Mr. Miracle

“Somehow everyone’s problems turn into yours.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY EPILOGUE Copyright

“Somehow everyone’s problems turn into yours.”

Jamey’s voice was gentle, but Victoria narrowed her eyes at him anyway. “Why do I get the feeling you think that’s my fault?”

He smiled at her blandly. “Would I imply such a thing? Still, you do spend a great deal of time smoothing out other people’s difficulties. Making sure there’s no time to deal with your own.”

“I beg your pardon. I thought dealing with my problem was what we’ve been doing every evening the minute we’re alone.”

“Oh, you’re making great strides. But that’s riding. Not life. Life is something entirely different.”

“And generally painful, from my experience.”

“But there’s joy, as well. And happiness, and even...love if you’re lucky.”

“Love? That lucky I’m definitely not.” She thrust her hands into her pockets and strode away from him.

“Don’t be too sure,” he whispered to her retreating back.

Dear Reader,

How many times have you heard that old saying, “People don’t change”? Same old job. Same old hang-ups. Our family and friends all laugh and roll their eyes when we say we want to change, try new things, experience personal growth.

Change is scary, yet we want to believe that all the possibilities still exist for us—greater love, deeper passion, bigger success, a more exciting career, a finer dream—if only we’re willing to fight for them.

In Mr. Miracle, Victoria Jamerson and Jamey McLachlan long to grow and change. Both have been hurt in the past and must face their personal demons before they can acknowledge and accept the feelings that are developing between them.

I hope you enjoy reading their story as much as I did writing it.

Carolyn McSparren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Bobby Billingley, who got me back into the saddle after

years on the ground, and who continues to teach me about

stallions. Any mistakes are mine, not his.

In memory of Stone Cool Fox, a great Thoroughbred

and a great sire.

CHAPTER ONE

JAMEY MCLACHLAN was fairly certain they didn’t hang horse thieves in Tennessee any more.

But stealing a stallion would certainly be considered grand theft. So if he did become a thief, he’d better be a successful one if he didn’t fancy spending time in an American prison.

As he slowed his BMW motorcycle to read the sign at the entrance to the long gravel driveway, Jamey considered his options. Obviously the best way to get the horse back would be to buy it honestly, but he probably wouldn’t be able to raise enough capital. And, of course, the new owner might refuse to sell at any price. Jamey had learned that Michael Whitten had bought the horse in Belgium as a gift for his new bride. He’d probably paid a fair sum for the animal and would have had no way of knowing he was buying stolen goods.

Just in case Jamey had to resort to horse stealing, he already had a plan in place to smuggle the horse across the border into Mexico. From there he could ship Roman—once he was certain the horse was Roman—home to Scotland where he belonged. To McLachlan Yard outside Oban—the place he’d been stolen from as a yearling. Jamey had been searching for the horse the past two years, only to miss the sale in Belgium by a single day.

The stallion had officially turned four on New Year’s Day, just one month ago now. He was ready to fulfill the destiny that Jamey’s stepfather, Jock McLachlan, had envisioned for him: to be the foundation stallion for a great line of Scottish sport horses. Jamey only wished that Jock were still alive to see the culmination of his dream.

Jamey had made a vow to Jock’s memory that, by the year 2000, the first of Roman’s foals would be galloping through the paddocks at McLachlan Yard. He would keep that vow, even if he had to resort to deceit and theft to do it.

He’d find some way to make amends to the present owners once the stallion was safely back on his farm in Oban. Maybe he’d offer the Whittens that first foal. If the stallion was as fine as he hoped, the first foal would be worth a bundle. He’d been told Whitten had a young daughter. By the time the foal was big enough to ride, the girl should be looking for a large horse to see her through her teen years of showing.

Jamey studied the sign carefully. ValleyCrest Stables and Training Facility. Hunter/Jumper Horses. Board. Lessons. Victoria Jamerson, Trainer.

He’d been annoyed to discover that the horse had been shipped to this small out-of-the-way stable outside Memphis just before he’d arrived in Kentucky, where the horse had been in quarantine. Now he felt it might actually be a stroke of good luck in the long run. Probably little or no security here.

