Man of Her Dreams (14 page)

Hugging herself, she walked down the wide aisle, smiling as the horses greeted her with hungry nickers. She stopped at the stall of the orphaned foal and slid the door back. The baby hopped up on his stiltlike legs and pranced toward her, his velvety muzzle reaching out, worried brown eyes alight with curiosity. Maggie smiled. His larger relatives might make her want to turn tail and run, but she couldn't muster even a tiny sliver of fear faced with this little guy.

“Hi, sweetie,” she cooed, reaching out to let him sniff at her hand. “You little darlin'. You and I are going to be good friends.”

The colt stepped closer, peeking out the opened door and calling for his absent mother with a shrill, frightened whinny.

“Poor baby,” Maggie said, scratching his neck. “You need love about as much as your big ornery master does, don't you?”

On her way out of the barn Maggie snuck a peek in the dispensary, chuckling to herself at the sight of a big golden retriever sprawled on a red plaid cushion with a dozen snub-nosed pups nursing at her side. The dog had been groomed and a shiny new tag hung from her collar. Maggie thought of the man who had taken the animal in, cared for her, and would be tripping over the passel of puppies that no one else had wanted.

“And he thinks he's not capable of loving.” Maggie shook her head. “Rylan Quaid, you have got another think coming.”

         

Rough Cut was a lot like his master: big, athletic, and arrogant. He was enormous, a word that translated to seventeen hands in horse jargon. Muscles rippled beneath his shining copper coat with his slightest movement. He stood, quiet but alert, gazing off into the distance as a groom efficiently braided his black mane. He looked like a handsome young prince, bored with and detached from the attentions of his personal servants.

He was unquestionably a beautiful creature, Maggie thought. She stood a safe distance outside the stall, watching the two grooms prepare him for the show ring. While one worked at the intricate task of braiding, the other began the process of tacking up, settling the pad and saddle on the big horse's back.

The barn was alive with activity, the air filled with noise and excitement. A boom box pumped out Elton John's latest hit as an announcement for the next class was called out on the PA system. Voices ranged from joking to curt to angry. They mingled with whinnies and the clomping of steel-shod hooves on the concrete as horses were led in from and out to the show grounds.

Maggie remembered many of the sights and sounds from the days when Katie had competed. Indeed, she had first spotted Ry's line of stalls by the royal blue drapes and chrome-trimmed tack trunks of Quaid Farm. As had been the case back then, everything was in its place. The floor had recently been swept. The outer wall of one stall was decorated with ribbons that had been won by Quaid Farm horses during the first two days of the show. A smile of pride touched Maggie's mouth; after all, they were going to be her horses too.

“Well, hell, Mary Margaret,” Ry said, rounding the corner of the stalls. With no more greeting than that he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stall where Rough Cut was being prepared. “Don't be shy. Come meet the meal ticket.”

She swallowed the protest in her throat. She was going to conquer her fear. She was going to show Ry she was more than willing to fit into his life. Still, she stayed a little bit behind him as they stepped into the stall and approached the horse.

“He's a gentleman, but mind where you put your fingers, cause he'll nip if he thinks he can get away with it.”

Maggie glanced at the horse's mouth, then at her fingers. They were short enough as it was. She jumped when the horse gave a sudden low nicker, and was glad Ry was too busy digging in his pocket to notice her show of nerves.

“Hey, Cutter, old pal,” Ry said, fishing out a butter mint and offering it to the horse on his open palm. “You gonna pay off the loan on that new breeding shed today?”

“Don't fill his head with business pressures, old man,” Christian said, coming out of the tack stall adjusting his necktie at the throat of his white shirt. He was already in white breeches and tall black boots, needing only his jacket and hard hat to complete his outfit. He winked at Maggie and said, “Remind him of all the lovely ladies that are going to come calling next spring.”

Marissa McLaughlin sauntered past, dressed in an outfit identical to Christian's, a sassy grin tilting her wide mouth. “Is that all you ever think about, Atherton?”

“That and winning.” Christian grinned back.

“How's the course look, Casanova?” Ry asked dryly.

