Man of Her Dreams (17 page)

Ry tried in vain to check her pupils. It simply was too dark to see the black dots encircled by the dark brown of her irises. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“Good. I'm going to move my finger from side to side. Don't move your head, just follow it with your eyes.”

After she'd done as he asked, relieving his fear that she might have suffered a concussion, Maggie lifted herself up on her elbows and gave him a rueful smile. “Guess I shouldn't have come up here by myself. I was so hurt—”

“Hush, sweetheart. Don't talk right now, just let me hold you.” His breath was still rushing in and out of his lungs and his arms were still quivering as he wrapped them around her. “Lord, Mary Margaret, I swear you scared ten years off my life.”

“I'm sorry—”

“No. I'm sorry.” His lips brushed her hair when he spoke. He breathed in the scent of shampoo and earth and dried leaves. Nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. “When I was riding up here, all I could think about was what terrible things could have happened to you and that it would have been my fault. I was sick at the thought that I might lose you when I'd finally looked past the nose on my face and seen that I was in love with you. When I saw you lying here, I thought I was gonna die.”

Maggie hugged him as hard as she could, considering she was still shaken up, both from the fall and from finally hearing him tell her that what she had dreamed of all these years had finally come true. “I'm all right, sugar. I'm fine. You don't have to worry anymore.”

He drew back and gave her a hard look. “Are you sure? No broken bones or anything?”

“I don't think so,” she said shaking her head. A mischievous smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. She tilted her head and said, “I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have you check me over for broken bones. You know, run those big strong hands of yours all over me. Just in case.”

It was amazing how something as subtle as the tone of her voice could make his blood turn thick in his veins. When the words spilled off her lips as smooth and sweet as warm clover honey, everything male in him snapped to attention. He smiled down at her. She looked like some kind of woodland nymph with leaves clinging to her sweater, and her hair a wild cloud around her head.

“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?”

She merely continued staring up at him with wide, dark eyes.

He stared back, the sudden sexual intensity sobering his expression. “It's getting cold.”

“Then you'll have to warm us up.” She reached out and ran her fingertips inside the waistband of his jeans, gently pulling him closer. “Won't you, sugar?”

His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “We're in the middle of the woods.”

“And you've just told me something I've been waiting my whole life to hear.” All teasing was gone from her expression now. She spoke what was in her heart. “I love you, Ry. You've just told me you love me. Please let's celebrate that.”

Their lips met, softly, sweetly, as Ry's fingers caught the edge of Maggie's sweater. She took his tongue into her mouth, sucking gently, inviting him to explore and to claim while her fingers dealt with the snaps on his denim shirt.

The chill of a fall night settled in around them, but they were encased in a heat that was of their own making. Naked, they stretched out together with Ry's shirt as a blanket over the bed of soft, crunching leaves.

She lay on her back, open to him, inviting him. He stayed on his knees a moment longer, looking down at her. She was so lovely, so womanly, and she was his. They had miraculously arrived at the same plane of awareness. At least for this moment their lives were entwined heart and soul. That was indeed something worth celebrating. It was something he had never known before, something he had never expected to know, something he knew would never happen again. What a precious gift it was to have this time with Maggie.

Slowly he bent and kissed each dusky, pebble-hard nipple. He kissed the pulse point in the base of her throat before moving back to her lips. His body stretched out alongside hers, the heat of his arousal branding her hip as he pressed against her. His hand stroked down through the tangle of fiery curls that hid her femininity, big rough fingers gently parting the soft petals that sheltered her sweetest secrets.

“Ah, Maggie,” he whispered.

She lifted her hips in the rhythm his hand set, moaning as he brought her to the edge of ecstasy but refused to take her over. She whispered his name, the sound rich with a complex mix of emotions—love, need, desire, devotion. They were emotions that tightened together, concentrating in one vulnerable, highly sensitive spot his fingertips touched each time he reached deep inside her.

His lips nuzzled through her hair to the shell of her ear. “Sweet Maggie. You're so hot, so wet. I want you so badly, sometimes I think I'll go crazy from it.”

“I want you, Ry,” she murmured, trying to pull his body across hers. “Please.”

“I…love…you,” he said, the words sounding rusty from lack of use. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I love you, Maggie.”

Tears of joy glistened in her eyes. This time when she reached for him he went to her. He mounted her in one smooth swift move, filling her heat with his hardness. Her sweet, sharp cry soared through the gathering night, mingling with the other calls of nature, of life.

They moved together, straining toward the same goal—the perfect physical expression of what was in their hearts. And when the moment came, it was golden.

