rel="nofollow" href="#u7717d188-8e45-5307-8b9e-a8d75b3863b2">Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
“So you’re just going to kill the horse?”
Zach Johnson groaned.
“Couldn’t you at least try to rehab him or something?”
Could this day get any worse?
He glanced at Doc Miller and his groom, Pat, their own faces frozen in what could only be called consternation. Nearby, horses stabled along the backstretch of Golden Downs raceway watched, too, with ears pricked forward as if curious what he would do.
Go ahead. Turn around, they seemed to say.
He didn’t want to. He really didn’t, but he knew if he ignored Mariah Stewart, she’d just come right around the front of him and start yammering in his face.
He slowly turned. “What makes you think I’m going to put him down?” he asked, wishing for the umpteenth time that she weren’t so damn pretty. It irritated the hell out of him that someone so insufferable could be so attractive. Today her red hair glittered as brightly as her eyes beneath the blazing-hot Southern California sun. He found himself wondering where she’d gotten that cute little snub nose and tiny chin of hers...and the freckles. He’d always been a sucker for freckles.
“Don’t you always?” She lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Your type likes to toss away anything that doesn’t make you money.”
He resisted the urge to raise his eyes toward the clear blue sky. God wasn’t going to help him on this one; he had better things to do.
“We’ve been over this before.” He glanced at his vet, knowing the man had as little patience for the woman in jeans and her CEASE—Concerned Equestriennes Aiding in Saving Equines—T-shirt as Zach did himself. “I don’t put my horses down.”
She snorted.
“I send them to auction.”
She uncrossed her arms. “Same thing.”
Next to them, Black in a Dash, the pride of Triple J Quarter Horse Stables, groaned. They’d tranquilized him pretty good, the horse hanging his head, injured back leg just barely touching the ground. Torn suspensory. That was what Doc Miller had just diagnosed. An ultrasound had confirmed Zach’s worst fears, yet even with the injury, Dasher would always have a home with him—not that she’d believe him if he told her that. Dasher was special. The last foal his dad had bred before his death. He wasn’t sure how he’d afford feeding him if he wasn’t out winning races, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
“Please,” he said to Mariah. “Can you leave us alone right now?” He glanced imploringly at Doc Miller.
The man seemed to take the hint. “As I was saying, euthanasia is one option.” Doc Miller clearly directed his words toward Mariah and sounded as frustrated as Zach felt. “But since he’s a well-bred stallion, you might want to keep him around.”
He thought he heard Mariah snort again.
“Then again, with an injury like this he could make a comeback in a year or two. I know you were hoping to race him in the Million Dollar Futurity this fall, but I think that’s out of the question, Zach. There’s other races coming up, though. Heck, some are even for aged stallions, so it might not be a complete loss if he does make it back in a year or two. We could try some stem-cell therapy and shockwave treatments and see what happens, but it’s a long shot, Zach—I’m not going to sugarcoat it. And it’ll cost some money along the way.”
Money he didn’t have, Zach thought. He was land rich and cash poor.
For a moment he considered calling Terrence Whitmore and telling him he could have it all. The farm, his parent’s home up on the hill, even all the broodmares—everything—just so he could be done.
“I want to buy him.”
He just about groaned again. Zach almost, almost, turned and gave her a piece of his mind, but his mama’s Southern upbringing stopped him cold—God rest her soul.
“He’s not for sale.”
“So what are you going to do? Use him to make more babies that will probably never be fast enough to race and that you’ll send to some horrible auction where, as you say, someone will buy them, all the while knowing deep inside that the someone in question is really a representative of a foreign meat company that only wants your horse so he can serve it up on a dish in France.”
Honestly, he was getting kind of tired of her spiel, but he held his tongue. She came around the front of him, blocking his view of Pat, who still held the lead line of his horse. “And if the horse isn’t fast enough, you’ll run it, likely ruining another good horse and tossing that one away, too.” She flicked her hands at him in disgust. “It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Ma’am, like I said earlier, I’m not like that. Not at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick horse to tend to.”
He touched his horse’s black coat, stroking his smooth neck, admiring the way it glowed and then straightening a piece of black mane. For a stallion, Dasher was as well behaved as they came. He’d been looking forward to breeding him and passing along some of his easygoing personality, but if Dasher never had the opportunity to make a name for himself, nobody would care how good the stallion looked or how well he behaved. Without a winning pedigree, nobody would want to breed to him. Ever.
Damn it.
He fought against nausea and anxiety and an overwhelming sense of failure. Ever since his dad had died and he’d taken over the ranch, things had gone downhill.
“We’ll get you healed up,” he told the horse softly, but he didn’t know if he was speaking to Dasher or reassuring himself. Hell, he might have even been telling that red-haired harridan. “Don’t know if you’ll ever race again, but Dad would roll over in his grave if I didn’t at least give it a try.”
“Glad to hear you say that.” Doc Miller patted the horse’s neck, too. “He’s a good-looking stallion,
