скачать книгу бесплатно
Grace clicked off her phone and leaned against the nearest wall. Already it had been a long day and it wasn’t even dinnertime, but then she still wasn’t one hundred percent even a year after the accident. An all too familiar pins-and-needles type tingling sensation zinged up in her left shoulder and spread down her side. Then the itching kicked in. Panic threatened to immobilize her as her left arm became virtually useless and her upper back muscles tensed and cramped.
Holding on to the rail, she climbed the stairs and sat on the edge of the bed. Grabbing the tube of medicated prescription lotion from her purse, she unzipped the top part of the custom compression garment her layered tees hid quite well and slathered the cream over her skin, if you could even call it that. It felt more like animal hide as far as Grace was concerned.
Then she grabbed the bottle of pain meds, shook out two of her quickly dwindling supply and glanced at them. More than likely they’d not only knock out her pain, they’d knock her completely out. Better to save the rest of these for crises. Truth be told, she was sick of her head feeling as if it was stuffed in a wad of cotton.
“Saddle ’em up.” A man’s voice sounded through the open window.
Grace slid the pills back in the bottle and glanced outside. The Mirabelle Island riding and livery stables were practically in her backyard, and college kids hired to work through the busy summer tourist season were getting ready for a trail ride. With few bushes and trees to demarcate property lines, several large barns, paddocks and, beyond them, acres and acres of pastureland were clearly visible.
This—this—was why she’d rented this house. God, how she’d loved spending time with the horses, brushing, riding and feeding them. Arlo Duffy had even hired her to work for him when she’d been only twelve, and from that point on the time she’d spent at Arlo’s stables had been the only time she’d enjoyed while on Mirabelle. She’d have lived in the barn if he’d let her.
Time to go find Arlo. Rushing down the stairs, she called out to the movers, “If you need me call my cell.” Then she took off out the back door.
A path through the woods brought her out near the paddock closest to her rental. After a short, narrow trail, probably a deer path, through some scrub separating the two properties, she came out in a clearing by Arlo and Lynn Duffy’s iconic red farmhouse. As she reached the road, a man leading a very familiar solid black horse passed through the main gate and headed toward her. Louie. Her horse was clearly tired, but the moment he noticed Grace his pace quickened and his step lightened.
“Perfect timing,” she whispered, reaching out to stroke Louie’s sleek neck.
“You can say that again,” the handler said.
“He’s tired. Aren’t you, boy?” The horse let go a long sigh, as if agreeing, snuffled his muzzle in her hair, and another one of those incessant stomach knots eased. “Thank you for taking care of him.” She glanced at the handler. “I’ve got him from here.”
“No problem.” He handed over the lead. “I’ll make sure your tack and other supplies get delivered here today.”
“Thank you.” Grace was barely aware of the man disappearing down the road as she closed her eyes and rested her cheek against Louie’s warm, muscular neck.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Startled by the deep voice, Grace glanced up. Leading a pretty bay, a man walked across the dry dusty road toward her. Wearing faded jeans, scuffed-up boots and a navy blue T-shirt, he was dressed much like the college kids working out in the pasture, but that was where the comparison ended. The breadth of this man’s shoulders and his confident gait clearly separated him from the others. Too rough around the edges to be considered classically handsome, he was still a sight to behold as he led the saddled-up bay by the reins.
Within seconds, Grace could’ve listed off at least five designers who would’ve been falling all over themselves to dress this rough-looking cowboy in their latest styles. If he’d been ten to fifteen years younger. As he came closer, the laugh lines around his eyes gave away the fact that he was likely in his mid-thirties.
His gaze, hard and unreadable, flicked over her, and then seemed to take in the horse. “If that isn’t a beautiful sight,” he murmured. “I don’t know what is.”
Was he talking about Louie? Or her? The slight smile playing at his mouth caught Grace completely by surprise.
He has the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen.
The moment the thought crossed her mind, she sucked in a breath. She thought about men as photogenic or stylish, not kissable, and out of her element as she was, her defenses rose. Straightening her shoulders, she glared at the man. “He’s a Friesian.”
“I can see that.” He came to stand on Louie’s other side, opposite Grace. “Don’t run into this breed of horse every day.”
A solid jet-black, Louie’s coat gleamed silver in the clear afternoon sun. With typical Friesian characteristics, his mane and tail—which almost touched the ground—were long, thick and wavy, and his fetlocks were silky and untrimmed. His conformation was close to the shape of a light but powerful draft horse, but he’d been bred to be taller and finer-boned than his ancestors. The lines of his neck, long and gracefully arched, showed the quality of his bloodlines.
