Czytaj książkę: «Chase The Clouds»

One

“Mrs. Daguerre, I can assure you I’m not used to having people fall short of their obligations to me. Especially ones where a legal contract is signed and services are promised.”

Danielle stiffened in her chair and stared across the small office that was located within the main stabling barn. She was tall for a horse trainer, almost five foot nine, but she felt diminutive against the man who stood in the doorway blocking the afternoon April sun that slanted across his broad shoulders. Easing out of the black leather desk chair, she folded her arms against her small breasts, feeling positively threatened by his detached coolness. His eyes, the shade of pewter gray, assessed her with mild interest.

“Mr. Reese,” she began, taking a firm tone that she would normally use with misbehaving horses, “my ex-husband signed that document over a year ago to ride your three-day-event thoroughbred, I didn’t.”

He gave her a thin, cutting smile, one corner of his generous mouth pulling upward. Removing the Stetson from his rich, dark hair, he let the hat dangle in his right hand. “Right now I don’t care who signed it. I’m sorry that your marriage was broken up, but an agreement is an agreement.”

“Your stallion, Altair, has a nasty name on the show circuit,” she reminded him stubbornly. As much as she hated to use her ex-husband’s name, she went on, “Jean’s notes tell me that he’s shy of water jumps, headstrong and impulsive and won’t listen to his rider.”

His cool, twisted smile remained as he studied her across the distance. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s a bit like me in some respects—hard to handle.”

Dany’s nostrils flared with a show of contempt. Pointing at the fact sheets compiled on the jumper, she said, “You can’t take a range horse and make him a Grand Prix jumper, Mr. Reese. It just can’t be done. Your stallion has been mishandled too long, and I don’t have the time or inclination to try and retrain him for you, contract or no contract.”

His gray eyes glittered with an unnamed emotion. “Altair was out of the finest thoroughbred stock money can buy, Mrs. Daguerre. The fact that his dam was stolen and then abandoned in the middle of the Nevada desert with Altair at her side has no bearing on his abilities. It’s true he was raised in the wild with a herd of mustangs. He was caught as a four-year-old by wranglers who busted him for use as a cow horse.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I saw him by accident when I was looking over a herd of charlois, and bought him immediately.”

Dany tried to quell her frustration. “It’s a very touching story, Mr. Reese but—”

“You haven’t heard all of it,” he ground out softly.

Something in the tone of his voice warned her to remain motionless. “All right,” she capitulated, “tell me the rest of it. But it won’t change my mind.”

“The more facts you have, the better you’ll be able to weigh your decision,” he parried.

“I’m waiting.…”

“The wrangler who owned him tried to beat the spirit out of Altair. Consequently, he’s pretty scarred up from it, both physically and emotionally. I knew he was thoroughbred by his conformation. When the owner showed me the mare, her tattoo number was stamped on the inside of her upper lip. All I had to do was call the registry and confirm Altair’s breeding. He can’t be registered, but in Grand Prix, papers don’t mean a thing. Ability does.”

“I suppose it doesn’t mean a thing that he’s a range horse?”

Sam Reese gave her an odd smile. “You can come from the wrong side of the tracks and still make it. I’m sure you’re familiar with Nautilus, the palomino gelding they found at some riding stable?”

Dany nodded. “Yes, a rags-to-riches story of a Heinz-variety gelding who made it big in the Olympics as a jumper. That’s a one-in-a-million shot.”

“Altair’s unique.”

“He’s trouble with a capital ‘T,’ Mr. Reese.” She pulled up the file, frowning. “Jean didn’t make these notes for nothing. He has excellent ability to size up a Grand Prix candidate for the jumping circuit.”

“Then why did he agree to show Altair if he thought the stallion was such a loss?”

It was Dany’s turn to give him a withering smile. “Because Jean thought he could ride anything and make it win.”

“He has—so far. But,” he hesitated, tilting his head, watching her with a more gentle expression. “I’ve been following his career the last four years, and it seems to me he had one hell of a trainer behind the scenes working the kinks out of these animals before they ever showed.” He pointed at her. “You’re the real reason why he’s skyrocketed to fame and has winner after winner on his hands.”

She couldn’t stand still a moment longer, unable to bear remembering the last four miserable years of her life. “Please—”

He reached out, capturing her arm and turning her toward him. Dany was wildly aware of his masculine aura and she pulled her arm away. “I made a mistake by hiring three different male trainers to coach Altair. He needs a woman’s touch.”

She took a step away. “Doesn’t every male,” she noted with sarcasm. “I have no wish to get mangled by that sorrel stallion. I’ve heard rumors that Altair has injured all his trainers to some degree.”

“And in every instance it was their fault,” he growled. “He’s an intelligent horse who won’t be beaten or cajoled into doing something. He has to be reasoned with psychologically and respected.”

“I have no wish to end up with a broken neck or fractured skull because of that red devil!”

“You’re reacting to rumors, that’s all.”

