by Tami Hoag
Maggie’s reaction to that was immediate and genuine. “No! I will not go sit in the house like some useless lump. I’m going to be a part of this farm too, Rylan Quaid. Don’t you dare try to shut me out of this. That horse is my meal ticket too, you know. I’ll darn well help when he’s sick.”
“All right, all right.” He held a hand up to cut her off. There was no time for argument now. “You and Christian run to the tack room. Bring back leg wraps, a wool blanket, and all the towels we’ve got.”
She hopped up and kissed his cheek, uttering a quick thank-you before she tore off after the trainer. She was going to become Rylan’s wife. That meant becoming his partner in every way—in his barn as well as in his bed, in sickness and health, in good times and bad. She hoped it wasn’t an omen of any kind that they were starting out with the worst aspects of those vows.
Dr. Maclay was a short, sturdy man dressed in a serviceable dark blue jumpsuit. He was soft-spoken and serious-faced. His gray hairs outnumbered the brown hairs three to one. He was a man Ry had great respect for, but what he was saying now, as they stood outside Rough Cut’s stall, was something Ry didn’t want to hear and wouldn’t believe.
“Ry, I’ll bet every nickel in my retirement fund we’re looking at Potomac horse fever.”
“That’s impossible! Every horse on the place was vaccinated.” Ry’s heart thudded in his chest at the slim possibility he was wrong. They couldn’t have missed vaccinating the most important animal on the farm. It simply wasn’t possible.
The vet shook his head. “This horse couldn’t have been. He’s showing every single symptom. I can’t tell you how he got it or where he got it, but he’s got it.”
“But he can’t—”
Maclay cut him off with a stern look. “You don’t want him to have it, and I don’t blame you, but it’s what we’re dealing with, son, so you’d better accept it. We’ve got our work cut out to save this horse’s life.”
Maggie shivered at the ominous tone of the veterinarian’s voice and at the grim expressions of the men around her. She tugged at Christian’s coat sleeve and whispered, “What’s Potomac fever?”
His eyes were as bleak as a sunless winter day. He never took them off the horse that had carried him to the top of the show-jumping world. “Bad news, luv. Very bad news.”
The vigil began. In addition to the medication Ry had given the horse, Dr. Maclay administered antibiotics and antihistamines. Fluids were pumped into him intravenously. The grooms bandaged his legs to prevent him from hurting himself when the pain caused him to thrash about. Maggie pitched in, helping Ry and Christian as they worked continuously to try to bring down the horse’s fever. She soaked towels in cold water then handed them to the men, who bathed Rough Cut with them.
It was after midnight when she finally obeyed Ry’s order to go to the house. She trudged up the porch steps, her body aching from the fall she’d taken, her arms and shoulders sore and tired from wringing out towels. Moaning, she sank down onto the bentwood rocker and struggled with her boots, letting one then the other thud to the floor of the porch. A hot shower and a soft bed had never sounded so good, she thought, leaning back in the chair.
Her gaze fell on the main barn, the only building still lit up. Ry wouldn’t see a hot shower or a bed until this was over. It would be a minor miracle if they got him to leave Rough Cut’s stall for more than a few minutes. He would tell everyone else to take periodic breaks, but he would never give himself one. He was the one who had read book after book about veterinary science. Taking care of animals was his whole life, even though he had never been given the chance to earn his degree. He would stay with Rough Cut night and day, seeing to the horse’s every need.
But who would see to Rylan?
“That’s your job, Mary Margaret,” Maggie said, running her hands back through her hair, dislodging bits of twigs and dried leaves. “You asked for him, you got him, now you can take care of him.”
Putting thoughts of bed and bath on hold, she pushed herself to her feet and went into the house. Quickly she washed up and changed into a pair of black sweatpants and an old, gray College of William and Mary sweatshirt. Next she went to the kitchen, and made a stack of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. These she carried down to the stable and put in Ry’s office.
