she said, her eyes narrowing before she slowly crossed her arms. “The evil racehorse owner in the flesh.”
He smiled, well aware of her derision but completely unfazed. He knew that she and her fellow members of CEASE—Concerned Equestrians Aiding in Saving Equines—hated him. Okay, not really hated, more like...wanted to put him out of a job. They couldn’t stand people who raced horses, because they all thought it was cruel. It still struck him as a small miracle that Zach had somehow managed to charm the founder of the group, Mariah Stewart, into marrying him.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Dr. Dolittle in the flesh.”
Zach had taken to calling her that. When Wes had first heard about the woman who claimed to have a special touch with horses, he’d pretended to believe it was possible. He didn’t, of course. In his line of work as an equine-farm manager he’d heard it all. The miracle worker who could pop a horse’s bones into place and make them instantly sound. The massage therapist for sore equines. The herbal concoction that would give a horse extra zip. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe some of that stuff might help—he just wasn’t sold they were the miracles some people purported them to be.
“What are you doing here?” She lifted a brow. “Slumming it?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
He’d only ever seen her from a distance, usually as he was driving through the entrance of Golden Downs racetrack, and she was holding a protest sign. Cute, he admitted, even if she was bat-shit crazy.
“I’m here with a client. She had me look at that one yesterday.”
They both turned to stare at the horse in question. “Given your low opinion of me, I’m surprised you didn’t encourage me to buy him.”
She released a huff of agreement. “Even if I had recognized you, and I might not like what you do for a living, that doesn’t mean I want to see you get killed, either.”
“Ah, but see, I don’t make my living racing horses.”
“Yeah, right. I’ve seen you at Golden Downs. You’re the owner of Landon Farms.”
He took pleasure in contradicting her. “My mom owns Landon Farms. I just manage her operation, so technically, my mom’s the enemy.” He gave her a teasing smile. “So if you like, I can give you her cell phone number so you can call her and tell her how much you despise what she does for a living.”
She appeared genuinely perplexed. He wasn’t surprised. It was a common misconception that he was part owner. “But you’re always at the track.”
“Not always.” He met the gaze of the cowboy riding the gelding and signaled him to stop. “I drop horses off and sometimes pop in to see my mom, but that’s about it. Racing is my mom’s thing.”
“But...Mariah told me you’re on the board of directors at Golden Downs.”
“Because of my mom.” The seat had actually been foisted on him by both his mom and his fellow board members, sort of a consolation prize back when his dad had died. As if a board seat could make up for his loss. “She insists I keep my finger on the pulse of the industry, for her sake.”
A look of curiosity had taken the place of her frown. She glanced at the horse in the arena, then back at him. “So what are you doing here, Mr. Farm Manager?”
“Looking for my next cutting horse.” But as he thought about the reason he was looking, his stomach soured.
Ah, ah, ah. Don’t go there.
“I ride and train cutting horses out of my mom’s farm.”
He waited for yet another look of derision, but she apparently didn’t mind that type of horse competition, because she nodded.
“We’re looking for a reining prospect. My friend Natalie decided she’d like to give it a try—goodness knows why. As if jumping horses doesn’t keep her busy enough.”
Natalie Goodman—he’d heard of her thanks to Mariah. It seemed as though everyone knew everybody in the small town of Via Del Caballo, especially if you were into horses.
“So what makes you think there’s something wrong with this horse?” He might not believe in her “special touch,” but he was curious.
“I can just tell by looking at him.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clearly she’d picked up on his skepticism. “If you look closely enough, you can see it in his eyes.”
They both eyed the horse. “All I see is an animal doing its job.”
“Right now, yes, but look at the way its tail is twitching, a sure sign it’s bothered by something.” She pointed, her expression one of complete conviction. “Every time that cowboy asks him to do something, he twitches. He doesn’t do anything about it now, because he’s too tired, but I can tell that horse would ordinarily blow, its rider tossed to the ground in the process.”
He scratched his chin absently, although maybe not so absently, because he noticed he needed to shave. “Let me get this straight. You think because that horse’s tail is twitching that it wants to buck that cowboy off?”
“Yup. And look at its ears. And the way its nose is wrinkled. Classic signs of a horse that’s not happy doing its job.”
He had to admit, she had a point. “And so based on that you think he’s a nut.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s just what tipped me off he might be a nut. I spotted him yesterday, thought he looked nice, so I peeked in on him last night, and he damn near took my head off the moment I opened his stall door. I actually heard his teeth clack together when he tried to bite me.” She shivered. “Scary.”
He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he should make a pithy comment of his own or if he should pretend as if he believed her.
“I slammed the door just in time. He kicked it just in case I didn’t get the message. Bam!” She reenacted the moment by pretending to jump, her bob swinging. “Scared me half to death.”
He glanced back at the horse, although he did so to get control of his facial expressions. Was she trying to sour him on a sale? She didn’t look like the deceptive type. The docile-looking gelding didn’t look like a nut, either. It walked with its head down, ears pricked forward now, eyes bright—completely contradicting her claims.
“Bring him outside, if you don’t mind,” he called to the man riding him, though why he did so he had no idea.
The horse obeyed the rider instantly. Wes shot Jillian an expression of doubt. As good-looking horses went, the gelding took the cake. A little taller than he would like for a potential cutting horse, perhaps, but he’d seen some bigger geldings get down in the dirt. He’d watched a video of him working cows yesterday and been impressed. If he’d owned the horse, he wouldn’t have offered him for sale for any amount of money.
He eyed the man on horseback, a younger cowboy with scruffy blond hair who hadn’t outgrown acne just yet. “You the owner?”
The