         

They rode back to the farm together on Ry's horse. Sitting sidesaddle across the pommel wasn't the most comfortable position Maggie had ever been in, but she uttered not one complaint. Ry was giving full rein to his protective instincts. He didn't want her more than an arm's length away from him. In fact, he seemed to want her plastered to his side like a Siamese twin. There was no way on earth he was going to let her ride her own horse back.

That was okay by her. Snuggling into Ry's solid warmth was much more appealing than perching herself on top of that four-legged ballet star. All the little aches her fall had won her throbbed a bit harder at the thought of riding again.

“You're staying in the arena after this, unless I'm with you,” Ry dictated. “And you're buying a hard hat tomorrow.”

“And a suit of armor,” she joked.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say maybe she wasn't cut out to be an equestrian, that maybe she should quit while she was behind. But she didn't say it, and she banished the idea from her mind. She didn't want Ry to think she was a quitter. She wanted to please him, to make him proud of her. When they got back to the stables she was going to find Christian and set up another lesson. Then she was going to go to the house and soak in a hot bath for the next three days.

Ry hugged her closer, resisting the urge to forbid her to ride again. He wanted her safe. He reminded himself she was safe, and that the best way to keep her safe, if she was going to live on a horse farm, was to educate her. He couldn't keep her wrapped in cotton for all of their married lives.

Married life. He smiled and pressed a kiss into her hair. There was nothing to keep them from getting married now. The future was nothing but blue skies. He had Maggie, safe and warm in his arms. The thought of being in love with her still frightened him a little, but he tried to ignore the feeling. Why should it frighten him when he was assured of having her with him? In another week the syndication of Rough Cut would be complete, the money would officially change hands, and he would be able to give Maggie the kind of lifestyle financial security allowed, the lifestyle an admiral's daughter expected.

They rode down out of the woods at a leisurely pace, enjoying the moon-silvered scenery and each other. All too soon, the white buildings of the farm came into view, their windows all glowing with amber light. They were fifty yards away from the main barn when Marlin, the young groom, came tearing out to meet them, his face grim.

“Mr. Quaid, come quick! It's Rough Cut!”

NINE

“W
HAT'S HAPPENED?”
R
Y
asked anxiously as he handed Maggie down. He dismounted and handed the reins of both his horse and Killer to the nervous groom.

“He's sick, sir, real sick. Mr. Atherton already called Dr. Maclay.”

Ry's strides lengthened as he headed for the stable, concern plain on his face. Maggie jogged to keep up with him.

“What can I do to help?”

“Run down to the dispensary, get that big leather doctor's bag that sits on the counter, and meet me at Cutter's stall.”

She did as she was told, as quickly as possible, running down the aisle of the barn, dodging stray dogs and biting her lip against the pain pounding in her temples from her fall. In the dispensary she pulled the black bag off the counter and was certain she had separated her shoulder when the thing nearly pulled her to the floor. Struggling, she heaved it up into both arms and charged out of the room, nearly tripping over a coonhound as she ran toward Rough Cut's stall.

What did they do with sick horses? she wondered. Would he be taken to an animal hospital? The only thing she could think of was that they shot horses with broken legs. Cutter wasn't injured, he was sick. Surely there was something a vet could do to save him. There had to be; this horse was Ry's pride and his livelihood. Maggie offered up a hasty, breathless prayer for the big stallion.

When she rounded the corner she was met with an unusually serious look from Christian Atherton. The stall door was rolled back and Ry and two grooms were in with Rough Cut, trying to assess the situation. The horse was in obvious pain. Sweat darkened his copper coat; he pawed the floor of his stall, then groaned and kicked at his belly with a hind leg. A groom stood on either side of his head, each with one hand firmly holding his halter and one stroking his neck. Ry spoke in a low, soothing tone of voice as he ran a hand over the stallion's side. Apparently angry with his condition, the horse pinned his ears and kicked back savagely. The sound of a steel-shod hoof connecting with the wood lining of the stall rang out like a gunshot.

“What's wrong with him?” Maggie asked, eyes round with fear at the stallion's behavior. She practically flung the medical bag in to Rylan.

“Not sure yet,” he murmured as he opened the bag.

Ry shut everything else out of his mind—the syndication, Maggie—and concentrated on examining the horse. One by one, he filed the symptoms into his mind to be evaluated. Pulse: fifty-one beats per minute. Fast and thready with irregular peaks. Rough Cut's normal resting rate was about thirty-eight strong, steady beats per minute. With a stethoscope he listened to the stallion's stomach, checking for normal digestive track sounds, finding instead much louder noises.

“Looks like colic, but there's something here that doesn't fit,” Ry commented, shaking down a thermometer.

He tried to ignore his feeling of foreboding and wished he hadn't voiced his uncertainty. Colic was a common enough affliction, one that was relatively easy to deal with. It probably was what they were looking at. Why borrow trouble thinking they were faced with a more formidable problem?

