“No, of course not. You send them someplace else to be killed.”
“Hogwash.”
“You might as well pull the trigger—”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Golden said.
“You may return to your seat, Miss Stewart.”
She almost didn’t. The heat of rebellion stirred in her chest. She wanted to storm up to Edward Golden and tell him she would be back, that he could count on it and that he couldn’t keep on ignoring the problem. Instead she swallowed back her anger and her pride and reluctantly turned away, but not before she caught a glimpse of Zach’s face, and the look in his eyes nearly made her stumble. He stared at her like a man who’d been brought to disappointment by a good friend.
She realized then that she’d alienated the one person in the room who might have been in a position to help her.
Damn.
* * *
“ZACH.” SHE CALLED OUT his name from behind him, and Zach quickened his steps as he headed toward the bank of elevators, his footfalls echoing on the marble floor.
“Fine. Ignore me. But you won’t be able to ignore me tomorrow when I come out to work with Dandy.”
He pushed the button for the elevator and wouldn’t you know it, the damn thing wasn’t waiting. Never failed. When you wanted to leave quickly, you always had to wait.
“Zach.”
She pushed herself in front of him.
He didn’t want to look at her. If he did, she would see how upset she’d made him. So he clenched his jaw and turned away.
“I’m sorry.”
Behind him he heard someone else leave the meeting and the last thing he wanted or needed was for anyone to think there was more between the two of them than there really was. He had a feeling he’d be in more hot water than he already was.
She touched him.
He swung away. “Let’s talk,” he said, leading her toward the Turf Club doors. They were open, thankfully, though the place was deserted. He saw the reason the door had been left open when they passed a door to their immediate left. Glenda, the events coordinator for Golden Downs, sat at her desk, her short gray hair as meticulously in place as it always was.
“Hey, Glenda.”
The events coordinator looked up, the frown on her face fading when she saw it was him.
“Zach. Hey.” She placed a piece of paper she’d been reading back on her desk. “Board meeting over?”
He nodded at the older woman. “Mind if we sit and chat a spell?” He motioned with his chin toward Mariah.
Glenda had known him since he was in diapers. She’d been running things upstairs for as long as Zach could remember, and with opening night the next day, he wasn’t surprised she was working late.
“No. Go ahead.” She waved toward the windows and the wooden tables placed in front of them. “Looks like I’ll be here awhile.”
She went back to work before he could say thanks. Zach led Mariah to the farthest corner of the room. The place always reminded him of a casino, right down to the brass railings that separated the upper level from the lower. Canned lighting and a diamond pattern on the carpet only added to the feeling. It was dark outside now, but the track beyond had been lit for evening workouts. The massive fixtures overhead shone light down on the dark brown footing, making it as bright as day. A lone horse galloped on the track, its rider gingerly perched atop the animal’s back, the horse’s head bobbing in rhythm to its stride. The track must have been recently groomed, because that horse left a trail of hoofprints in its wake.
“It’s beautiful up here,” she said.
Why did he have the feeling she would have never complimented anything about the racetrack if she weren’t so worried about his obvious anger?
“Is it?”
“Look at that view.” Below, the track spread out in front of them, another horse and rider just entering the track, the animal’s trainer going up to and then leaning against the rail. “I’ve only ever seen this in pictures.”
When he followed her gaze, he spotted their reflections in the glass, Zach leaning back and unable to keep the displeasure from his voice as he said, “Yup. Down below is where we denizens of moral corruption ply our trade. Look. There’s another one right there.” He pointed.
She couldn’t hide her chagrin. “Okay, so I might have come on a little too strong.”
“You think?” The tables inside the club were covered in white linen, bread plates on top of them and empty water goblets, too. He toyed with an empty glass. “But I don’t know. Maybe calling me and other horse owners murderers is an effective way to curry support.”
Her lower lip jutted out as she contemplated her response. Down below, the new arrival on horseback began to trot in their direction.
“I knew it was a long shot.” She met his gaze as the rider on the track increased his speed. “And that the proverbial odds were stacked against me, but I was hoping they would at least listen.”
“Maybe they would have if you hadn’t been so damn offensive.”
She winced. “Okay, I deserved that.”
“I told you to be polite.”
“I was polite.”
“Hah.”
“If you knew what I really wanted to say to your friends, you’d be horrified.”
He shook his head. “Nothing you say could surprise me.”
“I promise, next time I’ll be good.”
“Next time?”
“I need to come up with a plan. Something they can’t say no to.” She faced him again. “Maybe a digital presentation. Invite the media—”
“No.”
Her chin popped up. “They’ll have to listen to me if the media is around.”
“No. The old-timers will feel backed into a corner. Not a good thing.”
“So what should I do?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not going to stick my neck out for you again, that’s for sure.”