Bobby and Marlin had set up cots outside Rough Cut’s stall and sat on them, taking a well-deserved break. They sent Maggie weary smiles of appreciation when she offered them each a cup of coffee from her tray.
“Any change?” she asked softly.
They shook their heads.
“There are sandwiches down in Ry’s office. Go help yourselves.”
She stepped into the doorway of the stall. Christian and Dr. Maclay sat back against one wall, the trainer trying to rub a cramp out of his neck. Ry was bent over the stallion’s head, dribbling cool water on him with a sponge. He glanced up at her and frowned.
“I thought I told you to go to bed.”
“Yes, darlin’, you did,” she said. She served Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee to Christian and the vet, then offered the last one to Ry.
He took it and scowled at her. “Then why aren’t you in bed?”
Deciding the best way to avoid an argument was to ignore him, she changed the subject. “How’s he doing? He seems quieter. Is that good?”
Ry heaved a sigh, running his hand along the big horse’s cheek. Feeling as if he’d just turned two hundred, he pushed himself to his feet. “He’s getting worn out from fighting it. His temp’s down a point, but that’s still too high. I feel so damn helpless.”
Maggie led him out of the stall. They sat down on one of the cots Bobby and Marlin had vacated to go in search of the sandwiches. She reached up and brushed a wayward lock of dark hair from Ry’s forehead. “You’re doing everything you can. Dr. Maclay said giving him that injection when you did may have saved his life.”
May have saved his life, Ry thought. But what kind of life was it going to be? Potomac fever left its victims severely lame. Only days ago this horse had outperformed some of the top equine athletes in the world. Now, if he lived, it would be painful for him to walk out into his paddock. It seemed so unfair. This horse had been such a courageous champion. He had earned better than to be lame the rest of his life.
Permanent lameness was not the only damage this disease would do. It would also leave a stallion sterile. If they managed to pull him through the crisis, Rough Cut wasn’t going to be worth his weight in dog food. There would be no syndication. All the plans that had been laid, all the improvements that had been made to the farm, all the money that had been spent on advertising would be considered a wasted effort. Instead of hauling money to the bank in a wheelbarrow, Ry would be digging into his pocket to pay bills.
It was amazing how quickly things could change. Just a few long hours ago he had been riding home with Maggie in his arms, thinking of the future they would have together, the love he could give her, the security he could offer her. Now he could offer her only himself and his newfound love, and experience had taught him that wasn’t enough.
Rough Cut’s condition fluctuated between bad and worse every few hours. When morning came Bobby and Marlin were relieved by two other grooms. During one of the stallion’s more stable periods, Christian slipped out to his cottage for a few hours of sleep. Dr. Maclay left, promising to return by noon. Ry had yet to leave the horse alone for more than five minutes.
Maggie had camped out near the stall on a lounge chair for part of the night, returning to the house near dawn. At seven-thirty she was on her way to the stable again, this time with doughnuts, fresh fruit, and a fresh pot of coffee.
Ry tossed down another cup of coffee but refused to eat a thing. He washed up in the bathroom off the lounge and changed into the clean shirt Maggie had brought out for him, then returned to the stall. His concentration was focused solely on saving Rough Cut’s life. Regardless of what would happen afterward, he felt he owed it to the animal to do every
thing he could to save him. So he sat in the stall hour after hour, checking vital signs, administering medication when necessary, changing the IV bag when the need arose, sponging the horse down to help reduce his fever. Time passed without notice. He lost track of morning and afternoon.
Maggie helped as much as she could—more than he expected her to. Ry watched her push aside her fear, roll up her sleeves, and get right down in the stall with him to help bathe the horse, to stroke Rough Cut’s head and try to comfort him when shots had to be given. He watched her work beside him, knowing she was working outside the stall as well, keeping the help fed, answering the phone, running errands. She had said she wanted to help, that this was to be her farm too.
Guilt poked at him when he realized Maggie didn’t know what the ramifications of this illness would be. He was taking advantage of her ignorance. Rough Cut wasn’t going to be their meal ticket, and she wasn’t going to want anything to do with the farm or him when she found out where this illness was going to leave them.
