by Renee Reeves
"Usually I would stay in there with him for awhile, but not today. I think it would stress him too much having another person here."
Morgan let out the breath she had been holding and walked slowly to the panel rail. The horse was at the hay now, head down and munching quietly and for the first time she got a clear, close-up look at him. She stopped, gasping in horror. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth and she swallowed tightly, sensing Nick coming up behind her.
The horse was skin and bones, every rib could be counted, and its hips stuck out prominently beneath tightly stretched skin and his white coat. Morgan gripped the bar tightly for support as her breath hitched, stuck in her dry throat. Not only was he skinny, but he was covered in welts and old scars. Long and short, some deeper than others, they marred his face, his neck, his ears. Jesus God there was not a section of his body that was not marred. Her hand fluttered up towards her cheek. Most of the marks, like her own, would never fade. She wiped at her eyes and looked over her shoulder at Nick, not surprised to find his keen blue eyes focused on her.
"Who did that to him?” Her voice quivered. "Why?" Nick became a watery, out of focus blur, and his voice, when he spoke, was gruff.
"His previous owner.” Nick's palms landed on her shoulders, then slid down along her arms until he covered both of her cold hands in his own. Gently he removed her fingers from the metal bars and criss-crossed their arms across her stomach. Morgan let herself be surrounded by the hard warmth of his body and timidly leaned back against him. He made an appreciative noise in his throat and she relaxed even more.
The horse raised its head, eyeing them briefly, then refocused on the hay, using his delicate pink muzzle to push bits here and there emitting soft, contented little snuffles while munching.
"Then his previous owner should be beaten,” she whispered, “so he knows how it feels.” She wasn't sure, the contact had been too brief and could have been accidental, but she thought she felt Nick press a light kiss to the top of her head.
"Yeah ... I was tempted to do some damage.” Against her back she felt his chest expand on a deep breath. “But that wouldn't have solved anything, and would have only caused trouble for me and Jake.” His voice lowered as if in afterthought, “Which I sure as hell don't need."
Morgan detected an odd note in there, but tamped down on her sudden curiosity, not about to pry into Nick's personal affairs. “Tell me about him.” She gestured towards the horse.
"Well,” he began in a deeply soft voice, “he's part draft, part quarter horse and was used on his owner's farm to haul ... well, whatever the guy had to haul, even though he had a tractor that could have done most of the work.” He shifted against her, adjusting their positions so that his arms rested just below her breasts. Richard used to hold her this way, but unlike Nick's hold Richard's had been tight enough to almost crush her ribs. Morgan's breath stuttered in her chest and she shivered, clutching at Nick's forearm. This horse had been owned by a person exactly like Richard, and like her, it had been marked forever by him. Goose bumps rose on her skin even though it was not cold in the arena.
"Relax Morgan.” Nick's warm breath tickled her ear, the side of her neck. She closed her eyes on a low moan. “Just let me hold you, sweetheart.” He waited until she gave a small nod and then continued. “Anyway, I never understood why he used the horse instead of the tractor. But he was a cheap bastard and didn't feed the horse enough to keep up his strength and weight; so of course, even though he's part draft he couldn't work like he used to."
The pictures played out clearly in her mind—the horse, emaciated and weak but bravely struggling, trying its best to please its master before giving out and collapsing, too broken down to care about whatever fate awaited him. Too tired to care. Whether it was death or something else at least it would be a departure from a hellish life.
Unconsciously her hand went to her cheek. “So he started to whip him.” She whispered.
"Yeah,” Nick's voice was soft, “he started whipping him."
One big rough hand slid up her arm over the material of her shirt and her skin tingled through the thin cotton. Those questing fingers reached her shoulder and then caressed along the line of her throat. A slight mewling sound escaped her. “Shhh...” he soothed. She flinched, but didn't pull away when his fingers moved up and skimmed the slightly raised marks on her cheek. He stroked her skin for moment, then turned her face to his, his indigo eyes touching on each scar line and as she watched the muscles in his darkly stubbled jawbone went rigid.
