday I called Marshall. He filled in enough of the details that I could guess the rest. How many people did you have to call before you found Marshall to give you an introduction to ValleyCrest?”
“Three, as a matter of fact.”
She nodded. “How did you trace the stallion to Germany?”
He inhaled audibly. “Can we go into the office and sit down?”
“I don’t think so.”
“All right, then I’ll sit.” He crossed to the bench by the wash rack and sank onto it as though his legs were too weak to hold him.
“Well?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t trace him all the way to Germany—not until a month ago. Oh, I tried. I had most of the horse community of Europe on the lookout for him, posted rewards, put ads in trade papers—everything I could think of. There were reports of horses that might be Roman from time to time, but none of them panned out.”
“But you kept looking?”
“I owed it to Jock. You can’t know what it was like for me to lose Jock’s prize, the culmination of his life’s work. Much worse than to lose this.” He held up his gloved hand. “The worst sort of betrayal of all the trust he’d put in me.”
“His own son betrayed him, not you.”
“Not the way I saw it—see it.”
“So you searched. How could you know that a yearling foal would turn out to be special?”
“I had to find out, don’t you see? For all I knew Roman was dead or gelded or pulling a beer cart somewhere, but I had to know for certain. And if he was Jock’s great horse, then before God I swore I’d bring him home whatever it took. I made a vow to see his first foal on the ground to greet the millenium. I came here intending to keep that vow.”
“Even if it meant theft.”
“Yes. Jock left me his dream when he left me McLachlan Yard. That was his real legacy.”
“Not the sense of honor he tried to instill in you?”
“You’ve no idea how terrible a dilemma it was for me to balance his sense of right and wrong against my obligation.”
“In the end obligation won out.”
“Yes. Or at least I thought it did. Before I met you.”
She ignored the last words. “So how did you finally locate the stallion?”
“A friend of mine called from the auction in Belgium. He said some farmer had showed up out of the blue with a single mare who wasn’t worth much and a stallion that was the size of the moon, solid black. He’d seen Roman as a yearling. Even after two years, he said he thought he recognized him. I was on the next plane.”
“But you were too late.”
“By one day. The farmer had disappeared and the stallion was on an airplane to quarantine in Kentucky. I bribed one of the officials to give me the name and address of the man who’d bought him. Whitten. At first I intended to call him and offer to buy the horse, but my friend told me he’d bought the stallion for his wife and paid a hell of a lot for him. I was afraid I’d never have enough money.”
“Why didn’t you just call Mike and explain the situation?”
“Roman was stolen as a yearling, Vic. He’d never been tattooed or branded or even blood-typed. We didn’t have pictures of the whorls of hair on his neck or the chestnuts on his front legs. He was solid black, so there were no stars or blazes or white socks to identify. There was no way to prove, short of gut instinct, that this horse was Roman. And it could so easily be a scam. Would you have believed me if I’d shown up here and told you to deliver my stolen stallion on only my say-so?”
“Probably not.”
“Besides, how could I be certain he was worth all the trouble? Jock could have been wrong. I had to ride him, but more than that, I had to watch someone else ride him.”
Vic shut her eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Oh, God. That’s why you had to get me back on a horse.” She shook her head. “Not because you understood panic or gave a damn about me as a person, but because you needed to see someon
e ride your stallion for you.”
He was on his feet in an instant. “No, lass! That’s not true.”
“Stay away from me, please.”
“All right. Maybe it was true when I first met you, but not the moment I held you in my arms the first time.”
“Is anything you’ve said true?”
“It’s true that I love you. It’s true that I want to marry you.”
“It’s true that you’re planning to steal Roman.”
“No, dammit. Why do you think I’ve had Hamish breaking his balls trying to get together enough money to offer Mike Whitten a profit? Because no matter how good my plan was, after I met you, fell in love with you, I couldn’t steal from you. I couldn’t betray you that way.”
“Oh? But lying to me was acceptable?” She slipped past him and walked to the door of the arena, then stood with her back to him for a moment before she turned to look at him again. “So how did you plan to get him to Scotland? I’m interested, I really am.”
He looked stricken. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he shrugged and said, “I have a friend who raises horses on the Texas border. The arrangements are all made. I just have to call him. He shows up the following night with a horse trailer, he drives Roman to Texas and straight across the border into Mexico. He drives horses back and forth all the time. Nobody questions him. He’s legitimate, and he’s already got papers showing that Roman belongs to him. Once he’s in Mexico, he transfers the papers to me, puts the horse on a plane, and Roman lands in Glasgow and goes into quarantine twelve hours later.”
“Simple. Just a few minor matters of theft, smuggling and forgery. The only person who suffers is Mike.”
“Albert told me Roman is insured for the full amount of the purchase price. Mike wouldn’t be out any money. Besides, I had every intention of paying him for the horse the moment I could.”
“Anonymously of course,” Vic said dryly. “Wouldn’t do to let him know where his property had finished up. And you slip away with your Texan buddy?”
“No. I planned to stay here at least a few days to allay suspicion. Vic, believe me, this all changed after I met you, after I fell in love with you.”
Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 22