He could take his time, assess the stallion, perhaps work him a bit. He absolutely had to see another rider on the horse. No other way to judge his movements properly.

Whitten’s new wife, Liz, was purported to be an excellent rider, more than capable of handling a feisty young stallion. She was probably already exercising him every day. Jamey might be able to see enough of him to make an educated decision in a few days.

All he had to do was worm himself into the good graces of her aunt, Victoria Jamerson, who owned ValleyCrest. She’d had an international reputation as a rider at one time, but she’d suddenly dropped out of competition years ago.

Boarding stables always needed help. He’d work for his keep and stay only long enough to evaluate the stallion, find some quiet time to ride him and decide whether he should offer Michael Whitten a fair price for him.

Or whether he’d have to sneak a huge young horse onto a trailer in the middle of the night and literally run for the border.

The bile rose in his throat. He was definitely not cut out to be a confidence man. The thought of lying, taking advantage of these people, made him physically ill. His Romany grandmother had tried to instill in him her own Gypsy philosophy: taking advantage of the gaja—non-Gypsies—was a perfectly honorable way of life. As far as she was concerned, there could never be enough payback for centuries of persecution.

But his grandmother was of the old school. Until the day she died, his grandmother used to grumble about living in the same place and had refused to allow her family to sell the old horse-drawn caravan she’d lived in as a bride. Nobody else seemed to regret leaving the precarious life of the open road behind.

His uncles all held decent jobs, many working for him at McLachlan Yard. One of his cousins was a surgeon. Another was one of the leading veterinarians in Edinborough. All were respectable and prosperous, although he worried that a couple of his aunts sailed a bit close to the wind with their psychic hotline.

Jamey sat astride the BMW, unwilling to rev the engine, drive up to the stable and tell his first lie.

Finally he sighed and drove slowly up through the trees where he could see the front door of the stable without being seen.

The moment he cut his engine he heard it. The high demanding call of a stallion. He caught his breath.

Goodbye, James McLachlan, landowner, trainer, breeder, honest man. Enter Jamey McLachlan, forty-year-old saddle burn, Gypsy charmer, con artist, horse trainer extraordinaire.

Horse thief.

“ALBERT,” VICTORIA Jamerson snapped, “I don’t care how you do it, but for Pete’s sake, shut that blockhead of a stallion up!”

She pulled off her heavy leather work gloves and stuffed them into the waistband of her jeans, sank onto a handy tack trunk in front of one of the stalls and stretched her long legs in front of her. Exhausted, she glanced at her dusty paddock boots and ran her hand up under the short dark hair at the nape of her neck. “Listening to him wears me out. He’s way overdue to learn his manners.”

“Mr. Miracle, my foot. Pat should have named him Mr. Disaster,” Albert grumbled from the doorway of the barn. His silhouette half-filled the wide opening. The biceps of the café au lait arm that he leaned against the lintel was as big around as Vic’s waist. His height, weight and muscle gave him leverage in handling an oversize youngster like Mr. Miracle that Vic envied.

“I don’t think Pat saw anything but the size of him when he stormed off that trailer on his hind legs. The miraculous thing about him is that he doesn’t come with a trunk like an elephant.”

“Only way to shut him up is to lay a baseball bat upside his head.”

In spite of herself, Vic laughed. “Right. I can see you hurting an animal. That’ll be the day.”

“Nothing else is going to shut that fool’s mouth. He’s got every mare in four counties acting like he’s some kind of Tyrone Power.”

The stallion continued to whinny and trumpet his availability.

Vic put her hands over her ears. “I don’t think Mike had a clue what he was dumping on us when he took Liz and Pat off to Florida to compete for the winter season. How on earth are we going to put up with this noise for two whole months until they get back and agree to have him gelded?”

Albert shook his head. “Seems like a real shame, gelding a fine animal like that.”

“Fine animal, my eye. Good-for-nothing animal, you mean. You know he’s too dad-gummed big to be a jumper. At near nineteen hands he wouldn’t fit between the fences on a tight course even if he could fold up like an accordion. And he may still be growing.”