She snorted. “Meanwhile, more horses will be sent to the track and injured and more horses will die.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
But she wasn’t paying attention to him. He followed her gaze. A poster hung on the wall, an advertisement.
“Oh, no.”
“Tomorrow is the first day of the spring meet,” she mused.
“You’re not crashing the opening-day party.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because security will toss you out.”
“It’s open to the public, too.”
“Yeah, but nobody has to listen to your speeches. They’ll boot you out if you raise a ruckus.”
“What about you? Won’t you be there? You could run interference.”
“I’m not bringing you. I’m in enough hot water as it is. You shouldn’t go, either. You’ve already stepped on enough toes to keep a podiatrist in business for a year. Showing up tomorrow will only pour salt in the wounds.”
She stood up slowly. “I should get going.”
“Mariah, don’t.” He stepped in front of her.
“You don’t get it, do you?” She glared at him. “This is important to me.”
“Believe me, after the stunt you just pulled in there—” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the boardroom “—I get it.”
“Then you should know I’ll do whatever it takes to be heard, including crash a party.”
“Mariah, convincing us to stop racing horses is never going to happen.” He moved in closer, and as always happened whenever she was near, he became aware of her body, her heat. “Racing is what we do for a living. It’s our life. You’re asking us to give up our livelihood.”
“Wait. Do you have a horse running tomorrow?”
Why didn’t he want to answer her? “I do.
”
She held his gaze for so long, and he suddenly felt like the one who should be blushing. “Oh.”
That was all she said, that one word, but there was a wealth of disappointment in it. And sadness. And, yes, even a touch of resignation—and it stung.
“Look. I can’t stop you from going tomorrow. The Turf Club is open to the public, but if you do go, can I give you some advice?”
She didn’t answer.
He plunged on anyway. “Focus on an item you can change, like, I don’t know, forming a welfare league or something.”
She didn’t answer and with each passing moment he became convinced she would do exactly as she pleased. When she started to shake her head, he knew he was right.
“I like you, Zach, I really do, even if I don’t like what you do for a living. And I promise, I’ll continue to help you with your horses no matter what, but I cannot sit back and watch you and your friends run horses into the ground, not without taking a stand.”
It shocked him how much her words hurt him, how much it wounded him to be lumped in with the people she hated so much.
“And what about the horses you’re helping me to heal? What about them? What if Dasher makes it back to the track?”
“You’re not going to race Dasher again, are you?”
“I was thinking I might.”
“Don’t.”
“What if he completely recovers?”
“He won’t. He’ll always have scar tissue that might pose a problem later.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t race him, but what about Summer? What if she gets better?”
She nodded sharply. “I know you’ll do what’s right.”
She doesn’t dislike you. You heard her.
It was little consolation.
“You’re going to do this no matter what I say, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
It was his turn to shake his head. “Don’t make a big scene.”
“I won’t.”
“Try to be reasonable.”
“I will.”
He turned away before he did something truly stupid, like let her see how much her accusations stung. Racing horses was who he was. It was his life. He had no idea why her aversion to his livelihood hurt so much or why it even mattered.
He just knew it did.
Chapter Eight
She’d hurt him.
She watched as he left the Turf Club, leaving her to find her own way back to her car.
Who was she kidding? He’d almost run away from her.
As she rode the elevator down to the mezzanine, she admitted he had a right to be angry. He was helping her and she’d completely ignored his advice. She might be helping him out in return, but that didn’t mean she should abuse his trust. She owed him an apology. Maybe even dinner. Something.
As it turned out, she didn’t have time to give it much more thought. A local veterinary clinic called and asked if she could assist in an emergency surgery. She jumped at the chance but ended up spending most of the night and the early-morning hours helping to keep an eye on the sick horse. Then she fell into bed, nearly missing the alarm she’d set. When she finally managed to open her eyelids, she wanted only to close them again.
“You up in there?” someone called.
Mariah sat up in bed.
“We’re all starting to worry about you out here.”
Jillian Thacker, her best friend and a woman who didn’t know the meaning of the word no. She’d keep banging until Mariah opened up the door.
“I’m coming,” she called. “Just a minute.”
She’d passed out in her scrubs, never a good thing considering all the crud she tended to collect on the front. With a grimace of distaste she pulled off the matching olive-green pants and shirt. She was still in her jeans and fancy shirt from the evening before. Still presentable. Well, aside from the messy hair. Sometime during the night it had come down.
“What took you so long?” Jillian asked the moment Mariah opened the door, her black bob gliding over cheeks as high as the Alps. Bright green eyes lit up with a smile when she spotted her. “It’s hotter than rocket fuel out there.”
