White Christmas: Woman Hater / The Humbug Man. Diana Palmer
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and early 1700s: Byerley Turk, Godolphin Barb and Queen Anne.
Winthrop’s horses had the exquisite conformation and sleek lines that denoted thoroughbreds, too. She’d watched them during her brief stroll around the stables and corral. One was a mare about to foal, the other a full stallion, both with sleek chestnut coats and exquisite conformation. She’d wanted to ask Winthrop about them over scrambled eggs and steak that morning, but he’d been unapproachable. Frozen over, in fact, and she knew why without even being told. He didn’t want her too close, so he was freezing her out.
She’d finished her two hours in the study, taking dictation from Gerald, and now cozy and warm in tailored gray slacks and a white pullover sweater, she was lazing around the corral looking for the horses. The stallion was there, but she didn’t see the mare anywhere.
A noise from inside the big barn caught her attention. She couldn’t see inside, but it sounded like a horse’s whinny of pain. It was followed by a particularly virulent curse from a voice she recognized immediately.
She darted into the dim warmth of the big barn, down the neat corridor between the stalls that was covered with pine shavings.
“Winthrop?” she called quickly.
“In here.”
She followed his voice to the end stall. The mare was down on her side, making snuffling sounds, and Winthrop was bending over her, his sleeves rolled up, bareheaded, scowling.
“Something’s wrong,” she said, glancing at him.
“Brilliant observation,” he muttered, probing at the mare’s distended belly with tender, sure hands. “This is her first foal and it’s a breech, damn the luck! Go get Johnny Blake and tell him I said to come here, I can’t do this alone. He’ll be—”
“The mare will be dead by the time I find him,” she said matter-of-factly. She eased into the stall, ignoring Winthrop as she gently approached the mare, talking softly to her with every step. While Winthrop watched, scowling, she slid down to her knees beside the beautiful, intelligent creature, watching the silky brown eyes all the while. She sat down then, reaching out to stroke the mare. And slowly, she eased under the proud head and slowly coaxed it onto her knees. She drew her fingers gently over the velvety muzzle, talking softly to the mare, gentling her.
“She’ll let you help her now,” she told Winthrop softly, never taking her eyes from the mare’s.
“Yes,” he said, watching her curiously for a few seconds before he bent to his task. “I believe she might. You’ll ruin that fancy sweater,” he murmured as he went to work.
“Better it than lose the foal,” she said, and smiled at the mare, talking gently to her all along, smoothing the long mane, cuddling the shuddering head, as Winthrop slowly worked to help the colt in its dark cradle. She knew instinctively that the mare would realize that she was trying to help, and not hurt her.
Minutes later, guided by patient, expert lean hands, hind fetlocks appeared suddenly, followed rapidly by the rest of the newborn animal. Winthrop laughed softly, triumphantly, as the tiny new life slid into the hay and he cleared its nostrils.
“A colt,” he announced.
Nicole smiled at him over the mare, amazed to find genuine warmth in his dark eyes. “And a very healthy one, too,” she agreed. Her eyes searched his softly, and then she felt herself beginning to tremble at the intensity of his level gaze. She drew her gaze away and stroked the mare again before she got slowly to her feet so that the new mother could lick her colt and nuzzle it.
“A thoroughbred, isn’t he?” she replied absently, her eyes on the slick colt being lovingly washed by his mother. “The stallion has a superior conformation. So does the mare. He might be a champion.”
“The stallion is by Calhammond, out of Dame Savoy,” he said, frowning as he moved away to wash his hands and arms in a bucket of water with a bar of soap, drying them on a towel that hung over it. “How did you know?”
“Kentucky is racehorse country,” she laughed, sidestepping the question. She didn’t want to tell him how much she knew about thoroughbreds, although she’d certainly given herself away just now, and she’d have to soft-pedal over it. “I cut my teeth on thoroughbreds. I used to beg for work around them, and one of the trainers took pity on me. He taught me a lot about them. You see, one of the biggest racing farms in Lexington was near where I lived—Rockhampton Farms.” Actually Rockhampton was her grandfather’s name; her mother’s people had owned the stables there for three generations. But it wouldn’t do to admit that to Winthrop, because he’d connect it with Dominic White, who was her father and the current owner. He might even know Dominic, because he entertained sportsmen, and her father was one of the best.
“I’ve heard of it,” Winthrop told her after a minute. He turned, staring hard at her with dark, curious eyes as he rolled down the sleeves of his brown Western shirt and buttoned the cuffs with lazy elegance. White. Her name was White. Wasn’t that the name of that jet-setting sportsman from Kentucky who was coming with the Eastern hunting party? Yes, by God it was, and Dominic White owned Rockhampton Farms. He lifted his head. “The owner of Rockhampton is a White,” he said in a direct attack, watching closely for reaction. “Any kin of yours?”
She held on to her wits with a steely hand. She even smiled. “White is a pretty common name, I’m afraid,” she said. “Do I look like an heiress?”
“You don’t dress like one,” he commented, with narrowed eyes. “And I guess you wouldn’t be working for Gerald if you had that kind of money,” he said finally, relaxing a little. He didn’t want her, but it was a relief all the same to know that she wasn’t some bored little rich girl looking for a good time. He couldn’t have borne going through that again. “I’ve been to Kentucky, but I’ve never been on the White place. My stallion and mare came from the O’Hara place.”
“Yes, Meadowbrook Farms,” she murmured. She could have fainted with relief. She didn’t want him to know about her background. Of course, there was always the danger that he might someday find out that she was one of those Whites, but with any luck she’d be back in Chicago before he did, and it wouldn’t matter anymore. Right now, the important thing was to get her boss well and not upset him with any confrontations between herself and Winthrop.
Winthrop had every reason to hate rich society girls, and he might be tempted to make her life hell if he knew the truth. And probably it would be worse because she hadn’t told him about it in the beginning. Her character would be even blacker in his eyes for the subterfuge. For one wild instant, she considered telling him. But she knew she couldn’t. He disliked her enough already. And it was suddenly important, somehow, to keep him from finding new reasons to dislike her. It did occur to her that someday he might hate her for not being truthful with him. But she’d discovered a tender streak in his turbulent nature while he was working with the mare, and she wanted to learn more about that shadowy side of him. That might not be possible if he knew the truth about her.
“I couldn’t have managed that alone,” he said quietly, watching her. “I’m obliged for the help.”
“I like horses,” she said simply. “And he’s a grand colt.”
“His father has been a consistent winner, but he was hurt in a race last year. I bought him to stand at stud rather than see him put down. I had a lot of money that was lying spare, so I developed an interest in racehorses. I’ve spent a good deal of time at racetracks in the past year.”
Another chink in the armor, she thought, thinking about his compassion for the stallion as she looked up at him.
He saw that speculative gleam and it irritated him. She wasn’t working out the way he’d expected. She had too many interesting qualities, and he didn’t like the feelings she aroused in him. He’d buried his emotions, and she was digging down to them with irritating ease.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked bluntly. “Why? Is it because I’m plain, or because I’m only a secretary …”