Maybe because way in the back of his mind he had been waiting for the other shoe to fall. Things had been going his way. He was on the verge of having everything he wanted. Maybe it was just too good to be true.

And maybe he was being paranoid in the extreme, he thought, cursing his suddenly superstitious nature.

“What's colic?” Maggie asked Christian. “Is it fatal?”

“It's the equine equivalent of a bellyache, only more serious.” He glanced from the horse to Maggie and back. “Yes, it can be fatal if it's not treated properly.”

Maggie frowned. “What do we do?”

A violent curse erupted from Ry, drawing everyone's immediate attention. “He's got a temperature of a hundred and five. Hasn't anyone been taking care of this animal? His temperature couldn't jump six points overnight.”

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “I been looking after him.” The groom paused and swallowed hard. “He's been a little off his feed, but no more than he usually is when y'all bring him home from a show. He always goes off a bit for a day or two. He hasn't seemed sick.”

“Well, he's sure as hell sick now, and I don't like the look of it at all.” He pulled a fresh hypodermic needle from his bag and inserted it into a bottle of clear fluid.

“What are you giving him?” Maggie bit her lip. Damnation, the sight of needles made her queasy. She braced a hand against the door frame of the stall and swallowed hard.

“Something to ease the pain. It'll also fight the fever. And we'll give him a mild tranquilizer to try to relax him so he's not as aware of his misery, the poor fella.”

She wondered if they could get Ry to take a little bit of that tranquilizer. He winced every time Rough Cut groaned. The lines of sudden strain that creased across his forehead and around his mouth made him look ten years older. Maggie wanted to go to him and put her arms around him, to say something reassuring, but she knew he had work to do. He would feel better doing his best to make Rough Cut comfortable until the vet arrived.

The shot given, Ry turned back toward his medical bag. “Let's get him out of the stall and walk him a bit—”

“Rylan, look out!” Maggie shouted. She grabbed his arm and yanked, pulling him off balance and out of the way just as Rough Cut went down like a ton of bricks. The horse's legs thrashed. He stretched his neck out and bared his teeth as air hissed in and out of his flared nostrils.

Heart pounding, Maggie hugged Ry close, knowing the same kind of knee-weakening relief he had felt when he'd learned she hadn't been seriously injured in her fall from Killer. Ry gave her a quick, hard squeeze, then turned back to the horse. Quickly he checked the animal's vital signs again, his own heart pounding in his chest.

Where was the damn vet? he wondered. Why did this kind of thing invariably happen to the best horse in the barn? Why did it have to happen at all? He had wanted to spend the evening with Maggie, snuggling together on the couch, planning their wedding. With Rough Cut so desperately ill, that idea was going to have to be put on hold indefinitely.

When he left the stall he went to Maggie with a look of apology and regret. With his hands cupping her shoulders, he sighed heavily. “Go on up to the house, honey. We're in for a long night out here.”

Maggie's reaction to that was immediate and genuine. “No! I will not go sit in the house like some useless lump. I'm going to be a part of this farm too, Rylan Quaid. Don't you dare try to shut me out of this. That horse is my meal ticket too, you know. I'll darn well help when he's sick.”

“All right, all right.” He held a hand up to cut her off. There was no time for argument now. “You and Christian run to the tack room. Bring back leg wraps, a wool blanket, and all the towels we've got.”

She hopped up and kissed his cheek, uttering a quick thank-you before she tore off after the trainer. She was going to become Rylan's wife. That meant becoming his partner in every way—in his barn as well as in his bed, in sickness and health, in good times and bad. She hoped it wasn't an omen of any kind that they were starting out with the worst aspects of those vows.

         

Dr. Maclay was a short, sturdy man dressed in a serviceable dark blue jumpsuit. He was soft-spoken and serious-faced. His gray hairs outnumbered the brown hairs three to one. He was a man Ry had great respect for, but what he was saying now, as they stood outside Rough Cut's stall, was something Ry didn't want to hear and wouldn't believe.

“Ry, I'll bet every nickel in my retirement fund we're looking at Potomac horse fever.”

“That's impossible! Every horse on the place was vaccinated.” Ry's heart thudded in his chest at the slim possibility he was wrong. They couldn't have missed vaccinating the most important animal on the farm. It simply wasn't possible.

The vet shook his head. “This horse couldn't have been. He's showing every single symptom. I can't tell you how he got it or where he got it, but he's got it.”

“But he can't—”

Maclay cut him off with a stern look. “You don't want him to have it, and I don't blame you, but it's what we're dealing with, son, so you'd better accept it. We've got our work cut out to save this horse's life.”

