A Cowboy's Angel. Pamela Britton

don’t have to work him. Just walk him around. He’ll be fine.”

      He was challenging her—she could see it in his eyes. Maybe all her talk of being wary adversaries had gotten under his skin. Or maybe he just wanted to see what she was capable of and what he was getting into, not that she blamed him.

      “What if he gets away from me in his excitement at being ridden again?” She shook her head. “I’d rather come back tomorrow.”

      Regroup. Get her head screwed on straight, because right now she had a hard time remembering what he did for a living and that as much as she’d like to succumb to his friendly blue eyes, he could never be her friend.

      “Okay, tomorrow it is, but did you want to see the last horse with an injury? It’s a filly. No one can figure out what’s wrong with her.”

      “Why don’t you get her chart, too?” Because she really just wanted to escape.

      He rocked back on his heels, examined her, a hand lifting toward his chin and stroking the razor stubble. “Okay, but she’s right over there.”

      He wasn’t going to stop, and it did seem silly to not at least have a look, especially since that was the whole point of her visit this morning. She followed his gaze, spotting a bay filly out in the pasture, an animal as beautiful as Dasher and Dandy.

      “What seems to be the problem?”

      “Intermittent lameness,” he said as they walked to the wooden gate. The thing opened with barely a sound, at least not to her ears, but the filly heard them. She lifted her head.

      “I thought at first it was a growth issue, but her joints all look fine. Had her scanned up one side and down the other. A shame, too, because she showed real promise.”

      Promise as a racehorse. And what better a reminder than the young horse they approached. Beautiful. Sleek. A racehorse. One potentially ruined by him.

      “And if I can make her sound again? What then?”

      Clearly, he knew the direction of her thoughts. Just as clearly, he didn’t want to answer her. “She’ll return to work.”

      “As a racehorse?”

      He shrugged.

      Well, of course. What did she expect? That he would have a sudden change of heart where racing horses was concerned? Hardly.

      The filly turned toward them, nostrils flaring as they approached. Something about their scent must have titillated her senses, because her tail suddenly lifted. Her neck arched. She bolted toward them. If Mariah hadn’t known better, the filly would have looked sound, but years of training had taught her to spot the telltale signs of lameness, and she saw it in the horse’s gait, especially when she broke into a trot, the filly coming to a halt a few feet away, ears pricked forward, eyes bright.

      “Hey there, pretty girl,” she heard Zach croon. “How you feelin’ today?”

      Voice so soft, eyes so kind, hand outstretched as he sought to soothe the fractious filly.

      The evil racehorse owner. The horrible horseman. The man responsible for so many lost lives—equine lives, but just as important to her as human lives.

      He cared.

      The man took a step closer, whispered soothing words, placed a palm against the horse’s neck.

      “It’s the right front,” he said softly.

      “I saw that.” She approached cautiously. “Has she gotten any better since you put her out to pasture?”

      He shook his head as he stroked the animal’s mane. “It comes and goes. Sometimes she seems almost sound. Other days—”

      Bad. Like today. “And they found nothing on X-rays or scans.” Not a question, more of a statement.

      “Nothing.”

      His disappointment had nothing to do with the loss of a valuable racehorse and everything to do with the health of his animal. She knew that, though how she knew it, she couldn’t say.

      “I’ll need to see her chart, too.”

      He nodded, still petting the horse.

      “And perform my own diagnostics.”

      He faced her again. “Anything you want.”

      Dear Lord, she didn’t want to like the man, but it was hard not to when he stared at her so hopefully.

      “I’ll do what I can.”

      “I would appreciate that.”

      She found herself backing away before she could stop herself, as if he were a dangerous tiger about ready to pounce.

      “Call me if you can’t get those records. Some clinics can be weird about releasing information.”

      “I’ll let you know.”

      He moved away from the horse, falling into step next to her as she hurried toward the exit. The horse followed along, Mariah glancing back in time to spy the limp. Poor thing.

      “Thanks for coming out today.”

      She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t forget the way he’d studied the filly like a man worried about his best friend. It disturbed her, though not in a bad way.

      “Can I take you to lunch? As a way of thanking you?”

      “No, no. I, ah, I have another appointment to go to after this.”

      He didn’t say anything, not for the longest time. She saw him scan her face, spotted the way his gaze lingered on her lips, and then his eyes sprouted the faintest hint of a challenge. “Yeah?”

      “Yes,” she lied.

      He knew she didn’t have anything more important to do than watch YouTube videos for the rest of the afternoon. Just as he knew she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary, and not because of what he did for a living. Oh, no. She didn’t want to spend more time with him, because despite what she told herself, she really did like him.

      Fool.

      There was no denying that she was.

      Chapter Five

      She hated horse racing.

      Zach reminded himself the next morning, and it was all the reason in the world to give Mariah a wide berth. Yet oddly, he kept glancing at his cell phone’s clock as he oversaw his morning workouts and then later, on the way back to his ranch.

      That cell phone chimed as he turned off the main road. A quick glance revealed what he suspected: email alert. Doc Miller’s office. They’d pdf’d the information Mariah needed. When he arrived at his ranch, he headed toward the barn and figured Mariah must already be there, judging by the car parked out front. She had to be in the stall with Dandy because he didn’t see her when he glanced down the barn aisle as he headed toward his office. It took him just a moment to print out a black-and-white copy of Dandy’s radiographs and the accompanying chart.

      Mariah the vet, he thought as he did so. Mariah the champion equestrienne. Mariah the enigma.

      She was right where he’d figured she’d be, inside the stall with Dandy tied to an iron bar, an English saddle on his back. She glanced up at him, but it was a quick look, as if she didn’t trust herself to make eye contact.

      “Hey,” he said.

      “Hey,” she echoed.

      He tried to come up with something to say, but all he could think about was how strange it was to have her in his barn. After months of being adversaries it was still hard to wrap his head around Mariah being a friend, not a foe.

      “I see you brought your saddle.”

      She nodded.

      “English,