“Could be. He’s still a youngster,” Albert said. “Got to admit, he is one fine horse.”

“Oh, right. He has the manners of Genghis Khan. You and I together can barely waltz him from the stallion paddock to his stall and back again. Why on earth did Mike have to buy that particular horse?”

“Shoot,” Albert said. “He was the biggest, fanciest, feistiest horse Mike ever saw is why. Man’s got no sense about horses yet. Can’t expect him to. He’d never even been on a horse until six months ago when he fell in love with Liz. Cut him some slack, why don’t you?”

“I do, Albert,” Vic said, and latched her arm through his as they walked toward the stable. “I love both Mike and his child, but he should have had better sense than to go to a sale without Liz or me to advise him. Why couldn’t he have given her a nice safe diamond necklace for a wedding present?”

Albert laid his dark-skinned hand on her arm reassuringly. “Calm down. We’re gonna make it, Vic. We can handle the problems. They’ll be back from the Florida circuit in two months. That’s practically no time at all.”

She stopped dead and turned to face him with her hands on her slim hips. “How are we going to make it, Albert? I would really like to know.” She began to count on her fingers. “First, the workmen renovating the house are driving me nuts with decisions that ought to be made by Liz and Mike. Second, two days after they leave for Florida, Angie Womack breaks her collarbone and can’t exercise horses for us. Three, our stable help goes home to Juarez for Christmas and does not return, so you and I—both of whom are too old for this—are running the place single-handed. Four, half the horses here are on training board and are supposed to be ridden every day. Five, I am still not unpacked from moving house into Liz’s cottage so she and Mike and Pat can move into the big house when they come home. And last but definitely not least, that stallion out there is driving me crazy.”

“We’re better off than we were this time last year,” Albert said. “Bills are paid, stalls are full, and we got a waiting list. Our clients love us again. And best of all, Liz is happily married to a fine man with a fine daughter.”

Vic sat on a bale of hay sitting in the broad stable aisle. “You’re right. I’m just really upset about Angie’s broken collarbone. It’s not as though I could ride in her place.”

Albert’s laughter rumbled up from his broad belly. “Put me on ‘em, I’d break ’em in half.”

“Not Mr. Miracle,” Victoria said, grinning up at him. “That blockhead’s big enough even for you.”

“Liz and Mike have been gone less than a week,” Albert said. “And Angie’s been stove up two days. We got time to find us another exercise rider before the horses start getting crazy on us.”

Vic pulled herself up and leaned her head against Albert’s shoulder. “The voice of reason. I know a winter season in Florida will turn Pat into a fine junior rider, as well as blend the three of them into a real family.” She sighed. “That’s why I absolutely cannot call Liz and tell her about Angie’s accident. She’d want to come home right away to help out.”

“So call some other folks,” Albert said. “Bound to be somebody around wants to exercise a few horses, make a little extra money. Not like we need anything fancy.”

As they reached the door of the office the telephone rang. Vic picked it up off the desk, motioned to Albert to shut the door and said, “ValleyCrest.”

The voice on the other end of the line was a croak. “Vic? This is Linette. Can I speak to Albert?”

“Sure. What’s the matter with you? You sound god-awful.”

Without waiting for an answer, she handed Albert the phone. “It’s your wife.” She walked to the feed room and began organizing dinnertime for the horses. A moment later Albert stuck his head in the door.

“I got to go,” Albert said. “Linette’s come down with the flu. Making her sick to her stomach. She’s afraid to drive home. She’s dizzy and throwing up.”

“Oh, Albert, I’m sorry.”

“I hate to leave you like this. The stalls are clean, so you just got to feed and water tonight, but I may not make it in tomorrow.”

“I’ll manage. You go look after Linette. And try not to come down with the flu yourself.”

Albert shook his heavy head. “Told her when she went back to teaching fourth grade she was gonna bring home every disease known to man, but would she believe me? No.”

“Go, Albert. She doesn’t need to be giving it to the rest of the school. And stay home as long as you have to.”

Albert called over his shoulder, “Want me to see if I can get Randy or Kenny to come in and help you out tomorrow?”

