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“Quality, not quantity, yet you still sell your unwanted horses at auction.”
He let loose a sigh of impatience. Why did he bother? What did it matter what she thought of him?
Yet for some reason...it did.
“A reputable auction,” he explained. “A place where our horses have a chance of finding a new owner, and not the kind of owner that will turn around and sell our horses to the slaughter market you mentioned earlier. We give our unwanted horses a second chance at life, Ms. Stewart.”
Her brows lifted. “You know my name.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I hope so.” She raised her chin. “I hope people think of me as the voice of their unwanted horses. I hope racehorse owners have me on their mind when they sell their animals directly to a meat-processing company. I hope racehorse owners think of me when they travel to a foreign country and see cheval on the menu. Most of all, I hope you know I’m watching you and your ilk.”
Her passion was unmistakable, as was the determination in her golden-brown eyes. There was something else there, too, a lingering sense of sadness that seemed to call to him in some bizarre and unexpected fashion.
“Do you always make generalizations about people?”
“Excuse me?”
“I could do the same thing and call you a crazy crackpot activist, but I don’t.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “We only act crazy out of frustration. No matter how loud we scream, the racehorse industry just keeps breeding more and more horses.”
“Something they’ve been doing for centuries.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“And I suppose it’s right to block the entrance of the track so people can’t get to work?”
“We were trying to make a statement.” She flicked her long hair back.
“And picketing on race day?”
“It got everyone’s attention.”
He bit back a sigh of frustration. He could have sworn he heard her do the same thing, too.
“Clearly, your tactics aren’t working.”
“I know.”
“So why do it?”
“Because I’ve seen ten ex-racehorses crammed into the back of a four-horse trailer, panic in their eyes, open sores on their bodies from being kicked and bullied and knocked over by the other horses, barely able to stand because they haven’t been given any water, their once proud carriage completely demoralized. And it’s sad and it’s sick and I don’t want it happening anymore.”
His stomach turned. Yeah, he’d heard of that kind of stuff happening, too, but not to his horses, no way.
But could he say with absolute certainty that one of his horses hadn’t ended up that way?
No.
“Look,” she said, and when their gazes met, hers had softened, almost as if she’d spotted his guilty conscience. “If you really are different like you say you are, I have a proposition for you.”
She wanted to proposition him? Suddenly, crazily, his mood improved, although what he was thinking probably wasn’t the kind of proposition she had in mind.
“What kind of proposition?”
“Actually, it’s more like I want to discuss something with you, an idea I’ve been floating around. Not here.” She glanced past him. He could see a groom approaching with another wet horse, its coat glistening as if it were made of glass. “Later. At your farm.”
It was his turn to be surprised. She knew where he lived? Well, maybe that wasn’t so strange after all. She probably had a map on her bedroom wall, red dots marking where all the evil racehorse breeders lived, their pictures next to them, horns probably drawn onto their heads.
For that reason alone he should brush her off, but then he thought maybe for that reason alone he should do something unexpected. Hell, what did he have to lose? Maybe she’d “proposition” him with buying a few of his retired racehorses. Wouldn’t that be something?
As if reading his mind, she said, “It’s a way for maybe both of us to make some money.”
He should say no. Despite how much he could use the cash, he should tell her he wasn’t interested.
But with Dasher out of commission...
“Fine. Dinner. Tonight at six.” He turned away before he could change his mind.
“Wait. What? Dinner?”
He almost laughed. Eating with the enemy?
“What’s the matter?” He turned and cocked a brow. “Afraid I’ll poison your food?”
She drew back. “No. Of course not. I just—”
Didn’t want to think of him as a person. He saw that much in her eyes. Much better to keep him at arm’s length. He didn’t know for certain that was what she was thinking, but he had a pretty good idea because frankly, he’d had the same thought.
“Scared?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Okay, fine.” She sucked in a bottom lip, Zach watching as she nibbled it and then let it back out again. When she released the flesh, it was glossy and he found himself wondering how she’d taste.
Now you really have lost your mind.