Danielle’s eyes widened, their blueness becoming clouded with cobalt flecks. How could this—this “cowboy” from California suddenly walk in unannounced and demand that she fulfill this agreement made so long ago? The only business that she wanted to conduct today was to turn over control of the Virginia training and stable business to her new partner. Had it only been nine months since the divorce from Jean Baptiste Daguerre? Her heart wrenched in anger and pain over the shock of his sudden departure. Jean was the brilliant, flamboyant part of their duo, and she was only the trainer who stayed behind the scenes doing the groundwork and strenuous training of thoroughbreds for their blue-blooded owners of the East Coast. Jean had ridden nearly every one of the horses she had lovingly trained to the very heights of equine stardom. He would show them in stadium jumping, dressage and the dangerous, spectacular three-day cross-country eventing. The more dangerous, the more closely timed the event, the better his electric performance on the horse. Choking down a lump forming in her throat, she was unable to meet Sam Reese’s inquiring gaze. It was too bad Jean’s performance in their marriage had gotten such poor marks. She sighed. It was just as much her fault; she spent too much time training the young horses and too little time with Jean.

“My attorneys have made inquiries as to Mr. Daguerre’s whereabouts, and they’ve informed me he has left for a series of commitments in France. I have a Grand Prix hopeful standing in my barn, Mrs. Daguerre, and when your ex-husband saw Altair last year, he said he’d campaign him.” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Fortunately, you haven’t left the States and your credentials are well respected in this country. I don’t care who fulfills the commitment.” His voice, husky and low, hardened. “But one of you will. I haven’t spent thousands of dollars on this stallion to see him wasted in the hands of some second-class amateur.”

Dany shook her head. “I’m a trainer, Mr. Reese, not a show rider. There’s a big difference.”

His face was darkly tanned, chiseled as if sculpted by the sun and wind. He looked as though he would be at ease with any element that nature could conjure up. There was a faint look of surprise in his challenging gaze. “You can double as both.”

Dany uncrossed her arms, holding them stiffly at her sides. She wasn’t going to honor any commitment signed by Jean! “I’m too tall, Mr. Reese! Most of your riders are five-five to five-seven. Even the male riders are usually around a hundred and forty pounds. I’m one forty and my weight will cause the horse to tire on a long and demanding cross-country course. And my height would interfere with the horse’s movement, especially if he’s sixteen hands or less. You can’t mix and match something like this, you know.”

He relaxed against the door jamb, oddly out of place in his western attire. “I wouldn’t change one inch or pound on you,” he murmured appreciatively, making a thorough appraisal of her body.

Dany colored fiercely, getting ready to unleash a blast of anger at the lazily smiling westerner. “How—”

“Now calm down,” he defended. “I meant it as a compliment. You eastern women all seem to be a little uptight. Anyway, Altair is seventeen hands high and can easily carry you. Even with your height, you have that grace and flexibility which can only contribute to some of the more intricate jumps that have to be scaled. So you see, there’s no problem there.”

She stood rooted to the spot, her body drawn into a stiff posture. She didn’t realize that it made her look elegantly classical in her black knee-high English riding boots, white long-sleeved blouse and canary yellow riding breeches. The blouse set off the rich, shining blackness of her hair and accented the natural ruddiness of her complexion. Her thin brows knitted in displeasure. “Your horse could be eighteen hands tall, and I still wouldn’t ride him!” she hurled back, her voice quivering with anger. “And you can keep your low opinion of easterners to yourself, Mr. Reese. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m handing over the reins of this place to my new partner, who’s due to arrive any minute now.” She walked determinedly up to him, angrily holding his amused gaze.

“I don’t think he’ll mind waiting,” he drawled, remaining between her and the door.

She planted her hands on her hips, glaring up at his ruggedly handsome face. If they had met under other circumstances, she would have found him devastatingly intriguing She had still not gotten over her anger at Jean’s impulsive departure, and her life had no place for a man. In fact, she found herself agitated at men in general since the divorce. She wanted to slap his rugged face for the open expression of enjoyment that she saw there.

“If you don’t move, I’ll—”

“You’re worse than a female mountain lion that’s been woke up too early in the morning and is starving for a fresh kill,” he drawled. “And before you cock that fist at me I think I’d better inform you that I’m your new partner, Mrs. Daguerre.”

Danielle’s lips parted, and she took a step back, staring up at him in shock. “What? But…the contract was signed by Mr. Jack Ferguson. I don’t understand. I thought he bought…”

Sam Reese straightened up and slipped his large hand around her upper arm, gently guiding her back to the desk chair and sat her down. “I own the Sierra Corporation,” he explained, resting his bulk on the edge of the desk, watching her closely.