Vic shook her head. “Won’t be the first time I’ve cleaned twenty-five stalls, and probably won’t be the last. Shoo. Scat. Don’t you dare get sick.”

As soon as she heard his truck rumble out of the driveway, she sat down on the tack trunk again. She prided herself on not being one of those weepy women, but right now she needed a darned good cry.

She was strong enough and capable enough to handle this place by herself for a short time, but she was facing mighty sore muscles and long hours unless Albert came in to help her tomorrow.

ValleyCrest definitely needed more help. At least one groom, but preferably two. And one person capable of riding a dozen horses a day. She’d have to put another ad in the newspaper, not that ads had ever brought her anyone halfway decent in the past. Good help who knew about horses was rare and expensive.

Suddenly the stallion began to call again. “Oh, blast,” she said. “Albert’s not here to help me bring him in. I’ll never manage it by myself.” She raised her voice and shouted, “You may have to stay in the pasture all night.” She pulled herself to her feet. “Serve him right. Why should he be comfortable? I’m not.”

“Miz Jamerson?” A voice called from in front of the stable. “Miz Jamerson, we got to see you right now.”

She ran a hand down her face. What now?

Two big men in jeans, one considerably younger than the other, stood in front of a truck outside the barn. Neither looked happy.

“Jackson here hasn’t finished the rough plumbing in the new bathroom up at the house, and I got a whole wiring crew scheduled first thing in the morning,” the older one said.

“Not my fault,” Jackson said. “I told him I’d need two days, didn’t I?” He turned to the older man and said truculently. “I told you.”

“Yeah, well, a halfway decent plumber with a crew the size of yours ought to be able to do that little bit of rough plumbing in eight hours max.”

“Who the hell—?”

“Whoa!” Vic shouted. “Knock it off, both of you.”

The two men turned to her. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Jackson, you’re scheduled to be done with the plumbing tomorrow, am I correct?”

“Yes, ma’am, just like I said.” He cut his gaze to the other man.

“And, Mr. Millhouse, your crew is coming in tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am, just like Mr. Whitten’s specs say.”

“Then split the difference. Mr. Jackson, get your men in here an hour early and get that rough plumbing done before noon, whatever it takes. Mr. Millhouse, bring your crew in at one in the afternoon and work until dark.”

Both men spoke at once. Vic held up her hand. “Mr. Jackson, Mr. Millhouse, I suggest you do it, because Mr. Whitten is not going to put up with shoddy workmanship, and I am not going to put up with tantrums from any more damned males today. I’ve had it up to here with testosterone. Do I make myself clear?”

Both men stared at her, then looked at each other and nodded slowly.

“May I suggest you get back to work—both of you,” Vic said. “You’ve got at least an hour of daylight left.”

The two men shared a look that damned to eternity the weirdness of females. They walked to the truck, climbed in and drove off up the hill.

After a few moments, Vic turned to go back into the barn and jumped. A man sat astride a large and very dusty motorcycle beside her truck. Vic sensed in that instant how alone she was out here without Albert or Angie or any of the horse owners.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm. “I didn’t hear the motorcycle.”

“I rode up while those men in the truck were driving down. Must have covered the sound.”

“That was five minutes ago. What have you been doing since?” So he’d waited silently until she was completely alone? Disquieting.

“Waiting for you to have time to talk to me.”

The man had an accent of some sort. “Irish?” she asked.

He grinned, showing a mouthful of incredible white teeth and a couple of dimples that made her heart lurch. “I’m a Scot,” he said. “From up Oban way.”

“Do you have a name?”

He climbed off his motorcycle and walked toward her. She backed up a step.

“Name’s Jamey McLachlan, lass. And I want a job.”

CHAPTER TWO

“JOB? WHAT SORT OF JOB do you want?” Vic asked.

Jamey McLachlan took another step toward her, apparently noticed her uneasiness and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“General dogsbody,” he continued. “I can clean stalls, feed, water, exercise horses—”

“Did you say exercise horses?”

He nodded. “I can ride anything on four legs.”

“Oh, you can, can you?”