“Can I bring anything?” she asked.
A negligee with frilly underwear.
Good Lord. Stop it.
“Just yourself.”
It was that damn red hair of hers. And the freckles. He turned away before she caught a glimpse of what he was thinking in his eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I promise, you won’t regret this.”
Actually, he already did.
Chapter Two
Mariah was as anxious as a cat in a room full of dogs as she drove down a lonely country road three hours later. Low-lying hills long since turned brown by the hot summer sun surrounded her. It was a view she usually enjoyed. Not today.
He’d agreed to see her.
Okay, okay, so there was the little matter of dinner. Any other owner and it’d be no big deal. Any other owner was at least sixty years old and could have easily been her dad. Zach Johnson couldn’t be much older than her twenty-six years and was, gosh darn it all, good-looking.
Thank God he had no clue how much he affected her.
She bashed her hand against the steering wheel of her ancient Honda Civic. She hated the fact that every time she spotted him at the racetrack, she found herself first noticing his tight jeans—and the nicely sculpted rear beneath—before she took note of the horses he schooled from the rail. The man was a bona fide hottie. She’d had that very conversation with her fellow CEASE members more than once, their discussion always ending with too bad he was a racehorse owner. It drove them crazy that anyone with the dark good looks of a soap opera star could race horses for a living. Not just race them but breed them and raise them, too. In some ways he was worse because he was one of the people responsible for the skyrocketing number of unwanted horses, those horses that would never be raced and that would ultimately end their days in the back of a makeshift horse trailer, transported to Mexico, where they would suffer at the hands of a meat processor.
Her stomach twisted.
Not if she could help it.
Up ahead the sign for the Triple J Ranch came into view. It was nestled in the heart of Via Del Caballo, California, and the land alone was worth millions. The residents of the area called it horsey central—with good reason. Farms were everywhere, their white fences intersecting the landscape as if God played an aerial game of tic-tac-toe. And what wasn’t horse farms was vineyards. The Triple J was right in the middle of it all. She’d looked them up on the internet once upon a time, back when she’d first spotted Zach Johnson at Golden Downs and been told who he was. Second-generation racehorse breeder. Quarter horses, not Thoroughbreds, which meant he specialized in sprinters. The fastest animal in a quarter mile, their breeders often touted. That wasn’t exactly true, but it made for great PR.
Her tires lost purchase on the gravel near the entrance to the ranch as she slammed on the brakes, nearly missing the turn. She cursed inwardly. Not paying attention. Too distracted by thoughts of Mr. Magnificent.
White fence rails guided her down a long straight road, one with trees on either side. To her left and right were pastures with emerald-colored grass clipped down by grazing horses. The two pastures were at least twenty acres apiece. Up ahead, perched atop a small knoll, was the main house, a huge behemoth of a structure whose windows caught the sun’s last rays turning them gold. Originally it’d been a single A-frame, but his parents had completely renovated the place by the early ’90s. Some said the remodel had caused Zach’s parents’ divorce.
That last part was track gossip, but she believed it because she’d heard from a number of sources that Samantha Johnson had damn near bankrupted the ranch after having the place overhauled, and then she’d run off with the general contractor, leaving James Johnson to raise his son. When he’d died two years ago, Zach had inherited the two-hundred-acre ranch, the racing operation and a pile of debt. More track gossip, only this time she wasn’t certain if it was true.
The place was stunning. Certainly well kempt. At the end of a drive sat a horseshoe turnaround. A sign pointed her to the right, the word Office painted in gold against a red backdrop. She followed the directions. A parking area had been set up straight ahead. A single-story barn stood to the left, and to her right, a flat-roofed building, the office, she presumed. She pulled up next to a golf cart already parked in a spot between the two structures. Another white fence stretched between the two buildings, yet another pasture on the other side. On the top rail someone had posted a reserved sign where the golf cart had been parked.
“Here we go,” she muttered, then took a deep breath, wondering if she should have driven up to the house and parked there. Great. He was probably watching her from his dining room window wondering what the hell she’d been thinking to park down at his barn. She almost backed out of the spot, but movement caught her eye.
