Her Sure Thing

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?”

“I saw the way you were eyeing her. As if she’s like every other woman you knew growing up out in California. Bitchy. Demanding. What do they call them? Divas?” Arlo brushed the bay’s shoulder. “Grace is none of those things.”

That wasn’t all Sean had been thinking about as he’d been sizing up Grace, but he sure wasn’t going to enlighten Arlo anytime soon.

“Growing up the pastor’s daughter wasn’t the easiest thing here on Mirabelle,” Arlo went on. “Especially not for a young one as feisty as Grace.”

“Feisty? That what you call it?”

“Keep an open mind. That’s all I ask.”

“Sure. As long as you remember you don’t own this operation anymore. Deal?”

“Deal.” Arlo patted Sean’s horse and grinned. “Now that I think about it…you and Grace. You never know. You two might hit it off—”

“Oh, no,” Sean interrupted before the thought could take root in the old man’s stubborn mind. “My life’s fine the way it is, thank you very much.”

Sean took great pains to make sure no one on Mirabelle had a clue he was looking for a wife. The last thing he needed was any of his well-intentioned friends setting him up with every single available female on the island. He could do his own vetting, not that there was much to vet on a small island like Mirabelle.

Besides, Grace Kahill wasn’t even close to what he was looking for in a woman. A pretty package was a good start, but more than anything he wanted a full-fledged partner in life. A woman who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty and who loved Mirabelle as much as he did. A woman who would not only be content living in this small community for the rest of her life, she’d be happy to do so. Forever.

Arlo chuckled. “I got news for you, son. You don’t know it yet, but your life ain’t as great as you think it is. Find yourself a good woman, and then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

He knew. “Yeah, well, she’s married, anyway.”

“Separated, is what I hear.”

“He came to the funeral.”

“Appearances, I guess.”

A marriage on the rocks? Only made for more baggage. “Doesn’t matter. I have absolutely no interest in a relationship with that woman. My summer’s going to be busy enough as it is.”

“Speaking of which…how’d things go down at the pier?”

“Fine.”

“Then where’s your son?”

Sean looked away. “Not exactly sure.”

“That doesn’t sound to me like everything went fine.”

“He left the ferry and took off toward town. Other than making sure he knows where I live, what was I supposed to do? The kid’s as communicative as a mule.”

“Go after him? Talk to him? Explain your side in this whole thing?”

“Yeah. I thought about all of those options.”

“And?”

“What do I know about being a father?”

“What does any man know about being a father until he is one?” Arlo nodded toward the main gate. “That him?”

Sean glanced down the drive and nodded. “Austin, can you come here a minute?”

The boy hesitated before finally skulking toward them.

“This is Arlo Duffy. You ever need anything or have any questions and you can’t find me, he’s the one you want.”

Arlo put out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Austin.”

Grudgingly, Austin shook his hand and mumbled a hello, then he cocked his head to the side. “That your house?”

Sean nodded. “Your suitcase is on the porch.”

“So where the hell am I supposed to sleep?”

Add a mouth to that chip on his shoulder. Sean bit his tongue, but the kid’s attitude was already wearing on him. “Take the hallway to the right before you get to the kitchen. Last door on the left. Bathroom’s next door.”

Austin walked away, and that was that.

“See what I mean?” Sean said the moment the front door to the house slammed shut.

“Can you blame him? He just found out his dad isn’t really his dad. He’s confused and angry.” Arlo sighed. “Give him a chance to settle in. Might end up not being as bad as you think.”

Sean grunted.

“Be patient. With him. Yourself. You’ll figure it out, son. You’re a smart, compassionate man.”

“Not according to some folks here on Mirabelle.” There was no doubt his bedside manner had been slipping of late.

“A woman just might improve your mood some.”

“Let it go, Arlo.” Sean headed toward the stables. He had to get back to work. “The last thing I need is more complications in my life this summer.”

And Grace Kahill was nothing if not complicated.

CHAPTER THREE

HER FIRST MORNING ON MIRABELLE.

The sun already streaming through the open window, Grace lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The sound of squirrels scrabbling up and down the trees filtered in, along with the chirping of robins and chickadees, cardinals and finches. There were no traffic sounds to interfere with their songs, no smog to ruin the fresh-smelling spring air. She should’ve felt rested and relaxed. Instead, she was tense and edgy.

