Walking on Air (40 page)

If anything on earth soothed Quincy, it was being in the arena-cum-stable at the break of dawn before any of his employees arrived to disturb the quiet. He loved the smells that were synonymous with horses—freshly turned straw, molasses-coated grain, hay waiting to be forked, and manure. The fabulous aroma of frying bacon from his forewoman Pauline’s upstairs viewing room apartment added to the bouquet. Though Quincy no longer ate bacon, he still appreciated the scent.

As was his habit, he made his rounds, visiting every mare and stallion to make sure all was well before ending his tour at Beethoven’s stall. The stud was Quincy’s special baby, and for reasons he’d never clearly defined, he always lingered with him the longest, finding a sense of peace that seemed to elude him everywhere else. Beethoven, a gorgeous black, nickered in greeting and stepped over for his morning ration of petting. The horse was such a love bug that Quincy often joked that Beethoven would morph into a lapdog if he could. The huge beast laid his massive head on Quincy’s shoulder, chuffing and rubbing cheeks, a show of affection that always dislodged Quincy’s black Stetson. Prepared, Quincy caught the hat before it hit the ground.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered around the logjam in his throat. “I hope your morning is off to a better start than mine.”

Beethoven grunted, a contented sound that told Quincy the horse was as happy as a mouse in a cheese factory. He smiled and scanned the stall, checking to make sure all was as it should be. His gaze slid over the far left corner and then jerked back to a lump of green that didn’t belong there. He stared for a moment at what appeared to be a woman asleep in the straw.
What the hell?
Surely it was only a trick of the light. His ranch was armed to the teeth with high-tech security, and that was especially true in the arena, with every door, window, skylight, and paddock gate wired to an alarm. If anyone entered without punching in the pass code, which was changed frequently, a siren went off loudly enough to burst eardrums. Quincy had heard nothing.

And yet—well, shit—there
was
a woman curled up in the corner. She wore a getup that reminded Quincy of something he might see at a Renaissance fair. Wrapped around her head was a thick multilayered band of antique linen that was then secured over the crown by a see-through scarf of the same color. The linen band appeared to be of high quality and looked to Quincy like the oil filter on his truck. The transparent scarf shimmered like spun gold and was somehow pleated at the crown and looped loosely beneath the woman’s chin. Her hair, a bright, fiery red, followed the slender bend of her back and was surely long enough to reach well below her knees when she was standing. Her silk gown, a deep green and floor-length, judging by the way the skirt billowed around her, sported voluminous sleeves and a plunging, square neckline, which revealed a modest white underdress laced to the waist.

As if she sensed his gaze on her, she jerked awake and, hampered by the long dress, struggled to her feet. To Quincy’s amazement, Beethoven merely whickered and circled away. Normally the stallion grew nervous when he was approached by anyone except Quincy.

“God’s teeth!” As round as dimes and as clear blue as a Caribbean lagoon on a hot summer day, her eyes flashed with irritation. “Ye scared the bee-Jesus out of me.”

Quincy recognized an Irish brogue when he heard one. His dad’s mother, Mariah Eileen O’Grady, had been born in the old country. But as Quincy recalled, she’d never said
bejesus
as two separate words or used the expression
God’s teeth
. “How did you get in here?” he demanded, doing his best not to notice those expressive eyes or the delicate perfection of her oval face. “The whole place is wired.”

Bewilderment creased her brow. She cast a wary glance around the stall. “Where might it be?”

“What?”

“The wire,” she expounded. “I see none.”

Quincy clenched his teeth. If not for the weird getup, she might have been quite a looker, with that bright red hair, her creamy skin, and those stunning blue eyes, but Quincy was in no mood to appreciate a woman’s feminine attributes. Well, scratch that. Truly beautiful women were difficult for any man to ignore, but he meant to give it his best shot.