Touching her brow in confusion, she gave him a guarded look of distrust. The man sitting before her was both powerful and rich to own a corporation the size of Sierra. Even though the selling price on half interest of the stable had been more than fair, she found that most of the money would immediately be sent to bill collectors on past due notices. That was another item that Jean had forgotten to mention: He hadn’t handled the finances very well, and she found out by accident that the magnitude of the mismanagement totaled near a hundred thousand dollars. It had been the last factor to split their foundering marriage. And it meant selling the controlling interest of her dream: Richland Stables. Something she had slaved and toiled for all her twenty-nine years of life. Richland sat nestled between the rolling, gentle hills of Virginia, two hundred acres of luxurious slopes that were ideal for training young jumpers. Sighing, Danielle forced her thoughts back to the present and to this man who seemed to shadow her like a hound straight from hell.

She buried her face in her hands for a moment, trying to collect her broken, fragmented thoughts. He must have taken her gesture as one of utter defeat.

“Look,” he murmured. “I apologize for dropping it on you like this. I can see you’re tired and you’ve had quite a rough month. My half brother Jack Ferguson signed the sales agreement on your stable. He sent photos of your facility to my ranch out in California six months ago because he knew I was looking for a base of operation back East for Altair. I bought it sight unseen.”

She felt the sting of tears prickling at the back of her eyes, and she shut them tightly, fighting back the deluge of emotion that threatened to engulf her. Why couldn’t he be flip or arrogant like Jean? That always brought out her anger, and she was able to withstand any barrage. But this man—he was throwing her completely off base. His work-roughened fingers slipped around her wrist, pulling her hand gently away from her face.

“Here,” he growled, “you might need this,” and placed a white handkerchief in her palm.

A new, more disturbing sensation coursed electrically through her. Danielle looked up, her lashes thickly matted with tears. His face seemed open and undisguised of intrigue or game playing. He was so diametrically opposite of Jean that it was crumbling her defenses more quickly than she could replace them. This perfect stranger was leaning across the desk, his features sympathetic, offering her solace. She blinked twice and then murmured, “Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes, clenching the linen cloth tightly within her long, artistic fingers.

“Look, Danielle—may I call you that? Westerners hate formality.” He gave her a frank smile. “We’re mostly homesteader folk and would rather sit down over a whiskey and discuss our troubles. I’ll take you to lunch, and we can discuss this problem over some good food. Besides, you look a little shook up.”

She shivered inwardly as he spoke her name. It rolled off his tongue like a soft growl of that mountain lion he had mentioned. Her heart was aching, and at the moment, she was aware of only pain and loss.

“Come on,” he urged, pulling her to her feet. “You’re getting paler by the second. Don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right.”

* * *

Danielle sat quietly in the darkened restaurant, a glass of wine in front of her. She stared down at the salad, her appetite nonexistent.

“You know, if you don’t eat, you aren’t going to be any good for me,” Sam murmured, setting the fork down and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin.

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I have a proposal for you,” he began. “And one that I think might do you a lot of good.” He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Fly back to my ranch that sits above Placerville and work Altair for me throughout the late spring. Then, if he comes along under your hand, I’ll put him on any show circuit you want. I can even have you both flown back East here for the Devon show. What do you say?”

She took a drink of the wine, trying to shore up her broken defenses. “Your ranch?” she echoed.

Sam sipped the whiskey, the shadows playing across his face reminding her of a medieval knight who had just stepped out of the past into the present and into her life.

“The Cross Bar-U sits in the High Sierra mountains eight thousand feet above Placerville and close to the Truckee River. It’s God’s unaltered handiwork up there. The Truckee is one of the most violent rivers in the West, and the mountains are some of the finest in the world. I have thousands of acres of rich grassland, steep hills and rolling meadows perfect for training Altair. It’s a vast, virgin country, Danielle. Far different than your tame hills here in Virginia.” He allowed himself a small smile, his voice vibrating with a low-key excitement. “You would have a suite of rooms at the main house.”

She found herself being pulled along by the fervor in his voice. She colored as he picked up one of her hands, pressing it between his own.

“Danielle, you’re one of the best trainers in the U.S. when it comes to polishing off an event horse.”

Her pulse accelerated unevenly, and she was acutely aware of the strong, callused fingers capturing her hand. His voice was a husky balm to her shredded heart, and his touch soothed her frantic, worried mind. Hesitantly, she withdrew her hand, tucking it in her lap, unable to meet his warm, inviting eyes that seemed to be dappled with silver flecks of excitement.

“My ex-husband was the rider, Mr.—”

“Call me Sam. And frankly, Danielle, I’ve had a thorough check made into both your backgrounds. Your ex-husband took chances with the horses under his tutelage. The sprained ligaments, the bowed tendons…no, you were the one who brought those animals along and gave them their distance to go that extra mile when it was asked of them. Look, I wouldn’t trust anyone else with Altair. He’s an athletic, daring stallion who can go all the way. But he’s a sensitively calibrated instrument also. He needs your touch. He can’t be mishandled at this stage by a whip or a club in some man’s hands. You’re the only one who can do it.”