Was it? Mariah glanced outside, squinting against the brilliant afternoon sun. She lived on a boarding ranch. Free rent in exchange for free veterinary care of the owner’s show horses. It worked out because she frequently practiced medicine on more than the owner’s horses. The facility’s clientele was the kind that loved having their own resident vet on the premises. She’d made a lot of good friends over the past year, including Jillian. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Zach she had connections in the horse world.
“Nice and cool inside,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Is that what had you sleeping so late?”
It was a tiny studio apartment. Bathroom to her right, futon to the left, kitchen in the back.
Mariah sighed. “Colic surgery last night. I was asked to assist Dr. Baffert. Took us forever to get the horse sedated, and then we couldn’t find the impaction, and then the good doctor asked me to close for him while he went back to bed, I presume. I was there until five this morning.
“Gee. No wonder you look like hell.”
Jillian might be five feet nothing, but she was a spitfire. Given what she did for a living, that wasn’t surprising. Animal communicator, that was her official title, and it caused a fair amount of grief. Mariah had been a skeptic herself when she’d first moved into Uptown Farms, but a persistent lameness had convinced her. Mariah hadn’t been able to diagnose the horse. No vet had been able to do so. Jillian had told her it was the horse’s shoulder. When Mariah had asked what made her think that, Jillian had admitted the horse had told her. A body scan had revealed a torn meniscus. Problem solved. Over the past year she’d made a believer out of Mariah. In fact, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have her “read” Zach’s filly.
“All I want to do is go back to bed.”
“Then do it. We were just worried about you, is all.”
“We” were the other boarders who came and went during the day. Uptown Farms was Grand Central Station at times, people constantly coming and going. The head trainer, Natalie Goodman, was in demand. She and her clients liked to keep an eye on the newly minted vet, as they liked to call her, inviting her to ride from time to time.
“Believe me, I would love to go back to bed.”
“Why can’t you?” Jillian wiped a strand of black hair off her face. She liked it longer in the front than in the back. A lot of people wouldn’t be able to carry such a haircut off, but Jillian looked like a fashion model with her catlike cheekbones and wide lips.
“I have to go out tonight.”
Jillian’s bright green eyes lit up like a marquee sign. “A date?”
“Hardly.” She sighed. “Opening day at Golden Downs.”
Those same eyes narrowed. “More protesting?”
“Actually, I’m going to crash the Turf Club.”
Silence. She saw Jillian’s eyes scan her face, as if she were hoping to read her human friend’s mind. “You’re going to the Turf Club?” She clucked her tongue.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You’re not going to create a big scene? Or orchestrate an impromptu video presentation? Or stand up on a table and give a speech?”
“Actually, all I want to do is speak to Edward Golden, chairman of the board at Golden Downs.”
“I know who he is.”
“I think I need to work things from a different angle.”
She turned toward her closet—an antique armoire—near the back of her apartment. It was blocked by Jillian.
“Mariah, what’s going on?” Blue eyes bored into her own. “This wouldn’t have anything to do wit
h that horse-trainer guy, would it?”
She had nothing to hide, Mariah reminded herself. So what if Zach’s look of disappointment had pricked at her conscience. He knew how she felt about horse racing, just as she knew what he did for a living. Any semblance of a friendship they had formed this week was just temporary. She needed him and he needed her. That was all.
“Mariah?”
Jillian was still waiting for an answer, she realized. “Nothing’s going on, if that’s what you mean.” She tried to brush past her friend.
“Oh, no, you don’t. It’s that guy, isn’t it? That Zach guy. You’ve been seduced by the dark side, haven’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” This time her friend let her pass, Mariah resisting the urge to dive into the oversize cabinet and close the door. At least she’d escape from the heat of Jillian’s gaze.
“I’ve seen his picture.” She heard Jillian behind her. “The man’s a bona fide hottie.”
“I should wear something businesslike,” Mariah muttered. “He needs to take me seriously. Last night I looked too...flower child.”
“Oh, please.” Jillian crossed her arms in front of her, moving to stand by one of the open doors of the closet. “What you really want is to wear that sexy black number that hugs your curves and shows off your legs.”
“No, I don’t.”
But if she wore that black dress, it sure would knock the uptight man on his ass. She’d knock them all for a loop. Wouldn’t that be something? Especially Zach—
She stepped back.
“See!”
She whirled to face Jillian. “Stop.”
But she lied to herself. She did like Zach. He’d been nothing but sweet and helpful and considerate and she’d betrayed his trust and thrown what he did for a living in his face.
“See!” Jillian pronounced again.
Thankfully, her kitchen table wasn’t too far away; otherwise she might have sunk to the floor.
“I do like him.” It sounded like a death-bed confession even to her own ears. She jerked her head up, meeting Jillian’s gaze. “But that’s not why I want to wear that dress.”
A Cowboy's Angel Page 7
