by Lisa Jackson
His gray eyes drove into hers and his voice was low when he spoke. “Only that I can’t persuade you to call me by my first name.”
“I don’t think I know you that well—”
“Yet.” He raised his glass in mock salute and his flinty eyes captured hers. “Here’s to an independent woman,” he announced before taking another long drink.
She was more than a little embarrassed by the intimate toast, and after a few silent moments when she alternately sipped the wine and twirled the glass in her fingers, she decided she had to level with him. Against her wishes she was warming to him, and that had to stop. “Look, Zane. As far as I’m concerned, you’re close enough to certifiably crazy that I doubt if I’ll associate with you again,” she said half-seriously as she poured them each another glass of wine and then began to attack her salad. “There’s no reason for first names.”
“I’m not crazy, Ms. Rhodes—”
“Tiffany.” Gentle laughter sparkled in her eyes. “Just concerned, right?” Her smile faded and she became instantly serious. “Why? Why are you here, now, telling me all of this?”
“It took me this long to be sure.”
“Then you’ll understand why I’m having trouble accepting what you’re suggesting as the truth. You’ve had four years to think about it. I just found out this morning.”
Tiffany pushed her plate aside, crossed her arms over her chest and leveled serious blue eyes in his direction. “Let’s quit beating around the bush,” she suggested. “So what’s in this for you? You don’t impress me as the kind of man who would go traipsing halfway around the world just to set the record straight and see that justice is served.”
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I have an interest in what happens here.”
Dread began to hammer in her heart. “Which is?”
“Personal.”
“What does that mean? A grudge—revenge—vendetta—what?” She leaned on one hand and pointed at him with the other. “This morning you said you knew Ellery. I got the impression then, and now again, that you didn’t much like him.” Her palm rotated in the air as she collected her scattered thoughts. “If you ask me, all this interest in my horse has to do with Ellery. What’s the point, Mr. Sheridan? And why in the world would you want to buy this farm? There must be a dozen of them, much more profitable than this, for sale.”
Zane set aside his fork and settled back in the chair. As he pondered the situation and the intelligent woman staring beguilingly at him, he tugged on his lower lip. “The reason I want this farm is because it should have been mine to begin with. That your husband got the capital to invest in this parcel of land was a...fluke.”
“Come again,” she suggested, not daring to breathe. What was he saying? “Ellery’s family owned this land for years.”
“I don’t think so. The way I understand it, he was a tenant farmer until a few years ago. The two hundred thousand dollars that your husband put into this farm as a down payment—”
“Yes?” Tiffany asked.
“He stole it from me.”
“Oh, dear God,” Tiffany whispered, letting her head fall forward into her waiting hands. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Obviously Zane thought he was telling the truth, and he didn’t seem like a dangerous psychotic, but what he was saying was absolutely ridiculous. Ellery might have been many things, but Tiffany knew in her heart he wasn’t a thief.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Sheridan,” she said, her voice as cold as ice. “You’ve been saying some pretty wild things around here—things that could be construed as slander, and—”
Footsteps on the back porch interrupted her train of thought. Panic welled in Tiffany’s mind and she snapped her head upward as the familiar boot steps drew near. Within a minute, Mac was standing in the kitchen, worrying the brim of his fedora in his fingers, his dark eyes impaling hers. “You’d better come, Missy,” he said, his voice uncommonly low.
“Ebony Wine?”
“Aye.”
“The foal is here?”
“Will be soon, and...” His eyes shifted from Tiffany to Zane and back again. Tiffany’s heart began to thud painfully in her chest. She could read the silent message in Mac’s worried gaze.
“No...” she whispered, pushing the chair back so hard that it scraped against the hardwood floor. Her fearful eyes darted to Zane. “If you’ll excuse me, we have an emergency on our hands.” She noticed the glimmer of suspicion in Zane’s eyes, but didn’t bother to explain. Time was too imperative.
In seconds she was away from the table and racing toward the den. “Have you called Vance?” she called over her shoulder.
