A Cowboy's Angel

by Pamela Britton

  “I didn’t say no.”

  “You will.”

  “What do you need me for? You could go on your own.”

  “And have security called on me the moment they see my face.”

  “They can’t boot you out.”

  “No, but they can refuse to let me speak.”

  “They can’t do that, either.”

  “Okay, fine, do you think they’d listen once I open my mouth?”

  “And you think I’ll lend you some type of credibility?”

  “I need an ally, but I can tell you don’t want me there, either.” She shook her head. “You can’t be seen consorting with the enemy, can you? I just hope you think about it for next month’s meeting.”

  “And what if I say yes?”

  “But you’re not going to.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “Are you?”

  He looked past her, then at the ground, then back at her again. “The meeting is the day after tomorrow. That doesn’t give you much time to prepare.”

  “I’ll have plenty of time.”

  She watched as he shook his head. “I’m going to regret this.”

  She had no conscious thought of moving, but suddenly she’d wrapped him in a hug. “Oh, thank you.”

  “I haven’t said yes yet.”

  “But it sounds like you’re going to, aren’t you?”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  She all but danced in front of him. “I swear to you, Zach, you won’t regret this.”

  But she already did regret it because when she tried to pull back, he wouldn’t let her move. “You have to promise me something.”

  So blue. Those eyes of his, so amazingly blue. Like the color of the sky on a clear summer morning.

  “You have to promise me you’ll behave. No shenanigans. No antagonistic T-shirts. No acting like a crazy woman.”

  “I promise.”

  Something was happening. Something that robbed her of breath. Something that caused her whole body to buzz and tingle and blush.

  Oh, damn.

  Time stood still for a moment as everything inside her turned upside down. And then he let her go. It took everything she had to keep standing.

  He took the reins from her hands and headed back to the barn without a backward glance.

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  * * *

  HE SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE IT. He shouldn’t have said yes.

  A half a dozen times he’d called himself a fool. It wasn’t just that he’d agreed to take her to a board meeting that blew his mind. If he was honest with himself, it was what it had felt like to hold her, too, and the temptation to kiss her... Damn. It’d been nearly irresistible. Thank God she’d kept her distance for the next two days. He’d kept his distance, too. The only thing he’d done was text her a time and a place.

  He’d been dreading the meeting since she’d pulled away from the ranch after riding Dandy. He’d kept hoping she’d cancel, but he should have known better, and so a half hour before they were due to arrive, he found himself waiting for her near his row of stables. Around him grooms went about the evening chore of feeding, the sky already turned a deep orange. Any minute now the overhead lights would come on. Horses nodded their heads impatiently while they waited to eat, some of them nickering at a favorite human, a few of them banging their knees against the side of the stall in impatience.

  “I think I’m going to hyperventilate.”

  She’d come up behind him, and Zach noted the minute he turned that she appeared ready to vomit.

  A wee bit green around the gills? he almost asked.

  He bit back a smile. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  Lord, he hoped she’d do that. He hadn’t told anyone he was going to bring Maddening Mariah. If he had, they’d have told him not to bother. Better to spring it on them, he’d thought. Too late did he begin to wonder what would happen if they told him to get her out.

  They wouldn’t do that, he reassured himself. Pretty girl like her. She’d piled her hair atop her head in a way he’d never seen before, had left loose curls around her face. She wore a floral-printed loose-fitting tank top, one that hugged her breasts and then fell in soft folds around her waist. Jeans that were tucked into fancy Western boots completed the outfit. His eyes caught on the scalloped pattern before slowly trailing back up her legs, then her midsection and then finally to her eyes.

  They blazed.

  “Do I meet with your approval?”

  “I like you better in T-shirts and jeans.”

  She looked sexy as hell and after his reaction to her the other day, it made him edgy.

  “I do, too.” She glanced down. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to be taken seriously. None of your brethren has seen me in anything other than jeans and a CEASE shirt. Maybe the change of clothing will help them see me in a new light.”

  His brethren—as if he were a member of a cult or something.

  “Come on.”

  The meetings were held in the Redondo Room near the Turf Club. It was an easy walk from the stabling area along the short side of the track to the grandstand facilities along the front. Since it was a weekday, the main facility stood empty, but come race day you wouldn’t be able to see the bleachers through the people packed into the stands. The opening they crossed through today had no guard, and the pathway they followed was clear of onlookers who usually lined the chain-link fence so they could catch an unimpeded view of the horses on the track. There was another opening farther down, but it led to the parade circle—the place where they circled the horses prerace—and was closed on nonmeet days.

  “You know, in all my years of visiting the track, I’ve never been in the grandstands.” She made a face. “Haven’t wanted to watch.”

  “We’re really not that bad.”

  She stopped. “Yes, you are. It’s like watching a five-year-old run a marathon.”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Research indicates a two-year-old horse is the equivalent of a thirteen-year-old child.”