He knew he had to tell her, but he put it off. He rationalized he couldn’t leave the stallion, but he knew part of the reason he didn’t tell her—a big part—was the comfort he took in having her near. It seemed every time his strength started to flag, there was Maggie with a soft touch, a word of encouragement, a cup of coffee. He had gotten used to having her around. If Fate had been kinder, he could have looked forward to that for the rest of his life. Instead, Fate had dealt his future a nasty blow. So, fair or not, he would keep Maggie with him through the worst of this crisis, because, Lord help him, he needed her. And when it was over he would let her go.
The morning of the third day Maggie approached Rough Cut’s stall with a purposeful stride. Dr. Maclay and Christian Atherton stood in the aisle.
“How is he?”
Dr. Maclay ran a hand across his chin and sighed. “His condition has stabilized. His temperature is down to a hundred and three. He’s not completely out of the woods, but I think the worst of it has passed.”
Maggie gave a decisive nod, then turned on her heel, went into the stall, and grabbed Rylan by the shirt collar.
“Mary Margaret, what the hell!”
“You are coming with me, Rylan Quaid,” she said in a tone that brooked no disobedience. When he came to his feet, she started out of the stall, tugging him along behind her with two fingers through a belt loop on his jeans. “You’ve been with this horse for thirty-six hours. You deserve a break, a meal, a shower, a shave, and some sleep—not necessarily in that order.”
“I can’t leave now,” he protested, digging in his heels, effectively halting Maggie.
She glared over her shoulder at him. “You’ll leave now if I have to take a riding crop to you. You aren’t going to be any good to Rough Cut if you drop from exhaustion.”
Christian hid his laughter discreetly behind his hand. Dr. Maclay waved them on. “Go on, Ry, Maggie’s right. Take a break. Christian and I will keep watch here.”
“Jeepers cripes,” Ry muttered as they walked away from the stall. Hell, they were probably right. He felt as if he were at the rocky end of a long hard fall.
Maggie slid her arm around his waist, needing to touch him even if he did smell like a horse. “Now, don’t scold me, Rylan. I’m worried about you. You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten.” Her voice caught as the strain of the last few days crashed down on her. “I–I know you’re worried about C-Cutter, but—”
“Hey, hey, what’s this all about?” he asked, stopping by the door to his office. He turned her to face him and tilted her chin up with his knuckles. Tears dampened her lashes, turning them into glistening dark spikes around her sable eyes.
She forced a rueful smile and reached up to brush the drops of moisture away. “I’m a big help.”
“You are,” he said seriously. “You’ve been working as hard as anybody.”
And all for nothing. The thought dug into his conscience like a set of talons. He’d kept her there under false pretenses, working like a dog, for his own selfish reasons. He stood staring down at her, at her pale face and the dark smudges beneath her eyes. He had to tell her the truth, and he might as well do it now, when he was already feeling beaten.
“Come in the office, Maggie,” he said, opening the door. “We need to talk.”
“Ry, it can wait,” she protested. “You need—”
“To talk to you, Maggie.”
A strange apprehension closed around her heart like a fist. He seemed so businesslike all of a sudden. He wasn’t wearing his normal scowl. His look was almost blank, oddly guarded. She had to fight the urge to turn and run before she stepped through the door ahead of him. Nerves kept her away from the chair in front of his desk. She didn’t want to sit. Somehow she thought if she kept moving, the whole situation would lighten up. If she sat in that chair across from Ry like a truant student across from the principal, something bad was going to happen; she could sense it.
She wandered around the room she had spent so much time in the past week, stopping every few steps to stare at something without seeing it, then moving on.
Ry sank down on the big chair behind his desk—the chair Maggie had given him. Elbows on the blotter, he made a steeple of his fingers and watched her flit around the room like a skittish butterfly. He had dreaded this moment and postponed it further by saying nothing. Watching Maggie wander around his office was much preferable to watching her walk out the door.