“Interesting. I'd say that even a bit wet from last night's rain, it's going to cater to quickness, but there are three really big fences that are going to require some power to clear cleanly.” He ran a hand down the stallion's neck and patted the big horse's shoulder. “He can do it. After all, it would be bad form to end his career on anything less than a win.”

Bad form and bad business, Ry thought, remembering the stack of bills on his desk back home. A win today not only would pay off some debts and end Rough Cut's career on a high note, but also would leave mare owners with a positive last impression of the stallion, one that might entice them to invest in a hefty breeding fee come spring.

“Well, I think you both look too handsome to take anything less than first place,” Maggie said with that familiar flirtatious tilt to her head.

“Thank you, darling,” Christian said with a chuckle for Ry's disgruntled expression. “A woman of charm as well as looks.”

Ry grunted and backed toward the door with Maggie in tow. “See you in the winner's circle, hotshot.”

They walked out of the stables and toward the grandstand, where a good-size crowd had already gathered to watch the day's competitions. The lane was lined on both sides with food vendors and mobile tack shops. With the clean washed beauty of the fall day all around, the atmosphere was much like a country fair.

Ry glanced down at Maggie, who looked very sporty in her brown corduroy slacks and tweed jacket. He didn't want to admit how glad he'd been to see her when he came around that corner. He'd felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, almost giddy—or as close to it as he'd ever come.

“I wasn't sure you'd show up,” he said evenly, carefully watching for her response.

“Why wouldn't I have come?”

His shrug was more defensive than nonchalant as he steered her toward a food stand. “You weren't exactly pleased with me when you left this morning.” He ordered a pair of hot dogs with everything, fries, and a quart of soda, then turned to Maggie and asked if she wanted anything.

She rolled her eyes. As they walked away from the stand, Ry carrying a cardboard tray heaped with the food, she said, “I'm not angry with you, Rylan. I think you're wrong, and I mean to prove it to you, but I can hardly be angry with you. Besides, I promised the ladies I'd drive them here.”

“What do you mean ‘prove it to me'?” he asked with a suspicious look, stopping so abruptly, he nearly overturned his drink.

Walking on toward the grandstand entrance, Maggie ignored his question. She waved to Miss Emma and Mrs. Claiborne. “There they are now.”

“What the hell?” Ry muttered half under his breath, temporarily stunned into forgetting his concern over Maggie's statement.

Miss Emma was dressed in blue jeans and a leather jacket. She looked like a geriatric motorcycle mama. But it was the other Darlington sister that drew Ry's attention. A wide-brimmed red straw hat shading her delicate complexion, Mrs. Claiborne stood with Junior in her arms. The little dog was sporting a tartan collar and wore a knitted red sweater against the slight chill in the air. The ensemble matched Mrs. Claiborne's sweater and plaid skirt.

“Doesn't Junior get a matching hat?” he wondered aloud. “Ouch!”

Maggie pinched his arm. “Not one smart remark, Rylan Quaid,” she warned in a whisper as they drew within earshot of the ladies. “She loves that little dog to distraction. If she wants to spend her social security money on little outfits for him, that's her business.”

“I'll bet you hardly recognized little Junior, did you, Mr. Quaid?” Mrs. Claiborne asked, beaming a smile at Ry.

“Oh…” He choked back a chuckle. Maggie glared at him. “Not hardly.”

The ladies were invited to take seats with Maggie and Ry in the Quaid Farm box where Katie and Nick had already settled in. Nick, a gourmet chef, had packed a fabulous picnic basket. He grimaced at the tray of junk food Ry settled across his knees.

“Are you going to eat that?”

“Well, I'm not going to throw it out into the arena.”

Nick muttered a string of pious-sounding Italian words, shaking his handsome head. “I brought food, Ry. Did you think I wouldn't bring food?”

“He brought food on our honeymoon,” Katie said, giggling.

Ry watched his brother-in-law lift dish after mouth-watering dish out of the basket. “I didn't figure you'd bring the whole damn restaurant.”

“Mr. Quaid, your language,” Mrs. Claiborne admonished him as she covered Junior's ears with her hands.

“Never mind his language, sister,” Miss Emma said, her bright blue eyes glued on a handsome young man who was taking an equally handsome black horse through his paces over the attractive array of fences in the arena. “Take a gander at this hunk. I've decided horse shows are the perfect places to cruise for men. Just look at all these gorgeous young studs running around in those slinky, skintight breeches.”

