A Cowboy's Angel. Pamela Britton

went back to cooking and it smelled divine, especially when he grabbed some spices from a rack above the stove. The scent of whatever he sprinkled caused her to close her eyes and inhale.

      “So what do you suggest we do for Dasher?”

      She had to force herself to open her eyes, because it was far easier to concentrate when she wasn’t looking at him. “Minimal stall rest, enough time to let the injury heal, then right back to work. Not,” she quickly interjected, “regular work, but therapeutic activity, the same type of therapy your own doctor might prescribe. Stretches, leg lifts, weights, followed by massages and hot-and-cold therapy.”

      “You going to put Dasher on a treadmill, too?”

      “I just might.”

      Once again he turned around and she couldn’t mistake the laughter in his eyes, or the curiosity. He might be somewhat distracted cooking his scrumptious-smelling fajitas, but not so much that he hadn’t heard what she had to say. What felt like butterfly wings brushed against her stomach. She had to look away, for fear he’d see the pleasure in her eyes.

      He’s the enemy. Best to remember that.

      “My research shows it’s important to keep a horse moving.”

      Too bad her professors had dismissed her findings. As if torn suspensories grew on trees. It would take years to compile enough data to appease them. Meanwhile, horses would continue to languish.

      She shook her head. “Just like for a human, a lack of movement can cause the supporting tendons and muscles to atrophy. Standing still is the last thing you want them to do.”

      He went to the refrigerator and pulled out tortillas, then went back to stirring the pan.

      “So what you’re saying is you’d like me to do the exact opposite of what Doc Miller says.” He picked up the pan and flipped all the ingredients like a master chef, and Mariah tried hard not to seem impressed when he glanced back at her afterward. “I’m supposed to just trust you.”

      Well, when he put it that way...

      “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I also know I’m right.”

      With a quick flick of his wrist, he turned off the stove, pulled out a pot holder from a drawer, tossed it on the counter, then set the steaming pan down on top of it.

      “That smells so good,” she said.

      “Help yourself.” He motioned toward the tortillas.

      “No, no. You go first.”

      “Absolutely not. Ladies first.”

      A gentleman. Figured he’d be the exact opposite of what she’d expected.

      “There’s cilantro in the bag there if you want some.” He pointed. “Oh, and I have salsa, too.” He moved to the fridge and pulled a jar off a shelf. “Here.”

      She piled some meat and veggies onto a tortilla, hardly paying attention to what she grabbed because he was right next to her again and she’d begun to realize that being close to him was dangerous to her peace of mind.

      “Thanks,” she said.

      Why did he have to be a racehorse owner? Why couldn’t he have been a regular horse trainer? The kind that showed animals. One of the good ones, because even show-horse trainers could be bad. He wasn’t. He was a racehorse trainer and owner. So she found herself ducking her head and trying like the devil not to notice how gorgeous his eyes were and how his smile came with dimples.

      She couldn’t retreat to the far end of the island fast enough. She nearly lost her appetite when he took a seat next to her.

      “Do you like it?”

      Had she taken a bite? Goodness, she hadn’t even noticed. “Yes. It’s great.”

      And it was. Great cook. Good man. Gorgeous dimples. Crap.

      She’d finished half her plate before she said another word, and then only to say, “Thanks for cooking.”

      “My pleasure.”

      Was there any way she could get up and move without seeming rude? Probably not. So she forced herself to stop eating and say, “I really think with a few months of therapy, Dasher could be sound enough to ride. Not to race, of course, but good enough to go on to a career as a show horse or something. I’d want to see the ultrasounds Dr. Miller took today, of course, just to make sure, but I don’t anticipate I’ll change my mind. A torn suspensory is a torn suspensory.”

      “I’ll have them for you first thing in the morning.”

      “It’s okay. Take your time. He’s going to need at least a month off. Then we’ll get to work.”

      “You’re going to help me rehab him?”

      “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

      She couldn’t take it anymore. She hopped up, scooping her plate up with her. “I’ll do your dishes for you.”

      “Hell, no, you won’t.” He jumped up, too, grabbing her arm and turning her around midstep. “Let me take that.”

      Instinctively, she pulled her arm back. He closed the distance and reached for her plate. Their midsections brushed. Her cheeks heated like a nuclear reactor. She tried to step away, but the counter kept her from moving.

      “Thanks,” he said softly, taking the plate from her and setting it on the counter behind her.

      Should she dart past him? Push him out of the way? What?

      The man clearly read the dilemma in her eyes.

      “Now what are you going to do?” he teased softly.

      Chapter Four

      If she’d still been holding the plate, she would have smashed it over his head, Zach thought, trying not to laugh.

      “Let me go.”

      Her whole body had tensed. Her eyes briefly darted to his lips. She couldn’t look at them for long.

      Maybe it was all the times she’d caused him grief at the track. Maybe it was because she tried so hard to pretend there was nothing between them when it was clear as day that there was. Whatever the reason, he liked messing with her. Something about her gorgeous red hair and flashing brown eyes. Something that challenged him. No. Something that defied him. Her eyes seemed to silently accuse him of pushing her buttons on purpose...and he did.

      “I thought you had a proposition for me,” he whispered.

      He saw her gulp, as if she suspected he meant a different type of proposition but didn’t dare call him on it. “I do.”

      Her hands had stopped pushing. They lay flat against him in a spot somewhere between his breastbone and his abdomen, and it was all he could do not to bring their lower sections together again. Then he felt it, the gentle flexing of her fingers, the tips of them pressing against his chest, sliding downward.

      Agh.

      He let go. But when he looked in her eyes, he knew. She’d known exactly the type of proposition he’d had in mind—and it’d infuriated her.

      “My proposition was to treat all of your injured horses, not just Dasher.” She was shorter than him but somehow she managed to look down her nose. “I recognize they’re under the care of Dr. Miller, but I can help them in a way he can’t, free of charge.”

      He’d gone from being amused to feeling like a putz in two seconds flat. “How do you know I have more than one injured horse?”

      “Track gossip says you have three, and that one of them is still undiagnosed despite spending a small fortune in vet fees.”

      Holy—he’d have to talk to his staff about blabbing to perfect strangers.

      “One