Slightly uncomfortable herself because the only man she’d ever cooked for had been her father, Maggie merely set the plate on the table, said, “The coffee’s ready,” and turned back to the range to prepare a second omelet.
By the time her omelet was done, Rafe had poured coffee and juice for both of them, and he held her chair for her before sitting down across from her. He had done the same thing the night before, his manners seemingly automatic, and she wondered how long she’d feel awkward about accepting gestures he took for granted. She also wondered when she would begin to relax in the presence of her new boss.
The rather slapdash meal served to them the night before had kept the atmosphere between them both casual and humorous. Maggie had struggled more than once to choke back laughter at Rafe’s too expressive face as one barely edible dish succeeded another. But she had retired to her room somewhat hastily, the meal barely finished, because of an entirely different emotion.
Despite Kathleen’s shortcomings Rafe was still careful not to hurt the housekeeper’s feelings, and that concern had roused in Maggie a strange and inexplicable surge of tenderness. The emotion had disturbed her deeply last night, and was still disturbing her this morning. She tried to think of something light and casual to say to break the long silence between them. But her mind had gone blank, and it was Rafe who spoke first.
“You are a very good cook,” he said.
“Thanks. But omelets aren’t hard.”
“Every one of my attempts has been,” he said sadly. “Hard as rubber.”
She laughed, feeling her own tension ease. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“I’d ask you to give your recipe to Kath, but she’d only mangle it.”
She glanced up at him, then stared fixedly at her plate. Damn the man! she thought a bit wildly. How could he look so ridiculously wistful about an omelet? And she wasn’t really surprised to hear herself speak. “I get up early every day, and it’s just as easy to fix two breakfasts as one.”
She was so grimly unsettled by that point that if Rafe had reminded her a second time her job wasn’t cooking, she wouldn’t have said another word about the subject. Rafe, however, did no such thing.
“In that case,” he said solemnly, “I’ll play the fiddle at your wake.”
Maggie smiled. Getting up to take her plate to the sink, she said only, “Two questions.”
“Which are?”
“Can you play the fiddle?”
“I’ll learn. Second question?”
“What makes you think you’ll be around for my wake? In the nature of things, you know, you’ll predecease me.”
“The chances of that are even stronger than nature allows. My mother used to say I was born to be hanged.”
Maggie decided not to comment on that. Before she could say anything at all, a small flap at the base of the back door, unnoticed by her until then, swished open to admit a black cat. The cat sauntered across the kitchen with an air of belonging and leaped briefly to the counter before taking a second jump to land neatly on Rafe’s shoulder.
He had gotten to his feet to carry his own plate to the sink, and now stared at his passenger. “And where have you been all night?” he demanded severely.
Green eyes returned his stare for a moment, then the cat yawned widely to show an impressive set of teeth.
“Your familiar?” Maggie asked.
“A tomcat,” he answered dryly. “Like me.”
Rather hastily, she opened the dishwasher and began loading it. “What’s his name?” After a somewhat prolonged silence, she looked back at Rafe to find him clearly torn between reluctance and amusement. “His name’s a secret?”
“No.” Rafe sighed. “But after your remark, his name’s a bit too apt.”
“What is it?”
“Merlin.”
Maggie closed the dishwasher and straightened, fighting to keep an expressionless face. “I see. Sure he isn’t your familiar?”
“He’s not even my cat. At least—I suppose he is, but it was his decision rather than mine. He showed up late one night about a year ago. It was storming, and I let him in. He’s been here ever since.”
“It’s supposed to be good luck for a black cat to adopt you, especially during a storm. Why’d you name him Merlin?”
“I don’t know.” He looked at the cat bemusedly. “It just seemed a good name for him.”
“Merlin…” She laughed. “If you had Warlock as well as Merlin, people would begin to wonder.”
“Who—or what—is Warlock?” Rafe asked as they left the kitchen by the back door and headed for the barns. Merlin continued to ride on his shoulder with the ease of an old habit; obviously he was a companionable cat whenever not out courting.