Mrs. Claiborne frowned her disapproval. “Emma, honest to Pete, you're hot as a mink.”

Miss Emma laughed. “Hot as a mink in Miami!”

Nibbling on a chicken leg, Katie leaned toward Maggie with conspiracy in her gray eyes. “How goes the battle? We noticed you left the festivities early last night.”

“Well—” Maggie glanced over to make sure Ry wasn't listening. He was busy wolfing down a hot dog while he looked over the program. “There was last night….” The apples of her cheeks blushed a becoming shade of red. Then her mouth turned down in a frown. “…Then there was this morning. You wouldn't believe what he said to me.”

“Yes, I would. He may have been salutatorian of his high school class, but sometimes I'd swear he doesn't have a brain in his head.”

“He doesn't. I can vouch for the fact that his brain definitely resides elsewhere,” she said, making a pained face. She shook her head. “But I love him anyway.”

Katie's look was sympathetic. “Hang in there, friend.”

Maggie laughed wearily. “Honey, by the time I get him straightened out, I'll be too exhausted to enjoy him.”

“Mary Margaret,” Ry said, washing his lunch down with soda, “you never answered me. What did you mean you're going to prove me wrong? What kind of game are you running now?”

“No games, sugar.” She took the show program from him and began paging through it. “We agreed this morning: no more games.”

He eyed her suspiciously, looking poised to bolt away from her. No game? Maggie couldn't go ten minutes without having some kind of scam spring to life in that active little red-haired head of hers. That was one of the things he lov—found attractive about her. Now she sat there paging through the program, looking as innocent as a kitten. And as soft, and sweet, and—damn, she was wearing that perfume again!

He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, forcing his mind away from memories of the night before by analyzing the performance of the sorrel mare now in the ring. She was a nice, scopey jumper. Excellent form over her fences. She was pretty-headed, with a shiny copper-colored coat and big brown eyes. He faulted her for her short stride and for being a little too well fed, but he wouldn't have minded having her in his barn. She reminded him of Maggie. Maggie was a little too well fed, but he sure as hell didn't have any complaints about the ride she'd given him.

“Gosh almighty,” he said through his teeth, settling his cardboard lunch tray more strategically across his lap. What was the matter with him? He couldn't do something as simple as look at a horse anymore without thinking of Maggie. Brows lowered, he turned his frustration on the cause. “What the hell did you mean then, if you're not up to some kind of game?”

“Nothing. You think I can't prove you wrong without making a big production of it? You think I'm going to hire a plane and have it written in the sky that I love you and know that you can love me too?”

“Hush!” he said, glancing around to see who else had heard her statement.

“I will not hush, Rylan Quaid. I love you, and I don't care who knows it.”

“Jeepers cripes, Mary Margaret.” His gaze went heavenward, and he waited for the sound of an airplane engine. A sky writer was exactly the kind of thing he expected from this little vixen. A hundred other equally embarrassing ideas sprang from his imagination. They were all vintage McSwain. Hell, he'd had to go and fall for a woman who had a flair for the dramatic.

Fall for? He felt his cheeks pale as he turned back toward the arena. He hadn't fallen for her. He had chosen her. He had chosen her because she suited him. Visions of the previous night swam through his head. Lord have mercy, did she suit him!

“Hell and damnation.” The words were said through clenched teeth as he shifted positions and squared one leg across the other.

Maggie was oblivious to Ry's discomfort. She was busy absorbing the information in the show program, reading everything from descriptions of the various classes to advertisements for some of the participating stables. The ad for Quaid Farm showed some of the new facilities under construction. There was, of course, a photograph of Rough Cut sailing over a fence, and an invitation for horse people to attend the open house in two weeks.

Maggie had heard the event mentioned several times at the party. Now she sat back and gave it considerable thought as the grounds crew entered the ring and began tearing down jumps so the arena could be dragged and the course set up for the grand prix. The next weeks would be busy ones for Ry, but they could also provide her with the perfect opportunity to get close to him and to prove to him not only that she would fit into his life but that he would
love
having her there.