Mac pushed his hat onto his head and nodded. “He’s on his way. Damn, but I should have seen this coming. I’ll meet you in the shed.”
Tiffany kicked off her pumps, pulled on a pair of boots and yanked her jacket off the wooden hook. Mindless of the fact that she was dressed in wool slacks, angora vest and silk blouse, she opened the French doors and raced into the dark night. She had taken only three breathless strides, when she felt the powerful hand on her arm, restraining her in its hard grasp.
“What’s going on?” Zane demanded as Tiffany whirled to face the man thwarting her. Her hair tossed wildly around her face, and even in the darkness Zane could see the angry fire in her wide eyes. He hadn’t been able to decipher the silent messages passing from Mac to Tiffany in the kitchen, but Zane knew that something horrible was taking place and that Tiffany felt she could do something about it.
Tiffany didn’t have time to argue. She was trying to free herself. “A mare’s gone into labor.”
“And that upsets you?”
She jerked her arm free of his imprisoning grasp. “There might be complications. If you’ll excuse me—” But he was right beside her, running the short distance from the house to the foaling shed with her, his strides long and easy.
With a sinking feeling, Tiffany realized that there was no way she could hide her secret from him any longer, and she really didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the mare in labor and the unborn colt.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SOFT OVERHEAD lights of the foaling shed were reflected in the sweat-darkened coat of Ebony Wine. As the mare paced restlessly in the stall, she alternately snorted in agitation and flattened her dark ears against her head in impatience.
Mac’s arms were braced on the top rail of the gate to the foaling stall and his anxious brown eyes studied the horse. A matchstick worked convulsively in the corner of his mouth.
He spoke softly in quiet tones filled with years of understanding. “Simmer down, lady.” His gravelly voice was barely audible as the distressed mare shifted under the intense pressure of an abdominal contraction.
Tiffany’s heart was pounding more rapidly than her footsteps on the cold concrete floor as she walked rapidly down the length of the corridor to the foaling stall. The acrid smells of sweat and urine mingled with antiseptic in the whitewashed barn. One look at Mac’s tense form told her that the birth of Ebony Wine’s foal was going no better than he had expected.
Zane was at Tiffany’s side, matching her short strides with his longer ones. His dark brows were drawn over his slate gray eyes. He kept his thoughts to himself as he tried to make head or tail of the tense situation. Something was very wrong here. He could feel it. Though it hadn’t been stated, he had witnessed fear in Tiffany’s incredible blue eyes when Mac had entered the kitchen and made the announcement that one of the mares had gone into labor. Zane had noticed something else in Tiffany’s worried expression—determination and pride held her finely sculpted jaw taut, but worry creased her flawless brow. A sense of desperation seemed to have settled heavily on her small shoulders.
“Has her water broken?” Tiffany asked as she approached Mac and leaned over the railing of the stall.
Mac shook his head and ran bony fingers over the stubble on his jaw. “Not yet.�
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Ebony Wine was moving restlessly in the stall. Her sleek body glistened with sweat, and her ears twitched warily.
“Come on, lady,” Mac whispered softly, “don’t be so stupid. Lie down, will ya?”
“She didn’t get off her feet the last time,” Tiffany reminded the trainer.
“She’d better this time,” Mac grumbled, “or we’ll lose this one, sure as I’m standing here.” He shifted the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Moon Shadow’s colts need all the help they can get. Come on, Ebony, be a good girl. Lie down.”
“Moon Shadow?” Zane asked. “He’s the sire?”
Mac’s troubled gaze shifted from the horse to Tiffany in unspoken apology. “That he is.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed as he studied the anxious mare. “Where’s the vet?”
“He was at another farm—said he’d be here on the double,” Mac replied.
At that moment, Ebony Wine’s water broke and the amniotic fluid began cascading down her black legs.
“Looks like he might be too late,” Zane observed wryly.
Without asking any further questions, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, walked to a nearby basin and scrubbed his arms and hands with antiseptic.
