A Cowboy's Angel. Pamela Britton
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“I don’t have as many horses because I don’t breed as many. My dad adhered to the concept of quality, not quantity. It’s a principle I still believe in.”
And that wasn’t making him any money, but he’d come up with something. Maybe Mr. Whitmore would be interested in a few of his broodmares. He had a couple yet that didn’t have foals by their sides....
“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