“Warlock is a horse.” Maggie breathed in the early morning air with unconscious pleasure. “He’s a three-time national champion, and only four years old. He’s so black, his coat has a blue sheen. His only marking is a perfect white exclamation point between his nostrils. And his owner—Ted Hawkes of Blueridge Farm in Kentucky—won’t sell him for love or money. Rumor has it he’s been offered plenty of the latter.”
“How much is plenty?” Rafe asked, studying her profile and listening to the lilt in her voice.
“Well, I heard he’s been offered a quarter of a million. That isn’t so uncommon for Thoroughbred racehorses, but it’s a bit steep for a Walking Horse—even a champion.”
“It’s possible he could earn that much in winnings and stud fees, isn’t it?” Rafe asked thoughtfully.
“Yes…if he breeds true. But the oldest colt he’s sired hasn’t entered the show ring yet, so who can tell?”
“What’s your guess?”
Maggie was a little surprised at the question, but answered honestly. “Well, I rode him once when he was a two-year-old, and I’ve seen some of his foals. My best guess is that he’ll be a champion for years yet, and stand at stud well into old age. If he remains sound, that is.”
“Seems like he’d be a real asset for any stud farm,” Rafe commented casually.
—
Barn number four, Maggie’s domain, showed careful planning in layout, as did the other barns. It was a T-shaped structure. The crossbar of the T was an indoor training ring—necessary in this land of intense heat and strong sun—fifty feet wide and nearly a hundred feet long, with a firm and well-kept sand floor. The barn proper was composed of a hall fifteen feet wide with roomy stables on each side, along with a large tack and equipment room and a feed room. Dutch doors gave access to each stable, and the north row of stables also had Dutch doors opening out into individual paddocks to the rear. High above along the rows of stables and adding insulation against the heat, lofts were stacked with sweet-smelling hay. At each end of both barn and training ring, also high above, were huge fans to circulate air and help to cool the buildings.
It was a trainer’s dream, and Maggie couldn’t believe it was her domain. She was speechless.
Until she met Figure.
Entering the shaded coolness of the barn hall from the equally cool training ring, Maggie stopped at Rafe’s side to stare at the gray-and-white animal barring their way. Rheumy brown eyes stared at her balefully and long ears swiveled around to lie flat in unprovoked anger.
Merlin hissed, obviously annoyed, and leaped from Rafe’s shoulder to stalk back the way they’d come.
Maggie, having been around show horses all her life, knew a mascot when she saw one. Often high-strung horses became attached to stable companions and tended to remain calm in their presence. Older horses, ponies, donkeys, goats, cats, and dogs were sometimes so important to the show horses that they even accompanied them from show to show, riding companionably in the trailers with their friends.
“Mascot?” Maggie asked, gazing at the donkey.
Rafe sighed. “He thinks so. Maggie, meet Figure.”
She sent Rafe a half-incredulous, half-amused look. “You named him after the famous Morgan?”
He chu
ckled. “No. One of the definitions of the word is ‘a well-known personage.’ That’s what he thinks he is.”
She laughed softly. “He does have a certain air about him.”
“Doesn’t he? And I hate to do this to you, but I’m afraid you’re stuck with him—at least as long as you’re training Diablo.”
“They’re buddies?”
Rafe nodded. “I had Tom move Diablo here early this morning, and Figure came with him. Sorry, Maggie. He’s an ill-tempered old mountain burro and hates every living thing except that stallion.”
Maggie was unperturbed. “Oh, we’ll get along.”
“He bites,” Rafe warned.
“He won’t bite me,” she said calmly.
And that, Rafe found to his astonishment, turned out to be more than true: By the end of the day the damn burro was following her around like a puppy.
Rafe was even more astonished when he realized he was doing the same thing.