Maggie shivered at the ominous tone of the veterinarian's voice and at the grim expressions of the men around her. She tugged at Christian's coat sleeve and whispered, “What's Potomac fever?”

His eyes were as bleak as a sunless winter day. He never took them off the horse that had carried him to the top of the show-jumping world. “Bad news, luv. Very bad news.”

         

The vigil began. In addition to the medication Ry had given the horse, Dr. Maclay administered antibiotics and antihistamines. Fluids were pumped into him intravenously. The grooms bandaged his legs to prevent him from hurting himself when the pain caused him to thrash about. Maggie pitched in, helping Ry and Christian as they worked continuously to try to bring down the horse's fever. She soaked towels in cold water then handed them to the men, who bathed Rough Cut with them.

It was after midnight when she finally obeyed Ry's order to go to the house. She trudged up the porch steps, her body aching from the fall she'd taken, her arms and shoulders sore and tired from wringing out towels. Moaning, she sank down onto the bentwood rocker and struggled with her boots, letting one then the other thud to the floor of the porch. A hot shower and a soft bed had never sounded so good, she thought, leaning back in the chair.

Her gaze fell on the main barn, the only building still lit up. Ry wouldn't see a hot shower or a bed until this was over. It would be a minor miracle if they got him to leave Rough Cut's stall for more than a few minutes. He would tell everyone else to take periodic breaks, but he would never give himself one. He was the one who had read book after book about veterinary science. Taking care of animals was his whole life, even though he had never been given the chance to earn his degree. He would stay with Rough Cut night and day, seeing to the horse's every need.

But who would see to Rylan?

“That's your job, Mary Margaret,” Maggie said, running her hands back through her hair, dislodging bits of twigs and dried leaves. “You asked for him, you got him, now you can take care of him.”

Putting thoughts of bed and bath on hold, she pushed herself to her feet and went into the house. Quickly she washed up and changed into a pair of black sweatpants and an old, gray College of William and Mary sweatshirt. Next she went to the kitchen, and made a stack of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. These she carried down to the stable and put in Ry's office.

Bobby and Marlin had set up cots outside Rough Cut's stall and sat on them, taking a well-deserved break. They sent Maggie weary smiles of appreciation when she offered them each a cup of coffee from her tray.

“Any change?” she asked softly.

They shook their heads.

“There are sandwiches down in Ry's office. Go help yourselves.”

She stepped into the doorway of the stall. Christian and Dr. Maclay sat back against one wall, the trainer trying to rub a cramp out of his neck. Ry was bent over the stallion's head, dribbling cool water on him with a sponge. He glanced up at her and frowned.

“I thought I told you to go to bed.”

“Yes, darlin', you did,” she said. She served Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee to Christian and the vet, then offered the last one to Ry.

He took it and scowled at her. “Then why aren't you in bed?”

Deciding the best way to avoid an argument was to ignore him, she changed the subject. “How's he doing? He seems quieter. Is that good?”

Ry heaved a sigh, running his hand along the big horse's cheek. Feeling as if he'd just turned two hundred, he pushed himself to his feet. “He's getting worn out from fighting it. His temp's down a point, but that's still too high. I feel so damn helpless.”

Maggie led him out of the stall. They sat down on one of the cots Bobby and Marlin had vacated to go in search of the sandwiches. She reached up and brushed a wayward lock of dark hair from Ry's forehead. “You're doing everything you can. Dr. Maclay said giving him that injection when you did may have saved his life.”

May have saved his life, Ry thought. But what kind of life was it going to be? Potomac fever left its victims severely lame. Only days ago this horse had outperformed some of the top equine athletes in the world. Now, if he lived, it would be painful for him to walk out into his paddock. It seemed so unfair. This horse had been such a courageous champion. He had earned better than to be lame the rest of his life.

Permanent lameness was not the only damage this disease would do. It would also leave a stallion sterile. If they managed to pull him through the crisis, Rough Cut wasn't going to be worth his weight in dog food. There would be no syndication. All the plans that had been laid, all the improvements that had been made to the farm, all the money that had been spent on advertising would be considered a wasted effort. Instead of hauling money to the bank in a wheelbarrow, Ry would be digging into his pocket to pay bills.

It was amazing how quickly things could change. Just a few long hours ago he had been riding home with Maggie in his arms, thinking of the future they would have together, the love he could give her, the security he could offer her. Now he could offer her only himself and his newfound love, and experience had taught him that wasn't enough.

         

Rough Cut's condition fluctuated between bad and worse every few hours. When morning came Bobby and Marlin were relieved by two other grooms. During one of the stallion's more stable periods, Christian slipped out to his cottage for a few hours of sleep. Dr. Maclay left, promising to return by noon. Ry had yet to leave the horse alone for more than five minutes.