“What’re you doing?” Tiffany demanded.
His gaze was steady as he approached her. “I’m trying to help you. I’ve spent most of my life with horses and seen enough foals being born to realize when a mare’s in trouble. This lady here—” he cocked his dark head in the direction of the anxious horse “—needs a hand.”
Mac looked about to protest, but Tiffany shook her head to quiet him. “Let’s get on with it.”
Ebony Wine stiffened as Mac and Zane entered the stall. Her eyes rolled backward at the stranger. Mac went to Ebony Wine’s head and talked to the horse. “Come on, Ebony, girl. Lie down, for Pete’s sake.”
Zane examined the horse and the bulging amniotic sac beginning to emerge below her tail. “We’ve got problems,” he said with a dark frown. “Only a nose and one leg showing. Looks as if one leg has twisted back on itself.”
“Damn!” Mac muttered. His hands never stopped their rhythmic stroking of Ebony Wine’s head.
Tiffany felt her heart leap to her throat. Moon Shadow’s foals were having enough trouble surviving, without the added problems of a complicated birth. Against the defeat slumping her shoulders, Tiffany forced her head upward to meet the cruel challenge fate had dealt the mare. Her vibrant blue eyes locked with Zane’s. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help with supplies.” He pointed in the direction of the clean pails, scissors and bottles of antiseptic. “We’ve got to get that foal out of there, and my guess is that this lady isn’t going to want our help.”
The sound of the door to the foaling shed creaking open caught her attention and brought Tiffany’s head around. Vance Geddes, his round face a study in frustration, let the door swing shut and hurried down the corridor to Ebony Wine’s stall.
He took one look at the horse and turned toward the basin. “How long has she been at it?” he asked, quickly washing his hands.
“Over half an hour,” Mac replied.
“And she won’t lie down?”
“Not this one. Stubborn, she is.”
“Aren’t they all?” Vance’s gaze clashed with the stranger attending to Ebony Wine. Zane responded to the unspoken question. “Zane Sheridan.”
“’Evening,” Vance said.
“I was here on other business, but I thought I’d help out. I’ve worked with Thoroughbreds all my life, and I think we’ve got problems here. One leg’s twisted back. The foal’s stuck.”
“Great,” Vance muttered sarcastically, entering the stall as quietly as possible. “Just what we need tonight.” His eyes traveled over the mare. “How’re ya, gal? Hurtin’ a little?” he asked as he studied the glistening horse.
“How can I help?” Tiffany asked, forcing her voice to remain steady as she noticed the tightening of Vance’s jaw.
“Be ready to hand me anything I might need,” Vance replied and then positioned himself behind the mare to confirm what Zane had told him. “Damn.” He shook his blond head and frowned. “All right, let’s get him out of there.”
Ebony Wine moaned as her womb contracted, and the foal remained stuck in the birth canal.
“This is gonna be touchy,” Vance whispered, as warning to the tall man standing next to him.
Zane’s body tensed and he nodded curtly, before he helped Vance carefully push the foal back into the mare so that there was less danger of breaking the umbilical cord and to give more room to coax the bent leg forward. Time was crucial, and both men worked quickly but gently, intent on saving the mare and her offspring.
Tiffany assisted with the towels and antiseptic, silently praying for the life of the unborn horse. Her throat was hot and tight with the tension in the confining stall. Sweat began to bead on Zane’s forehead, and his intent eyes never left the mare. The muscles in his bronze forearms flexed as he worked on righting the foal. Tiffany’s heart was hammering so loudly, it seemed to pound in her ears.
Ebony Wine pushed down hard with all the muscles of her abdomen. As the mare pushed, Vance and Zane stood behind her and pulled down steadily toward her hocks in rhythm with the birth contractions.
With the first push, the tiny hooves and the head of the foal emerged. On the second contraction, the mare gave a soft moan, and the men were able to pull the shoulders, the broadest part of a foal’s body, through Ebony Wine’s pelvis. Once the shoulders emerged, the rest of the foal followed.