Chapter 3
Rafe had shown Maggie around the ranch, introducing her to everyone. They wound up at her barn, and Maggie had immediately gone to work. Getting out her own two horses, she saddled them while talking with apparent casualness to the people Rafe had hired to work with her. After working both horses herself, she then asked all six of her new apprentices to mount, two at a time, until all of them had ridden each horse. Only one of the riders was familiar with gaited horses; the other five particularly benefited from Maggie’s patience and the beautiful training of her horses.
By lunchtime she told Rafe that the two young women, Lisa and Pat, as well as Tyler, one of the young men, would be showing Shamrock horses by the following year. The remaining three men—Russell, Mike, and Brian—would need more time before showing.
“But Brian has shown gaited horses before,” Rafe said.
“Did he win?” Maggie asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
They were walking up the lane to the house for lunch, and Rafe felt his respect for the woman growing as he looked down at her. “No, I don’t think he did. How’d you know that?”
She frowned a little, gazing ahead. “He’s heavy-handed and overcues, and his seat is too forward. He’s also too ready to use his whip. He may not work out, Rafe.”
He nodded and said, “Your decision.”
She was, Rafe quickly found out, a very decisive lady. She also possessed the ability to command—and to do so without rousing even a flicker of resentment. By the end of the first day her apprentices had been briskly assigned duties, and all were clearly respectful of both her authority and her knowledge.
She also was not a woman who gave up easily or delegated the tricky or hard work to others. Watching her during the next few days, Rafe noted that she unerringly recognized both the horses—and the people—who needed the most careful handling. Rather than simply give up on Brian, she spent a great deal of time working patiently to correct his riding problems. And when a temperamental young Saddlebred showed off a few dangerous tricks, she handled him herself until some of his nasty habits were broken.
Rafe found his gaze drawn to her whenever she was within sight, and found himself searching for her when he couldn’t see her. He invented questions to ask her just to hear her voice—and to get her to focus on him rather than her work. He mocked himself silently for his inability to hold her attention. Rafe, the charming rake! In a horse race—he lost out to the horses.
He asked himself honestly if the attraction could possibly be one-sided. But Maggie seemed to be too aware of him for that to be the case. She avoided any physical contact with him, he noticed, and that was not so with everyone else. With her apprentices casual contact seemed just that—casual.
The hell of it was, Rafe thought, he could make her aware of him. But the tactics he’d have to use—wanted to use—would quite effectively destroy his claim that he never got involved with women on the ranch.
He spent every spare moment he was able to find or steal watching her work in the training ring, to the point that Tom Graham—on whom the burden of Rafe’s daily work fell—fiercely demanded a raise.
Both sheepish and startled by this reminder of his responsibilities, Rafe murmured only, “Sure, Tom.”
The foreman pushed his hat to the back of his head and stared at his boss for a long and, to Rafe, uncomfortable moment. Then he began to laugh, crinkling the fine network of wrinkles at the corners of his faded blue eyes. “Hell. That little lady’s got you corralled.”
Rafe assumed a total deafness and continued to observe Maggie riding Diablo in the ring.
Tom, who had watched Rafe grow up, leaned against the gate and gazed into the ring himself. “She’s a damn fine horsewoman,” he said. After a sidelong glance at his boss he added, “And ambitious, I’d say. Wants her own place. Not the kind who’d marry to get it either.”
Rafe sighed, abandoning his deafness. “Yeah, I know. And she’s about half convinced I’m the playboy of the Western world.”
“So what’re you goin’ to do about it?”
Frowning, Rafe considered the question. Again. He’d thought of little else for days now. What was he going to do about it? In spite of all his efforts Maggie was wary of him. They were rarely alone together. Breakfast was a time she clearly made a point of putting quickly behind them, and she always went to her room immediately after dinner.
Rafe knew himself to be hotheaded, but he was finding himself hot-blooded as well. These last nights had been pure hell. He had also grown increasingly nervous about Kathleen’s inability to hide her matchmaking hopes for him. Sooner or later Maggie was bound to notice the housekeeper’s misty-eyed looks and wistful sighs.