Rather than the restful night she’d hoped for, even after taking two pain pills, she’d slept fitfully, if that’s what you could call that flip-flopping, sweaty tussle in the sheets she’d suffered through for the last six hours. No point in lying here any longer. That was about all the decadence she could handle for one morning.

Flipping back the covers, she padded into the bathroom, unzipped the compression shirt and stepped into the shower. Once finished, she quickly dried herself off and smoothed some medicated cream over her scars. The tube was nearly empty, but she’d be damned if she’d call her doctor for a refill. No doubt, he’d want her to come in for an exam.

Briskly, she slathered lotion on the rest of her body. Once upon a time, she’d actually enjoyed this part of her daily routine. She would’ve lingered, taken time covering every inch of skin and luxuriated in the feel of rich, scented cream. Since her accident, though, she hated the feeling of being naked and exposed. The sooner she got clothing on, the better. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen herself nude.

Spur of the moment, she spun around and stared at herself in the large mirror over the sink, took in every angle, every inch of skin. My God, what happened to you? That skinny, damaged body could not be hers.

Grabbing the bath towel, she strategically placed it over her left side. There you are. Almost. With the right clothes on, covering the right spots, no one would be the wiser.

But she knew. She always knew.

The memory of the look on Jeremy’s face when he’d seen her scars flashed through her mind. No wonder he’d filed for a divorce the day after her long-term prognosis. Scarred for life is what the doctors had said. No amount of plastic surgery would ever completely erase the injuries caused by the fire. Her usefulness to him had gone up in flames, along with the leather seats in her Bugatti. She was now damaged goods.

Quickly, she pulled on a clean custom-fitted compression shirt, zipping it up the front. For a moment, she imagined going about her day without the tight elastic fabric, but the thought had been immediately followed by a sense of panic. She’d gotten used to ever-present pressure around her upper body. There was an odd sense of security, she supposed, in the feeling.

In order to ensure her scars wouldn’t spread, she needed to wear the compression garment over most of her torso at least twenty-three hours of every day. That meant she slept and exercised in one and would be wearing one until the day her doctor said her scars had matured.

Matured. How ridiculous was that term? As if a burn scar could ever be anything except ugly.

She was stepping into a pair of white thong underwear, when the front doorbell chimed. Inching out into the hall, she glanced downstairs through the sheers on either side of the front door. A young man, more than likely a college student, stood at the door holding two bags of groceries.

“Newman’s delivery,” he called out, setting the bags down and knocking. “Hello? Mrs. Kahill?”

She hadn’t ordered any groceries.

The boy squinted through the windows on either side of the front door, trying unsuccessfully to see into the house. “Well, okay then. Call the store if you need anything else.” Shrugging, he set the bags down on the porch, turned and left.

Her stomach grumbled and she wondered what was in those bags and who had ordered her food. As if in answer, her cell phone rang. That had to be either Suzy or Amanda, but she didn’t want to talk to either one of them.

The phone stopped ringing and indicated a voice mail had been left for her. Then, surprisingly, the house landline rang. She hadn’t given that number to anyone.

The answering machine speaker sounded through the house. “Dammit, Grace, pick up.” Suzy Lang’s unique accent, not quite British, but not entirely Indian, echoed strongly through the house. “Okay, fine. Be that way. I ordered you some groceries because I have this sneaking suspicion that you have nothing but celery to eat in that house. Believe it or not, that Newman’s store had some decent organic stuff. So eat, okay? Don’t make me come there and force-feed you.”

At that, Grace smiled as she pulled on a pair of white capris, topped with a T-shirt over her compression garment and finished off with a dark heather-gray hoodie and a lightweight scarf around her neck, effectively hiding the rest of her scars.

“You know I don’t have the time. The photo shoot for that new magazine spread has me running around like a runway wannabe.” Her long, soft sigh came over the line. “I miss you already.”

Grace missed her best friend, too. Apparently, there was one thing left in L.A. that Grace still cared about and that still cared about her. She answered the phone. “Hey, Suze.”

“I knew you were there. What the hell?”

“Sorry. Having an awkward time settling in here, I guess.”

“Amanda called me,” Suzy said softly. “What are you doing back on Mirabelle?”

“I needed some R & R.”