"Nick?” Morgan waited until his eyes flicked to hers. “It's alright."
"The hell it is,” he growled. “That miserable bas—” He stopped, closed his eyes briefly and heaved a deep breath. “Christ Morgan, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to go there ... to bring him up again. Not today at least.” Giving her a small, self-deprecating smile Nick pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then let his hand fall to his side and moved away from her. Immediately Morgan experienced a sense of loss, missing his warmth, the secure feeling of just being held close.
Nick walked over to the wheelbarrow and grabbed each handle, knuckles flexing as he adjusted his grip. Morgan followed him as he wheeled the cart out of the arena and into connecting walkway of the main barn. “I've been working each day with him, trying to gain his trust. Once that's done then I can have him examined again by the vet and see what he needs. When he first came here we had to tranquilize him and I really don't want to do that again if it can be helped."
He looked so sincere, his expression so at odds with his big, dark, severe appearance that there was no faking it. She felt his sincerity in every pulse-pounding cell of her body. “You really do care about these horses, don't you?"
The muscles in his jawbones started ticking again, and his voice deepened to almost a growl. “It kills me to see how people can treat them.” He was silent a moment, then, “Just like it kills me to know you went through the same."
Morgan's mouth opened, but no response seemed a worthy comeback to that matter-of-fact statement, so she remained silent while inside her heart turned over and over and over.
They stopped at each stall, and each stall had a horse with a story; there was Goldie, the twenty-nine year old pony that had worked at fairs riding kids around in endless circles even after she had foundered twice. There was a black thoroughbred racehorse named Sweet Sinjun that had broken down during her first race and, like so many others, been on her way to the slaughterhouse before Nick had intervened; Hiero, the ex-police horse that had been shot up in the line of duty and blinded in one eye and retired to Nick's farm instead of being put down. There were so many other sad, heartrending stories that Morgan's mind was whirling, struggling with the information overload and the myriad of emotions that each story heaped upon her. If not for Nick and Jake most of these beautiful animals would have been dead by now, one way or another, and some possibly even served up as the latest delicacy in some European restaurant.
Somehow she managed to keep her roiling emotions from showing and said, “Wow, Nick, I just don't see how you and Jake manage it all."
Nick grinned at her, “We have schedules and a rhythm, it's the way we like it,” he explained. “Plus on weekends a couple of high school kids come out to help with cleaning stalls and grooming. The horses here that take most of our time are the ones in training, the rest are here permanently, so they don't require as much focus, just grooming and feeding."
There were so, so many horses, so many cases of mistreatment that it was hard for her to comprehend even though she had been through the same thing. The difference was that unlike her, the animals couldn't hide what had been done to them. It's crazy, she thought to herself ... they're horses, not people ... but I don't feel so alone anymore.
As Nick continued talking Morgan realized that she felt more at ease in this huge barn than she had living with her husband in their—no—his home. Morgan looked at Nick, past the tattoos and the outwardly tough ‘don't fuck with me’
demeanor, to the sincere love he felt for these horses shining in his dark blue eyes. Her heart swelled with an emotion she didn't want acknowledge, but couldn't ignore. Don't be a fool again, Morgan. Don't you dare.
"Morgan?” Nick's voice penetrated her musings and she looked up questioningly. They had stopped at a stall marked Neartic. Nick opened the latch and was now looking at her, concern plain in the lines of his dark face, blue eyes keen. “You okay? You went really quiet on me. And not just with your voice.” He took a black halter off the hook by the door, his worried eyes never leaving her.
Oh God, it's too late. Richard's summarization of her as a ‘weak-minded twit’ was dead on. She was a complete fool ... one that was already half-way in love with Nick.