  “The point being it’s still a child.”

  “There are plenty of thirteen-year-olds that run track at local meets.”

  He’d stopped without realizing it, which meant he had a perfect view of her mouth opening and closing. Her cheeks had turned the same shade of shell-pink as the sky above. The lights around the racetrack had popped on.

  “Those thirteen-year-olds don’t run for a living.”

  “Damn near. Look at the Olympic gymnasts.”

  “Those are amateurs.”

  “Please,” he scoffed.

  “And they’re not kids,” she added.

  “Hah. Have you seen them? They do backflips at five.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “It just is.”

  Her eyes glared at him like sun off a shard of glass. “Mariah, you’re not going to get very far with the other board members with that kind of thinking.”

  She looked taken aback for a moment. “But I know I’m right.”

  “That’s your opinion and you better keep it to yourself if you want to make friends.”

  “With friends like them, who would need enemies?”

  “Mariah.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.”

  “Promise me?”

  “Promise.”

  He held her gaze, trying to determine if he could trust her. But surely she knew she would get only one shot at convincing the board. She had to tread carefully or they would shut her out, and if that happened, well, there wasn’t much he could do for her.

  “Come on.” He glanced at his cell phone. “We’re goi
ng to be late.”

  She swept her hands toward the grandstands. “Lead the way.”

  How was it possible to be attracted to a woman and yet be so completely exasperated by her at the same time? It made him want to get in her space again, to watch her cheeks bloom with color as he touched her, to just... He ran a hand through his hair. To just get under her skin the way she got under his. Darn woman.

  “This way.”

  Golden Downs had been constructed two decades ago, its white balustrades and spire rooftop reminiscent of Thoroughbred racetracks on the East Coast. They followed a path that led to the base of the stands and a wide corridor beneath the middle of the complex. To their left were stairs and an escalator. To his right were betting windows and an elevator. Only the elevators were working today. He pushed the button.

  “It’s huge,” she said, looking at the wide expanse of concrete and the steel girders overhead.

  “Wait until you see the Turf Club.”

  Years and years ago the spot where Golden Downs had been constructed had been a popular location for match races. With a backdrop of the Santa Ynez Mountains and the ocean only a few miles away, it’d become a popular tourist attraction. After Prohibition, Art Golden, a man better known for his connections to Hollywood, had constructed the raceway. The owners had never looked back. Spring brought quarter horses. Summer meant Thoroughbreds. In the fall they raced harness horses. Never a dull moment at Golden Downs.

  “Here we go,” he said as the elevator doors opened. It was a short ride for traveling five stories. The whole complex was six stories tall, but he rarely went to the top floor.

  The elevator slid open again, revealing a tile lobby flanked on both sides by a wide hallway and double doors directly ahead, the words Golden Downs Turf Club painted in gold lettering on the glass. Two massive flower arrangements sat on either side.

  “Nice, huh?” he said, stopping in the middle and eyeing the crown molding and ivory paint scheme. “I’ll give you a tour later.”

  For now he turned left and toward one of several walnut-colored doors set into the same wall as the Turf Club.

  The Redondo Room was the last room on the right. It overlooked the stabling area, thanks to windows on two sides. Straight ahead, in front of windows that overlooked the finish line, they’d arranged a row of tables. A few of his fellow board members waved before they spotted who trailed in his wake.

  Here we go.

  He turned to Mariah and tried to conceal his anxiety. “Sit,” he ordered.

  “What? Am I a dog?”

  His gaze scanned the audience members, of which there were few—the meeting was usually dull as doornails to the general public. “Of course not, but you’ll need to sit and be quiet until it’s time for you to talk. They’ll call for announcements and we’ll do it then. I’ll tell everyone who you are.” He glanced toward the front of the room. “Not that they don’t already know.”

  She muttered, “Really?” in a sarcastic voice as he headed to his seat.

  Wesley Landon, one of his closest friends, shot him a brow à la Spock as he sat down next to him.

  “Is that who I think it is?” he asked.

  The door opened as the last two board members headed for the front of the room.

  “It is.” Zach scanned the agenda in front of him. The usual stuff: reading of the minutes, changes to race dates, disciplinary actions.

  “You brought Mariah Stewart to a board meeting?” He could hear amusement in Wes’s voice. “Are you nuts?”

  Whatever he might have said was interrupted by Edward Golden, grandson of Arthur Golden, when he said, “Are we ready?”

  Everyone nodded.

  As he’d told her the other day, anyone could attend the meeting, even someone as reviled as Mariah. Still, Zach jumped when Edward pounded the table with a wooden hammer and brought the meeting to order.

  He barely heard the rest of what was said; he fiddled with his brass nameplate, shuffled through the agenda the secretary had printed out. Clicked a pen on and off. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the fear that she’d stand up and shout something controversial. She didn’t. Instead she seemed to be content to study the other board members, no doubt painting villainous mustaches on them all. There wasn’t much to see. A mix of young men and old. Some had been on the board for decades. Others, like Wesley and him, were relatively new, although he might lose his seat after bringing Mariah to the meeting.