When she could stand the silence no longer, Maggie said, “I suppose we’ll have to postpone the open house. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about, sugar? I can—”
“It’ll have to be canceled,” he said flatly. He picked up an ink pen and rolled it between his palms.
“Canceled?” She stopped and looked at him, bewildered. “But why? We’ve done so much work getting ready. Why can’t we just put it off for a couple of weeks? Cutter will be back to normal by then, won’t he? And the investors—”
“There aren’t going to be any investors, Maggie.” He put down the pen and sighed, feeling as though he didn’t have the strength to pick it back up. “If we manage to pull Rough Cut through this, he’ll be sterile, useless as a sire or as anything else for that matter.”
No wonder he looked so grim. Maggie’s heart ached for him. Rough Cut was the horse he had worked all his life to raise. The stallion was to have been the cornerstone for the future of the farm. Now that dream was wrecked. “I see,” she said quietly.
“Do you?” He pushed his chair back and stood, frustration forcing him to pace back and forth behind his desk. “Do you see that everything I’ve worked toward for the last few years is gone? Just like that the slate is wiped clean. Do you see that I’ve invested over a hundred thousand dollars on new facilities that won’t even begin to pay for themselves now?” His voice rose a decibel with each statement as the anger built. “I invested money that was supposed to come from Rough Cut’s syndication, but now there won’t be any syndication, and I can’t sell him off as a field hunter, because he’ll be lame for the rest of his life! Do you see that I’m not only back to square one, I’m in the hole, Maggie.”
“I understand what’s happened is terrible, but it’s not the end of the world, Ry. Rough Cut isn’t the only good horse you’ve got. You’ve got stables full of fine animals. Why can’t we go on with the open house and simply change the emphasis? We could show off the young stock. The new facilities are wonderful; there’s no reason we shouldn’t—”
“We won’t do anything.” He dropped back down on his chair, cradling his head in his hands as he leaned on the desktop once more. Damn, he was tired, and things were going to get worse before there was any hope of their getting better. “I’ll take care of calling the investors. I’ll take care of canceling the open house. It’s my responsibility. I’ve imposed on you too much as it is.”
“Imposed?” She stopped in front of his desk. He looked exhausted. A three-day stubble darkened the harsh planes of his face. His hai
r was mussed from too many finger combings. He looked tough and angry and hurt. Maggie propped a hip on the desk and leaned across to stroke her fingertips down his beard-roughened cheek. “Sugar, it’s no imposition. We’re in this together.”
His hand closed around her wrist, and he removed her touch from his face. This was bad enough without being reminded of how soft she was, how tender she could be. Heaven help him, if he got a whiff of her perfume, he wasn’t going to be able to go through with what he had to do.
“Don’t, Maggie. Don’t you see what this means? I promised you I could give you things, that I could give you everything you ever wanted. Now I won’t have anything left to give you except bills and headaches. I don’t expect you to hang around.”
“You don’t expect…” She let the words trail off as their awful meaning tried to penetrate. That fist of apprehension tightened. Her heart pounded as Ry went on.
“I made an offer I can no longer make good on, so the deal’s off. I’m sorry, Mary Margaret. I wish it could have been different.”
“You’re throwing in the towel,” she said, pulling her wrist from his grasp and rubbing it absently as she stared at him in disbelief.
He looked away.
Fuming, she pushed herself to her feet. “You’re throwing in the towel. I ought to strangle you with it. You and your confounded deals! Do you really think I ever gave a hoot in hell about the money?”
The look on his face told her plainly what he’d thought.
“You son of a gun.” She ground the words out through clenched teeth. “I suppose I should be flattered that you thought so little of me but were still willing to marry me. Or didn’t it matter to you? I guess you made it plain enough the first time you asked me to marry you—what you wanted was a brood mare. As long as I was genetically compatible, maybe it didn’t matter that I was so lacking in character that I would marry you for your money.”