Panic coursed through her, filling her mouth with a flat metallic twang, almost like the taste of blood. She remembered the taste of her own blood, she'd had firsthand multiple opportunities to learn its flavor. Oh, God ... It would never end. She had to leave, had to get out of there and away from Nick's gentle draw before she did something supremely stupid and fell in love completely. He was a good man, she knew that truth to her bones and he didn't deserve to have the dark poison of Richard and her past contaminate his life. Morgan knew she would only disappoint him and seeing that disappointment growing in his eyes, day by day, would destroy her.
She couldn't take any more heartache, and caring for someone ... trusting them and letting them into her life meant she would have to take that chance, the chance of failing and of being hurt again. It was too much, too soon.
"I-I think I'd better go, Nick.” Ignoring the bewilderment darkening his eyes she backed away, her heels sliding over the sawdust covered aisleway. “No, I have to go. For both of us."
"What?” his voice roughened in disbelief, “Why? What the hell for?” In two seconds his expression changed from one of concern to brooding incredulity, reminding her of a darkening sky before a thunderstorm. He stalked towards her and grabbed her elbow before she could turn and run. Bravely she faced him, an oversized wall of unmovable male who was twice her size. But for the first time in six years she felt no fear. No mind-crippling apprehension.
Only a dull, aching sadness.
"Talk to me, Morgan,” he demanded, “What the hell's wrong? Did I do something that scared you?"
She looked down, past his hand holding her elbow to the halter dangling forgotten from his wrist. It was still swaying from his sudden movements, bumping her in the thigh. If he had been Richard she would have already felt that concoction of metal and leather against her skin, and she would have been face-down at his feet, bleeding and eating sawdust.
If only she had met Nick first, before Richard had ruined her.
"No Nick,” she answered, “I scared myself.” I'm scared because you make me want things, she added silently, and that's a risk I can't take. Then, knowing this was her last opportunity to touch him, she rose up to her tiptoes and using his shoulders as leverage she brushed a kiss over his darkly stubbled jaw. Her lips moved slowly, memorizing the texture of his beard shadow and the slightly salty taste of his skin. He jerked slightly, no doubt from shock, but before he could respond or react she whispered, “Self-preservation, Nick. It's all I have left."
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Chapter 17
"Shit! Shit! Fuck!" Nick slammed his fist on the counter.
How the hell was this even possible—being pissed off, horny, out of control, and ... hell, happy, all at the same damn time. Jeez ... He felt like whistling one of those sappy feel-good tunes while breaking something with his bare hands.
This volcano inside him, the roiling uncontrolled flowing of emotions, was reminiscent of rage, yet this had nothing to do with rage and everything to do with Morgan and the memory of that sweet kiss—the most innocent kiss of his entire adult life—but a kiss nonetheless, given of her own free will. Then she had scampered away like a scared rabbit while he stood there, his wits scattered all to hell.
'Self preservation ... it's all I have...’ Her parting words echoed through his mind over and over again. Frustrated he slapped his palms against the tabletop, wondering what the hell she meant exactly. It had taken a lot of courage for her to kiss him—even if she had spoiled it by running, so there was definitely desire on her part as well. Nick knew she wouldn't have dared touch him otherwise and he couldn't hold back a small smile of admiration. Morgan certainly had guts, in spite of her sadistic husband's attempts to beat them out of her. But.... Nick knew he was nothing if not patient, he had a lifetime supply of the stuff stored up, and patience was exactly what Morgan was going to get. Her concern about self-preservation, whatever that meant, was not going to keep her from him.
She had teased him with that kiss, and then left him standing there, mouth hanging open, dick at half-mast, while she had scurried to her car and driven away. He had stood there, watching in disbelief, while her taillights blinked red and then disappeared around the curving drive. If he let her Morgan could give him a good-sized complex with all the running away she did. Nick swiped a hand over his head in aggravation. A man could only take so much and for awhile she had had his famous control dangling by a thread. Caveman visions of catching her, slinging her over his shoulder and carrying her off to his room to show her exactly what she was missing had bombarded him for days, weeks. He'd been wired ... on edge.
