A Cowboy's Angel

by Pamela Britton

  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. What? Dinner?”

  He almost laughed. Eating with the enemy?

  “What’s the matter?” He turned and cocked a brow. “Afraid I’ll poison your food?”

  She drew back. “No. Of course not. I just—”

  Didn’t want to think of him as a person. He saw that much in her eyes. Much better to keep him at arm’s length. He didn’t know for certain that was what she was thinking, but he had a pretty good idea because frankly, he’d had the same thought.

  “Scared?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Okay, fine.” She sucked in a bottom lip, Zach watching as she nibbled it and then let it back out again. When she released the flesh, it was glossy and he found himself wondering how she’d taste.

  Now you really have lost your mind.

  “Can I bring anything?” she asked.

  A negligee with frilly underwear.

  Good Lord. Stop it.

  “Just yourself.”

  It was that damn red hair of hers. And the freckles. He turned away before she caught a glimpse of what he was thinking in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I promise, you won’t regret this.”

  Actually, he already did.

  Chapter Two

  Mariah was as anxious as a cat in a room full of dogs as she drove down a lonely country road three hours later. Low-lying hills long since turned brown by the hot summer sun surrounded her. It was a view she usually enjoyed. Not today.

  He’d agreed to see her.

  Okay, okay, so there was the little matter of dinner. Any other owner and it’d be no big deal. Any other owner was at least sixty years old and could have easily been her dad. Zach Johnson couldn’t be much older than her twenty-six years and was, gosh darn it all, good-looking.

  Thank God he had no clue how much he affected her.

  She bashed her hand against the steering wheel of her ancient Honda Civic. She hated the fact that every time she spotted him at the racetrack, she found herself first noticing his tight jeans—and the nicely sculpted rear beneath—before she took note of the horses he schooled from the rail. The man was a bona fide hottie. She’d had that very conversation with her fellow CEASE members more than once, their discussion always ending with too bad he was a racehorse owner. It drove them crazy that anyone with the dark good looks of a soap opera star could race horses for a living. Not just race them but breed them and raise them, too. In some ways he was worse because he was one of the people responsible for the skyrocketing number of unwanted horses, those horses that would never be raced and that would ultimately end their days in the back of a makeshift horse trailer, transported to Mexico, where they would suffer at the hands of a meat processor.

  Her stomach twisted.

  Not if she could help it.

  Up ahead the sign for the Triple J Ranch came into view. It was nestled in the heart of Via Del Caballo, California, and the land alone was worth millions. The residents of the area called it horsey central—with good reason. Farms were everywhere, their white fences intersecting the landscape as if God played an aerial game of tic-tac-toe. And what wasn’t horse farms was vineyards. The Triple J was right in the middle of it all. She’d looked them up on the internet once upon a time, back when she’d first spotted Zach Johnson at Golden Downs and been told who he was. Second-generation racehorse breeder. Quarter horses, not Thoroughbreds, which meant he specialized in sprinters. The fastest animal in a quarter mile, their breeders often touted. That wasn’t exactly true, but it made for great PR.

  Her tires lost purchase on the gravel near the entrance to the ranch as she slammed on the brakes, nearly missing the turn. She cursed inwardly. Not paying attention. Too distracted by thoughts of Mr. Magnificent.

  White fence rails guided her down a long straight road, one with trees on either side. To her left and right were pastures with emerald-colored grass clipped down by grazing horses. The two pastures were at least twenty acres apiece. Up ahead, perched atop a small knoll, was the main house, a huge behemoth of a structure whose windows caught the sun’s last rays turning them gold. Originally it’d been a single A-frame, but his parents had completely renovated the place by the early ’90s. Some said the remodel had caused Zach’s parents’ divorce.

  That last part was track gossip, but she believed it because she’d heard from a number of sources that Samantha Johnson had damn near bankrupted the ranch after having the place overhauled, and then she’d run off with the general contractor, leaving James Johnson to raise his son. When he’d died two years ago, Zach had inherited the two-hundred-acre ranch, the racing operation and a pile of debt. More track gossip, only this time she wasn’t certain if it was true.

  The place was stunning. Certainly well kempt. At the end of a drive sat a horseshoe turnaround. A sign pointed her to the right, the word Office painted in gold against a red backdrop. She followed the directions. A parking area had been set up straight ahead. A single-story barn stood to the left, and to her right, a flat-roofed building, the office, she presumed. She pulled up next to a golf cart already parked in a spot between the two structures. Another white fence stretched between the two buildings, yet another pasture on the other side. On the top rail someone had posted a reserved sign where the golf cart had been parked.

  “Here we go,” she muttered, then took a deep breath, wondering if she should have driven up to the house and parked there. Great. He was probably watching her from his dining room window wondering what the hell she’d been thinking to park down at his barn. She almost backed out of the spot, but movement caught her eye.