The umbilical cord broke.
Zane dropped to the floor and, mindless of the fluid pooling at his knees, he ripped open the tough amniotic sac. Vance was beside him and worked on the colt’s nose, so that it could breathe its first breaths of air.
Tiffany brought towels and held them near the foal so that Vance could take them as he needed them. Her eyes watched the little black colt’s sides as she prayed for the tiny ribs to move. Dear Lord, don’t let him die. Please don’t take this one, too.
Because the colt had to be pulled out of the mare, the umbilical cord had broken early, and he was shortchanged of the extra blood in the placenta that should have passed into his veins. Both men worked feverishly over the small, perfect body.
The foal’s lips and eyelids looked blue as it lay wet and motionless in the straw.
“Oh, God, no,” Tiffany whispered, as she realized that it had been far too long already since the birth. She dropped the towels and her small hands curled into impotent fists. “Not this one, too.”
Ebony Wine nickered, ready to claim her foal. Mac gently held the frustrated mare as she tried to step closer to the unmoving black body lying on the floor of the stall.
Zane held his hands near the colt’s nose to feel for breath. There was none. “He’s not breathing,” he whispered, looking up for a second at Tiffany before bending over the colt and pressing his lips to the nostrils, forcing air into the still lungs.
Vance knelt beside Zane, checking the colt for vital signs, while Zane fruitlessly tried to revive the colt.
“It’s no use,” Vance said at last, restraining Zane by placing a hand on his shoulder. “This one didn’t have a prayer going in.”
“No!” Tiffany said, her voice trembling and tears building in her eyes. “He’s got to live. He’s got to!”
“Tiff...” Vance said wearily. The vet’s voice trailed off. There were no adequate words of condolence. For a moment the only sounds in the building were the soft rain beating against the roof and the restless shifting of the mare’s hooves in the straw.
Mindless of the blood and amniotic fluid ruining her clothes, Tiffany fell into the straw beside the inert body of the beautifully formed black colt. Her throat was swollen with despair, her eyes blurred with fresh tears. “You have to live, little one,” she whispered in a voice filled with anguished desperation. She touched the foal’s warm, matted coat. “
Please...live.”
Her fingers touched the small ears and the sightless eyes. “Don’t die....”
“Tiffany.” Zane’s voice was rough but comforting as he reached forward and grabbed her shoulders. He felt the quiet sobs she was trying to control. “He was dead before he was born—”
Tiffany jerked herself free. “No!” Her hands were shaking as she raised them in the air. “He was alive and healthy and...”
“Stillborn.”
That single word, issued softly from Zane’s lips, seemed to echo against the rafters.
A single tear wove a solitary path down her cheek. Tiffany let her arms fall to her sides. “Oh, God,” she whispered, pulling herself to her full height and shaking her head. Blood discolored her silk blouse, and straw stuck in her angora vest as well as her hair. “Not another one.” Her small fist clenched and she pounded it on the rough boards of the stall. “Why? Why is this happening?” she demanded, hopelessly battling an enemy she couldn’t see...didn’t understand.
Ebony Wine snorted, and Tiffany realized she was disturbing the already distraught mare. She let her head drop into her palm, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes against the truth. Why the foals? Why all of Moon Shadow’s foals?
“Come on, let’s go back to the house,” Zane suggested, placing his strong arms gently over her shoulders.
“I should stay,” she whispered as cold reality began to settle in her mind. She felt a raw ache in her heart as she faced the tragic fact that another of Moon Shadow’s foals was dead before it had a chance to live. It just wasn’t fair; not to the mare, not to the farm, and not to the poor lifeless little colt.
“We’ll take care of things,” Mac assured her, giving Zane a look that said more clearly than words, “Get her out of here.” Mac was holding the lead rope to Ebony Wine’s halter, and the anxious horse was nickering to the dead foal.
“I’ll make some coffee...up at the house,” Tiffany murmured, trying to pull herself together. She was shaking from the ordeal but managed to wipe the tears from her eyes.