Kathleen was a potential problem. Rafe thought about that for a moment, then pushed it to the back of his mind, confident he’d come up with something sooner or later. He turned his attention again to the slender woman astride the gleaming devil-horse.
He knew himself to be a patient man in most regards, but too much proud blood flowed in his veins to allow him to wait patiently for the woman he wanted to rid herself of misconceptions and mistrust. Especially while most of her attention seemed fixed on her job.
“Boss?”
Rafe turned to find Tom gazing at him with an expression somewhere between uneasiness and amusement. “Boss, you aren’t goin’ to do somethin’ crazy, are you?”
Straightening from the gate, Rafe grinned at his foreman. “Crazy? Well, the rational approach hasn’t gotten me very far, has it?”
Tom nearly groaned. “Rafe, the last time I saw you in this mood, all hell broke loose!”
“That,” Rafe said cheerfully, “is a lie. I was in complete control of the situation.”
“Tell that to your brothers.” Tom was disgusted. “They’re the ones had to bail you out of jail!”
Ignoring this, Rafe said only, “Do me a favor and get Saladin out, will you?” He looked at his watch, murmuring to himself, “Ah….Just in time.”
Tom seemed about to question, then shook his head and strode off, grumbling audibly.
Rafe waited until Maggie and Diablo passed near him before calling out, “Can that brute be trusted around another stallion?”
Maggie pulled up and regarded him quizzically. “I think so,” she answered. “Why?”
“You’ve spent all your time here so far in the barns. You should see more of Shamrock.” He swung open the gate without waiting for her response. “C’mon.”
She rode Diablo slowly from the ring and out through the barn, following the tall, lean figure striding ahead. She glanced aside only once to watch Figure trot from his open stall and take up a “heel” position at Diablo’s flank, and felt more than heard the stallion rumble a greeting to his small friend. Then she looked once more at Rafe.
Rafe Delaney, she had found, was not an easy man to ignore—even when he didn’t call attention to himself. Rafe drew people as the sun drew flowers to lean toward it. She had watched him unobtrusively during every day here, noticing that nearly al
l of the employees at Shamrock found some reason to speak briefly to him as often as possible. Men and women alike seemed to bask in the warmth of his grin. Every last one of them, she thought, would have done anything short of murder for him—and possibly even that.
It made Maggie very nervous. He was a devastatingly charismatic man, and he was beginning to haunt her dreams. His reputation still made her uneasy, even though common sense told her a great deal of that had to be malicious gossip and wishful thinking. She kept reminding herself that he was her boss and nothing more. Nothing. And he hadn’t so much as hinted that she was anything other than an employee he valued because of her ability.
Maggie was unnerved to discover that, for the first time in her career, being valued for her skill alone was not enough. She was disgusted with herself, and morbidly anxious not to betray her growing fascination with the man she still desperately wanted to pigeonhole as “boss.”
And now she held Diablo to a slow walk, more concerned with controlling herself than him, bothered by her confused emotions. The carefully planned course of her life seemed to have run amok somehow. Her professional goals loomed nearer than she had dared to hope, but she was more than ever conscious of her lack of personal goals.
Maggie wrenched her thoughts to the here and now and focused her attention on the stallion Rafe was mounting several yards away. She had seen the horse at a distance, running free in the paddock attached to his stable. Saladin was Rafe’s “personal” horse, raised and trained by him from long-legged coltish unsteadiness to magnificently graceful adulthood. A fiery chestnut, he was pure-blooded Arab from his delicate face to his arched tail, every inch of him a reminder of desert sands and hot winds.
She watched Rafe settle into the English saddle with a grace all his own, watched Saladin prance and snatch at the bit playfully, and felt an odd, unfamiliar weakening somewhere inside her. A headdress for Rafe and tassles for the horse, she thought dazedly, and the image would be of a powerful and arrogant sheikh riding out to survey his kingdom….
“Ready?” he called cheerfully.