Laughing about what to give a woman who had everything, Jeremy had given the gelding to Grace for her twenty-fifth birthday, almost as a joke. Her ex-husband hadn’t realized it at the time—he’d probably never fully understood—that the spirited but loyal animal had been the dearest gift he’d ever given her.
Grace watched the man slowly run his hands down Louie’s neck before patting his back. There was something inherently sensual in the way he moved that she couldn’t help but notice his tanned skin, trimmed nails and the light dusting of dark hair on his fingers. First his lips and then his hands. What next?
“Nice horse,” the man said. He crossed his arms, causing his biceps to flex and bulge. His blue eyes regarded her unemotionally, making him appear as unmovable as a mountain. “What’s he doing here?”
CHAPTER TWO
“EXCUSE ME?” THE WOMAN glared at Sean as if he was horse dung stuck to the soles of her obviously expensive gold sandals.
Sean did his best to dismiss her superior attitude, but since she didn’t seem to be anything but attitude, it was difficult. “Is the horse yours?”
“Yes,” she said, stroking the animal’s neck.
“We’re the only stable here on Mirabelle.” It was a damned small island with limited pastureland and even more limited paddock and barn space. Anyone with a lick of sense would know you didn’t take a horse anywhere without first arranging his keep. “So what’s he doing here on the island?”
“I’m boarding him here for the summer.”
Oh, no, she wasn’t. Not without asking him first.
She straightened her shoulders, clearly preparing for a fight. “Who are you?”
“Sean Griffin. And you?”
“Grace. Just Grace.”
So this was Grace Andersen Kahill? The face that had launched the covers of hundreds of fashion magazines? The body credited—or accused, depending in which camp you fell—for having first made lingerie catalogs and swimsuit editions of popular sports editions look like soft porn? That explained a lot.
Sean had heard she was coming back to Mirabelle and renting the Schumacher’s old place, but he wasn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized her. He’d seen Grace and her husband at Jean Andersen’s funeral, but that had been several months ago and he’d never met, let alone spoken, to either one of them. Afterward, talk about her breezing in one day for her mother’s wake and out the day immediately following the funeral had fueled the gossip channels for weeks.
Strange, but for a woman known for baring more skin than any other American model, she looked pretty covered up if you asked him. Dressed in a hip-length jean jacket, a couple of crewneck T-shirts and some beady-type necklace, she looked as if she were heading off to some trendy Hollywood hotspot for a two-appletini lunch with friends. Sean had lived in L.A. long enough to know. Too long, in fact.
“Well, Just Grace,” he said. “We’ve got a problem.”
“The only problem I’m aware of is that the boarding rate hasn’t been settled. That really doesn’t make a difference because I’ll pay whatever it takes. Problem solved.”
As if money solved everything. Typical. “Boy, you really are something, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “But I don’t board horses.”
“You don’t?”
“That’s right. I don’t. It has nothing to do with money. This is a stable and livery operation.” Boss, his horse, pulled on his reins and struck his nose toward her Friesian. “We have over sixty horses here and limited acreage. All the horses here work for their keep. I can’t spare a stall, let alone a paddock or pastureland for someone’s…pet.”
“Well, it’s not really your decision, now, is it?” She stalked toward the barn.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Arlo Duffy.”
“You won’t find him in there.”
She spun around. “Then where is he?”
“Home. Eating lunch.”
She turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction toward the ranch house.
“And you won’t find him in that house, either.”
She spun around. “Who do you think you are?”
“I told you. Sean Griffin. And that happens to be my house now.” He cocked his head at her. “I’m the new owner of Mirabelle Stables and Livery.” If she hadn’t been so high and mighty, he might’ve cleared that up at the onset.
She looked away and shook her head. “Of course, Arlo would eventually retire.” Then she glared at him. “You could’ve told me you’re the new owner of this place.”
“You could’ve been less presumptuous.”
“Look. I just talked to Arlo on the phone a couple of days ago. He didn’t say anything about not owning the stables and told me it’d be fine to board Louie here.”
“Well, you talked to the wrong person.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” she huffed, putting a hand on her hip. “Louie flew here from L.A. I can’t send him—”
“Well, I’ll be.” The sound of the man’s voice cut through their discussion like a bucket of water on a campfire. Arlo. Back from lunch. “Is that little Gracie Andersen?”
Grace glanced down the drive and a smile immediately spread across her face like the big old morning sun rising over Lake Superior. “Arlo. It’s so good to see you.” She held out her hand. “How have you been?”
“Gettin’ old.” He ignored her hand and pulled her into his arms for a quick but tight hug. “Other than that, I can’t complain. I see you met Sean.”
“I did.” Her mouth turned down in a frown—or was it a pout?—but Arlo was already sizing up Louie.