  Zach Johnson.

  Her breath caught. He stood at the entrance to the barn, a straw cowboy hat on his head, his eyes shielded by the brim, but not his lower jaw. Its strong outline could be seen clearly, as could his mouth, razor stubble growing above and around it. He was one of those men who always seemed to have a five-o’clock shadow, no matter if it was seven in the morning or eight at night. Dark hair. Dark eyes. She’d always thought them brown until she’d noticed today they were a dark, dark blue, made darker by the thick black lashes that surrounded them.

  Lord help her.

  “Glad you didn’t go up to the house,” he said as she slowly stepped out of her car, the black short-sleeved shirt he wore revealing tan arms. “I’m in the middle of feeding. You want to tag along?”

  Good-looking, friendly and willing to talk to her about how they might save unwanted racehorses’ lives.

  “Oh, um...” Not really. “Sure,” she called back, hoping he didn’t see the way she wilted against the side of her car.

  Maybe having dinner with him was a bad idea.

  Go on. Move. He’s not going to bite.

  No, but she wished he would bite the side of her neck, maybe suckle it—

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it.

  Why, oh why, did the man have this kind of effect on her? It was crazy how every time she saw him, her heart would beat like the skin of a drum. Her palms would grow sweaty. And her body would buzz and warm in places it had no business buzzing and warming. None at all.

  “Come on. We’ll use the golf cart. I already fed the barn.”

  He walked toward her. All she could do was nod and then push away from the side of her car.

  Get a grip.

  Sexual attraction. Inconvenient, inconceivable, stupid sexual attraction. In college she’d had the hots for
one of her professors. Eventually it’d worn off. Hopefully, this would, too.

  “Um, nice place.” She ducked beneath the canvas roof of the cart as she climbed in next to him and he smelled... Oh, he smelled sooooo nice. Like sage and sawdust with a hint of sweat.

  “Thanks.” He started the engine, the reverse gear popping into place with a jerk, something that seemed to be universal to golf carts the world over. “My parents built the barns and the fencing, but the house is original to the property.”

  Should she admit she knew that? Wouldn’t he find that stalkerlike? “I read about that on your website.”

  He glanced at her quickly. Yup. Definitely thought her stalkerlike.

  “I research all the racehorse owners.”

  Beneath his straw hat, a mixture of amusement and devilry shone in his skyline-colored eyes. “Oh, I’m sure. I bet you have dossiers on all of us.”

  He shifted the cart into first gear, and she had a feeling he looked away only because he’d been about to laugh.

  “It’s nothing personal.”

  Why are you defending yourself? Geez, get a grip.

  Because it was personal with him, she admitted, and all because of this damn ridiculous physical attraction. She’d known it from the start too. Usually, she went online to find out more about a racing stable’s operations—the number of stallions they had, if they bred their own broodmares, how many foals dropped in a year, that kind of thing. She’d be lying, though, if she didn’t admit to clicking around on the Triple J Ranch’s website looking for more information about Zach. What had he called himself? Small-time? Something like that, and they were. The Triple J Ranch could easily house dozens of racehorses, but she’d only counted four broodies out front. They didn’t have a stallion at stud, either. She’d heard they’d had to put him down a couple years ago, but she couldn’t deny that all that information had been secondary to finding out if he had a wife or kids or a girlfriend.

  She was such an idiot.

  “Sorry about your horse,” she blurted, because there she went blushing again. They were driving toward a shed, one that served as cover for the pasture animals on one side and looked to be some kind of storage facility on the other side. “Bad luck.”

  “You have no idea.”

  A soft breeze wafted across her face. It blew the smell of him away from her and allowed her to focus more on what she was at the Triple J to do.

  Thank God.

  “If Doc Miller suggests a fasciotomy, don’t do it.”

  She felt him glance over at her. She was trying to keep her eyes straight ahead, but it was hard to resist the urge to turn and meet his gaze.

  “It’s an unproven procedure that might end up doing more harm than good.”

  Don’t look at him. Do not look at him.

  She looked at him.

  Zap!

  That was what his stare felt like. Zing. Zoom. Zam.

  “More internet research?” he teased.

  Breathe.

  “Actually,” she all but wheezed, “I’m a vet.”

  He slammed on the brakes. She had to throw her hands forward to avoid slipping off the seat.

  “What?”

  They’d made it to the shed, but one glimpse into his eyes and she realized she’d shocked him. Good. If she kept him on his toes, maybe then he wouldn’t spot the way she blushed every time their gazes met.

  “A vet. Graduated two years ago. That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. I have some ideas about the aftercare of horses with an injury like Dasher’s.”

  She really wished he would quit looking at her like that. It made her all kinds of uncomfortable and...quaky inside. Yes, quaky, especially since she was closer than she’d ever been to him before. She could see up close how perfectly his features all melded together into a picture of utter male handsomeness.