“Absolutely.” He leaned against the side of Vic’s truck, crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. He looked supremely confident.

Vic took her time studying him. He was not more than an inch taller than she—five ten at most—and weighed perhaps ten pounds more, if that. He looked to be all muscle, but not the rippling weight-lifter kind. He was whipcord thin.

His jeans looked dusty and worn, but expensive—European, black and skintight. She dragged her eyes away from the very obvious bulge at his crotch where the fabric had worn thin and slightly gray.

His blue-black hair had been combed back. He wore it longer than Mike did—but then, this man probably couldn’t afford a barber’s shears often.

He had on a black T-shirt under a leather bomber jacket that was creased and cracked with age. And dusty paddock boots, similar to her own.

She also noted with a slight frisson of disquiet that he wore black leather gloves and a small gold stud in his right ear. His skin was dark—outdoor skin, the kind a ski instructor might have. Or a farmer. Or a drifter who rode a motorcycle without a helmet.

He watched her out of eyes as black as that damned stallion’s.

“Well, want me to strip?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Way you’re looking at me, might as well stand here in my birthday suit. Do you like what you see?”

“What I see is an overage drifter driving an expensive British motorcycle. You wouldn’t happen to have something like a passport, would you? God forbid you’d have a green card.”

“Passport I’ve got. Green card? No. I don’t expect to stay anyplace long enough to need one.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Because I’m having a midlife crisis. I’ve left my stepfather’s farm in Scotland to work my way around the world from horse farm to horse farm. I want to see all of it—the world, that is. I bought the BMW in Lexington, Kentucky. It’s cheaper than a car, and I like sleeping rough.”

“So you just show up here? Just driving down the road and, voilà, here you are?”

He grinned. “You’re too suspicious for your own good.” He reached his left hand into the pocket of his jacket.

Vic eyed his hand suspiciously.

He caught her glance and grinned that wild grin again. “I’m not reaching for my forty-five. We Scots don’t go in much for firearms, and a man can’t hide a dirk or a claymore in this getup without doing himself an injury.” He brought out a white envelope. “Here, read it. You’ll know why I showed up here.”

Vic reached out with two fingers and took the envelope, looked at it and blinked. She glanced up at him. “It’s addressed to me.”

“Yes.”

“What’s it say?”

“Read it. It won’t bite.”

She pulled the single sheet of fine vellum from the envelope and read. “Dear Vic,” the letter began. “This is to introduce a good friend of mine, Jamey McLachlan. I’ve known him for twenty years and trust him implicitly. He’s a good man, even if he has gone a bit middle-aged crazy at the moment. He’s got a mad drive to see the world on the back of a motorcycle and a horse. I can vouch for his honesty and his expertise. I hope you can convince him to give up this insane idea of riding himself around the world and get him to come home to Scotland and go back to work training my horses. In the meantime, try to see that he doesn’t starve. Give him a job if you’ve got one. He’s a fine rider and a hard worker. Sincerely, Marshall Dunn.”

“Marshall Dunn?” Vic looked up. “I haven’t heard from him in five years. How do I know this is genuine?”

“You don’t. But it is and so am I. Call him up and check it out if you like. I may not stay more than a month or so, but I’m hoping you could use some help. Am I right?”

“How much?”

“A bed, money to pay for my food and the occasional beer—although what you Americans call beer is definitely not the beverage I’m used to—and if I serve you well, a decent reference to one of your friends when I leave.”

“Will you stay for two months if it works out between us?”

Jamey caught his breath. He’d been making do with small duplicities, but this would be his first big lie. He didn’t like lying to her. She was a fine woman, tall and handsome and bright and full of spirit.

He found the challenge in her direct gaze disturbing. He did not need the additional complication of actually responding to her physically. He forced his mind back to his negotiations.

“My guess is you’ve got more to do here than you’ve hands for,” he continued. Nobody should be running a place this big alone, or even with one or two people. He had ten to fifteen working for him at home even in the lean times. Most of them were his uncles and his cousins, but they still required salaries. He steeled himself and said, “All right, if we work out, I’ll stay two months. But there’s something you need to know.”