“Nice horse you got here,” he said. “So whaddya think, Sean? Where we going to put him?”
Sean had accepted he’d lost this battle the moment Grace had said she’d already talked to Arlo, but he couldn’t very well let Arlo think he was still making all the decisions around here. “We’re not putting him anywhere, Arlo. We don’t board horses, remember?”
“I boarded Boss for you.” Arlo nodded at the bay next to Sean.
“That’s different,” Sean said. “I asked you before I brought him to the island, and back then you were the owner.”
“We can make an exception for Grace, don’t you think?”
Sean didn’t have much of a choice now, did he? He knew all he needed to know about running a trail riding operation from all the summers he’d spent in high school and college working on ranches in Montana and Wyoming. He knew virtually nothing, however, about repairing carriages and training draft horses. For that, he needed Arlo, and Arlo knew it.
“You should’ve talked to me, Arlo,” Sean said. “This isn’t your business any longer.”
Exasperated, Grace let go a puff of air. “That’s just—”
Arlo squeezed her hand, sending her the clear message to let him take the lead.
“But I—”
He tugged a little harder.
Clearly, with extreme effort, she clenched her jaw closed.
“Heck, Sean,” Arlo went on. “I didn’t think it’d be a problem. Besides, you might be the new owner, but you put me in charge of the livery operations. Doesn’t that put me in charge of the livery barns and paddocks?”
Sean shook his head and chuckled. Then he glanced at Grace. “How long did you say you were going to be here on Mirabelle?”
“Just for the summer.”
“That’s a long time.” He glanced at Arlo. “You sure you have enough room for another horse?”
“Ayep. That I do. A Friesian will fit in nicely with the Percheron and Hackneys.”
“All right.” Sean fixed his gaze on her. “But you’re responsible for him. Feeding him. Exercising him. The whole nine yards.”
“That was my intention all along.” Then she forced out through gritted teeth, “Thank you.”
Arlo winked at her. “Grace, you look almost as tired as Louie. Why don’t you go on home and rest a bit?” he offered. “I’ll just put him in a stall, and you can come back later.”
Sean narrowed his gaze at Arlo, but kept his mouth shut. What game was the old man playing?
“Thanks, Arlo, but I can handle it,” she said. “Just tell me what stall he’ll be using and I’ll get him settled.”
“Whatever you say.” Arlo pointed to the barn farthest away from them. “It’s that last barn over there. Put him in the first empty stall on the left. He’ll have a nice run out the back, and we’ll keep him segregated for a few weeks until he’s used to things around here.”
“Will do. If you need anything from me—” she pointed to the blue Colonial she was renting “—that’s where I’m staying.”
“We know,” Sean said.
“Of course. I almost forgot this is Mirabelle.” She turned and led Louie across the yard.
Sean studied her as she walked away. He might’ve become the new owner of Mirabelle Stable and Livery, but he was still the island’s only doctor, part-time though the position might be. The doctor in him observed and quickly went about diagnosing her stiff gait. She was either in pain or extremely tense, very likely both. Possible back or hip problems. Probably had something to do with the car accident he’d heard about.
The man in him, on the other hand, couldn’t help but focus in on those long, slender legs and that perfectly rounded butt encased in skin-tight jeans. Or that long mass of blond hair trailing all the way down her back in natural-looking waves. The woman was perfection incarnate.
“Isn’t she something?” Arlo said, the moment she moved out of earshot.
Sean had almost forgotten the old man was standing next to him. “Yeah, something.” Gorgeous and aloof topped with an attitude the size of the Chequamegon National Forest, he had two words for Grace Kahill. High and maintenance. He turned toward Arlo and frowned. “The next time you want to do an old friend a favor, check with me first.”
“Ah, heck. What would’ve been the point?” Arlo laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t go for boarding her horse.”
“Yet you agreed anyway?”
“Always did have a soft spot for Gracie. She worked for me for years. Hard worker, too. Besides, I wanted to see that Friesian of hers. He’s a beaut, isn’t he?”
As he watched the horse and its owner disappear into the barn, Sean ran his hands along his own bay’s muzzle. Boss had been the first horse Sean had ever owned, and the day he’d arrived on Mirabelle had been one of Sean’s happiest. He’d take his no-nonsense Arabian anyday over a high-strung dandy. “Her horse is gorgeous. I’ll give him that. But he’s a bit like his owner, isn’t he?”
“She said he’s well trained.”
Time would tell.
Arlo patted the bay’s neck. “I’d appreciate it, son, if you wouldn’t be too hard on her.”
When the two of them were alone, Arlo had a tendency to refer to Sean as son. The old man probably wasn’t even aware of his use of the endearment, but it meant something to Sean. “Hard on her? In what way?”