Zach Johnson.
Her breath caught. He stood at the entrance to the barn, a straw cowboy hat on his head, his eyes shielded by the brim, but not his lower jaw. Its strong outline could be seen clearly, as could his mouth, razor stubble growing above and around it. He was one of those men who always seemed to have a five-o’clock shadow, no matter if it was seven in the morning or eight at night. Dark hair. Dark eyes. She’d always thought them brown until she’d noticed today they were a dark, dark blue, made darker by the thick black lashes that surrounded them.
Lord help her.
“Glad you didn’t go up to the house,” he said as she slowly stepped out of her car, the black short-sleeved shirt he wore revealing tan arms. “I’m in the middle of feeding. You want to tag along?”
Good-looking, friendly and willing to talk to her about how they might save unwanted racehorses’ lives.
“Oh, um...” Not really. “Sure,” she called back, hoping he didn’t see the way she wilted against the side of her car.
Maybe having dinner with him was a bad idea.
Go on. Move. He’s not going to bite.
No, but she wished he would bite the side of her neck, maybe suckle it—
Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it.
Why, oh why, did the man have this kind of effect on her? It was crazy how every time she saw him, her heart would beat like the skin of a drum. Her palms would grow sweaty. And her body would buzz and warm in places it had no business buzzing and warming. None at all.
“Come on. We’ll use the golf cart. I already fed the barn.”
He walked toward her. All she could do was nod and then push away from the side of her car.
Get a grip.
Sexual attraction. Inconvenient, inconceivable, stupid sexual attraction. In college she’d had the hots for one of her professors. Eventually it’d worn off. Hopefully, this would, too.
“Um, nice place.” She ducked beneath the canvas roof of the cart as she climbed in next to him and he smelled... Oh, he smelled sooooo nice. Like sage and sawdust with a hint of sweat.
“Thanks.” He started the engine, the reverse gear popping into place with a jerk, something that seemed to be universal to golf carts the world over. “My parents built the barns and the fencing, but the house is original to the property.”
Should she admit she knew that? Wouldn’t he find that stalkerlike? “I read about that on your website.”
He glanced at her quickly. Yup. Definitely thought her stalkerlike.
“I research all the racehorse owners.”
Beneath his straw hat, a mixture of amusement and devilry shone in his skyline-colored eyes. “Oh, I’m sure. I bet you have dossiers on all of us.”
He shifted the cart into first gear, and she had a feeling he looked away only because he’d been about to laugh.
“It’s nothing personal.”
Why are you defending yourself? Geez, get a grip.
Because it was personal with him, she admitted, and all because of this damn ridiculous physical attraction. She’d known it from the start too. Usually, she went online to find out more about a racing stable’s operations—the number of stallions they had, if they bred their own broodmares, how many foals dropped in a year, that kind of thing. She’d be lying, though, if she didn’t admit to clicking around on the Triple J Ranch’s website looking for more information about Zach. What had he called himself? Small-time? Something like that, and they were. The Triple J Ranch could easily house dozens of racehorses, but she’d only counted four broodies out front. They didn’t have a stallion at stud, either. She’d heard they’d had to put him down a couple years ago, but she couldn’t deny that all that information had been secondary to finding out if he had a wife or kids or a girlfriend.
She was such an idiot.
“Sorry about your horse,” she blurted, because there she went blushing again. They were driving toward a shed, one that served as cover for the pasture animals on one side and looked to be some kind of storage facility on the other side. “Bad luck.”
“You have no idea.”
A soft breeze wafted across her face. It blew the smell of him away from her and allowed her to focus more on what she was at the Triple J to do.
Thank God.
“If Doc Miller suggests a fasciotomy, don’t do it.”
She felt him glance over at her. She was trying to keep her eyes straight ahead, but it was hard to resist the urge to turn and meet his gaze.
“It’s an unproven procedure that might end up doing more harm than good.”