  An hour ticked down. His stomach churned like a riptide just before he heard the words he’d been dreading.

  “Any announcements?” asked Edward.

  It wasn’t too late to back out, he told himself. He could keep quiet. But instead he lifted his hand. “Actually, yes.”

  All eyes turned. Nearly everyone had seen Mariah walk in with him, and if there’d been any doubts that they were together and that his “announcement” had to do with her, they’d have been banished the moment he motioned her forward.

  “I invited an...acquaintance of mine to speak tonight.”

  Edward wasted no time. “Whatever she has to say can be submitted to the board and put on next month’s agenda.” The man hardly spared him a glance. “Anybody else have an announcement?”

  He should have felt relief. He was off the hook. And just as she’d predicted, they weren’t going to give her any time to talk. He should have just let it go. Instead he heard himself say, “Wait, wait, wait.”

  Everyone stared in his direction.

  He swallowed. “Ms. Stewart has something to say and I think we should let her speak.”

  “Next month.”

  He met Mariah’s gaze, shook his head gently, trying to silently apologize. They’d try again next month, he told her with his eyes.

  She bolted upright. “There’s no reason for me to return next month.” Those sitting in the front row jerked around. “What I have to say won’t take long.”

  “Mariah—”

  “It will just take a minute.”

  She wasn’t going to listen to him. Instead she shuffled sideways to exit her row. “Just hear me out.” She didn’t approach the head table, just paused in the middle of the aisle, glancing at each of his fellow board members, and said the words he should have expected. Should have, but hadn’t.

  “I want you to stop racing horses.”

  Chapter Seven

  This was her moment, Mariah told herself firmly. Too bad Zach was staring at her as though he wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  “Excuse me?” she heard someone say.

  She scanned faces in an attempt to spot who had spoken, but her gaze hooked on Zach instead. She tried to appear apologetic, but she had only a moment to reflect on the disappointment in his eyes before turning to the man in charge of the meeting—Edward Golden, according to his nameplate—who waved his hammer at her as if he might toss it in her direction like Thor.

  “Who do you think you are to demand such a thing?” he asked.

  “A concerned citizen.”

  “Lady,” said another man, George Lohan, she noted, a man with gray hair and skin so dark it nearly matched the finish of the furniture. “You clearly have some misconceptions about the racing industry.”

  Why did they always say that? She contained her impatience only by counting to ten.

  “Believe me, sir, I understand completely what it is you do with your animals. I’m a veterinarian.” She tipped her chin up proudly, but the men in the room shot her looks of skepticism. “No. I am. I’ve spent the last few years gelding stallions in Third-World countries.”

  “Excellent,” exclaimed Edward Golden. “You should go back to doing exactly that.”

  “Not until I finish my work here.”

  “Young lady, there is no work for you to do here,” t
he owner of the track said in as snide a voice as she’d ever heard. “Men have been racing horses for centuries. We don’t need a woman to tell us what to do.”

  She realized in that instant that she would never get through to him, to all of them. They might listen to what she had to say, but only because they couldn’t exactly throw her out. But maybe...

  “Gentlemen,” she said, softening her voice and glancing at Zach for a moment. The man wouldn’t even look her in the eye. Well, fine, she’d do this without him. She moved forward, hoping against hope they could see the sincerity in her gaze or, failing that, hear it in her voice. “I know I’ve caused you some trouble in the past.”

  The man with blond hair and green eyes sitting next to Zach—Wesley Landon, said his brass plaque—released something close to a snort, but he smiled when he caught her eye, even nodded to her in encouragement. She felt her shoulders sag. At least she had one ally.

  She took a deep breath. “I realize I’m probably fighting a losing battle, but I have to try.” She had all of their attention now. Even the scoffing one, Edward, the only one in the room she’d had direct contact with in the past, and it hadn’t been good, so she’d expected that. “Hundreds of horses a year are sent to slaughter because of the overbreeding of racehorses. I realize your organization isn’t to blame for all of the animals, but you’re part of the problem. If you could just take a stand. Stop racing, even if it’s just for a few months, long enough for your horses to mature some more. If you did that, you’d give them a better chance at reaching maturity without serious injury. They could go on to other careers when you’re finished with them—”

  “Do you have any other suggestions?” Mr. Golden asked in a tone of voice that indicated he wouldn’t care if she offered to buy every horse on the racetrack in order to save their lives.

  “This is the only solution.”

  “Duly noted.” Mr. Golden looked around the room. “Any other announcements?”

  “Wait a minute. You need to hear me out.”

  “With all due respect, Miss Stewart, we don’t have to do anything.”

  “But you’re killing horses.”

  “Are we?” Mr. Golden scoffed. “Forgive me, but I don’t recall having to put a horse down.”