  “Where’s your practice?”

  “I don’t... Well, I mean, I do have one. I mean, I could if I wanted to, and I do, sort of....”

  She took a deep breath. “I work for nonprofits, mostly. Did a year in Mexico and Chile gelding stallions for rural farmers. These days I’m focusing on problems that are closer to home. I work for a temp agency that specializes in placing veterinarians. It means I have to travel a lot, but that’s okay. Working temp jobs gives me lots of free time to focus on CEASE.”

  There. That hadn’t sounded so bad. He didn’t need to know that she’d been looking for full-time work for months now. Let him think she selflessly devoted herself to her cause.

  He turned off the cart. “Be right back.”

  “What? Wait. I’ll go with you.”

  “No, no. Just stay there.”

  He left her there sitting all alone.

  She slumped against the seat in disappointment. She’d been hoping for a “Good for you,” maybe even a “Wow, I’m impressed,” but all she saw was his impressive backside disappear inside the shed.

  You should be grateful he put some distance between the two of you.

  Instead she dwelled on her disappointment at his nonreaction, and that worried her all the more. What did she care if he wasn’t impressed by her vocation? He was a racehorse owner. The enemy.

  A handsome enemy.

  She covered her face with her hands and groaned. She had the hots for him, all right. And she had them bad.

  “Not good,” she heard herself say.

  Not good at all.

  * * *

  A VET.

  Zach pulled the string on a brand-new bag of grain, the threads sliding free with a pop-pop-pop-pop, all the while trying to figure out what would make a woman go through years and years of schooling only to toss them all away and found an organization like CEASE.

  Crazy.

  Well, he knew that. Everyone at Golden Downs knew it. When she and her buddies had picketed the entrance to the track, she’d arrived in a horse costume, complete with long flowing mane made out of yarn.

  Crazy.

  Outside he heard the rhythmic thud of horses’ hooves. Belle and Baby must have spotted his arrival and were now galloping to the shelter in anticipation of gorging themselves on grain. One of them nickered along the way.

  “Hold on, hold on,” he said, opening a feed door along the back wall. Two anxious faces stared back at him, ears pricked forward, eyes bright. He smiled. “Did you honestly think I would forget about you?”

  They nodded their heads as if answering his question but were really just exhibiting equine impatience, manes flying, forelocks waving. He poured out the feed. They acted starved. The two of them had all the grass in the world, but he gave them supplements to help the growth of their unborn foals.

  “Slow down, you guys. You’re going to choke.”

  “I, ah, I think I’m going to head on up to the house.”

  He just about jumped. His horses, too, both of them lifting their heads as if to ask, “Who’s that?”

  A pain in his backside.

  She stood in the doorway, her pretty hair lit up like a sorrel-colored horse. He’d never seen hair such a golden-red before and not for the first time he wondered if it was fake or natural. He would bet natural.

  “I brought something I should warm up, and so if you don’t mind...” She motioned back toward the parking area. “I don’t want it sitting in the sun, either.”

  “Hang on. I’ll drive you.”

  He tossed the horses some grain, then all but threw the scooper back into the garbage can he used to store their feed and closed the lid with a snap before turning back around and brushing by her, their arms grazing. She jumped as if he’d hit her with flames.

  It drew him up short. “Did I scratch you or something?”

  “No, no.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m fine.
Just a little off-balance.”

  He spotted the blush then. Saw how her pulse beat at the base of her neck. The way her gaze darted all over the place—anywhere but at him.

  She was aware of him.

  He stepped closer. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yeah. Great. Just hungry. That’s why I want to start heating up my dish. I didn’t have any lunch and I’m starved. I’m such an idiot sometimes. I really should eat. Surprised I don’t just keel over sometimes.” She made the sound of a splat, using her forearm to mimic falling over. “Plop. That’s going to be me one day. Not eating makes me light-headed. That’s all.”

  Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or her?

  He almost laughed. And she still wouldn’t look at him, and that was when he knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she found him attractive.

  Well, well, well.

  Little Miss Animal-Rights Activist was into him. He wasn’t sure if he should be flattered...or scared.

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly, closing the distance between them and tipping her chin up.

  She gasped.

  He tried not to laugh. He had no idea why he did it except maybe he supposed it had something to do with the number of times she’d driven him insane with her actions and her comments and her innuendos and assumptions.

  He pretended to examine her. “Your eyes aren’t dilated or glazed over, so no hypoglycemia.”

  “That’s good,” she said softly.

  “But if you fall down, I’ll catch you.”

  He released her. She blinked. He smiled. She turned the same color as her hair.

  Oh, yeah. She found him attractive, all right.

  So what are you going to do about it?

  Drive her crazy, he told himself. Completely and utterly crazy. Maybe then she’d leave him alone.

  Chapter Three