But he knew he couldn't handle Morgan that way. She deserved nothing less than gentleness and patience, stuff she'd never had before from a man. He'd be damned before he'd scare her or hurt her the way her husband had.
Nick threw his head back and sighed, vibrating with the need to do something—anything—other than stand here locked in an agony of indecision caused by her.
A ride. Fast and furious. That's what he needed. Then he would calm down and be back under control. Besides, Neartic would love the chance to pound up some turf.
* * * *
Morgan dabbed her brush into the pot of cerulean and made a few strokes along the mountains and sky. A touch of red/orange just along the crest would anchor the ridge and skyline and in just a few more minutes the painting would be finished. She had worked on the painting like a fiend ever since leaving Nick's barn a few hours ago, but attacking the canvas hadn't brought the peace of mind she sought.
She still couldn't believe she had kissed him, had actually taken the initiative and pressed her lips—
Sudden pounding came from the front of the house and she jumped, knocking her water glass to the floor and dropping her brush and palette as her heart leapt in her chest. Her front door almost collapsed beneath the unseen attack. Water from the shattered glass soaked her jeans and feet as she reached for a roll of paper towel, willing her hands to stop trembling. Paint from the palette bled into the water, creating beautiful swirls that she would have appreciated if she could stop shaking and catch her breath, and if they had been on something other than her hardwood floor.
Quickly she wiped up the mess, and hesitating for only a minute, went and stood in the studio doorway, peering down the hall towards her front door. She had no doubt as to who it was and bit her lip as the pounding came again, harder, louder this time, the force behind the blows threatening to bust her door off its hinges. As if in a dream she heard her name being shouted, then more pounding. Afraid her door would cave in under the assault she moved quickly from her studio to the window beside the front door and pulled the curtain back. Nick stood on her porch, looking fierce and worried.
"Open the door, Morgan,” he called, speaking slowly and succinctly directly at her through the window. “I heard you scream. I heard something break. If you don't open the door so I can see for myself that you're alright I will break it down."
Knowing that his threat was probably a very real possibility she hurriedly unlatched the security chain and threw the bolt back.
"What in the world is the matter?"
He stuck his head through the space between the door and the frame, his greater height
allowing him to look over her and scan the area behind her. “Are you okay? Is someone in here with you?"
She jerked backwards, almost closing the door in his face. He planted a hand against the wood, stopping it.
"Answer me,” he demanded.
"N-no,” her voice was high, breathless, “there's no one here except me.” She felt a light sheen of sweat appear on her forehead. “I was painting. Y-you scared me.” She threw a glance at the door, as if the dark rectangle of wood held all the answers. “Why were you pounding on the door like that?"
He scowled, his expression as forbidding as a storm-blackened sky, “I've been knocking on the door—nicely—and calling your name for damn near ten minutes and got worried when you didn't answer. I knew you had to be here because the car's here.” He jerked his head in the direction of the red Honda and if possible his expression grew even darker, black brows pulling low until his blue eyes appeared as slits underneath. “Why the hell didn't you answer the door?"
"I told you I was painting,” she said irritably. “When I paint I go into a zone. I guess I didn't hear you.” She pulled the door open wider and planted her fists on her hips, glaring at him. She had a mess in her studio, a canvas with a big red splotch on top of the mountain, and her concentration was shot. And it was all his fault. “Did it ever cross your mind that I might have gone for a walk or something? Maybe you should have thought of that before resorting to this ... this caveman crap."
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them and realizing what she had just done—said—to a man, she slapped a hand over her mouth and looked up at Nick in horror. He glared down at her, a frown making deep indentions between his black eyebrows. Morgan slowly shifted one foot back, prepared to make a run for it. Richard would have smacked her silly for such mouthiness, but all Nick did was mutter a curse and run a hand over his head in obvious aggravation. Heaving a big sigh he then crossed his arms over his chest and relaxed against her doorjamb, apparently not bothered by her smart remark. Some of the tension began to leave her. He was not Richard.
