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“And that is?”
“Why the hell do you want to buy a breeding farm? I thought you learned your lesson in Dublin a few years back.”
Zane’s eyes grew dark. “Maybe that’s exactly why I want it.” With a secretive smile he slapped his friend fondly on the back. “Now, how about that drink?”
Chapter Three
Tiffany’s fingers drummed restlessly on the desk as she stared at the portrait of Devil’s Gambit. For so long she had believed that Ellery and his proud horse were dead. And now this man, this stranger named Zane Sheridan, insisted just the opposite. Her blue eyes were shadowed with pain as she studied the portrait of the horse.Was it possible? Could Ellery still be alive?
Shaking her head at the absurdity of the situation, she got up and paced restlessly, alternately staring at the clock and looking out the window toward the foaling shed. Ebony Wine would be delivering a foal tonight, Moon Shadow’s foal. Would he be a normal, healthy colt or would he suffer the same cruel fate as three of his siblings?
She listened as the clock ticked off the seconds, and her stomach tightened into uneasy knots. Mac hadn’t come to the house this afternoon, and Tiffany was beginning to worry. Between her anxiety for the unborn foal and worries about Zane Sheridan and his motives for visiting her, Tiffany’s nerves felt raw, stretched to the breaking point.
Seven-thirty-five. Though Zane would arrive any minute, Tiffany couldn’t sit idle any longer. She jerked her jacket off the wooden peg near the French doors and hurried outside, oblivious to the fact that her heels sank into the mud of the well-worn path. The darkness of the night was punctuated by the sharp wind that rattled the windowpanes and whistled through the redwoods.
Tiffany found Mac in the broodmare barn, examining the black mare. His face was grim, and Tiffany’s heart nearly stopped beating.
“How’s it going?” she asked, hoping that she didn’t sound desperate.
Mac came to the outside of the stall and reached down to scratch Wolverine, the farm’s border collie, behind the ears. Wolverine thumped his tail against the concrete floor in appreciation, but Tiffany had the impression that Mac was avoiding her gaze.
“So far so good,” the ex-jockey replied, straightening and switching a piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other. But his sharp brown eyes were troubled when they returned to Ebony Wine. The mare shifted uncomfortably in the large stall, and Tiffany noted that everything was ready for the impending birth. Six inches of clean straw covered the concrete floor, and a plastic bucket containing towels, antibiotics, scissors and other equipment necessary to help the mare give birth, had been placed near the stall.
“Might be a little earlier than I thought originally,” Mac suggested. He took off his hat and straightened the crease with his fingers.
“Why?”
“This is her second foal. If I remember right, the last one came before midnight.” He rammed the hat back on his head. “Could be wrong . . . just a feeling I’ve got.”
“Have you called Vance?”
Mac nodded curtly. “He’ll be here around eleven, earlier if we need him.”
“Good.”
Tiffany cast one final look toward the mare and then returned to the house. Wolverine padded along behind her, but she didn’t notice. Her thoughts were filled with worry for the mare and anxiety about meeting Zane Sheridan again. He couldn’t have picked a worse time to show up.
All afternoon her thoughts had been crowded with questions about him. Who was he? What did he want? How did he know Ellery? Why would he concoct such an elaborate story about Devil’s Gambit being alive?
There was something about the man that was eerily familiar, and Tiffany felt that she had heard Ellery speak of him at least once. But it was long ago, before they were married, and she couldn’t remember the significance, if there was any, of Ellery’s remarks.
She had just returned to the house and stepped out of her muddied shoes when headlights flashed through the interior of the manor as if announcing Zane’s arrival. “Here we go,” she muttered to herself as she slipped on a pair of pumps and attempted to push back the tides of dread threatening to overtake her. “He’s only one man,” she told herself as the doorbell chimed. “One man with a wild imagination.”
But when she opened the door and she saw him standing in the shadowy porch light, once again she experienced the feeling that Zane Sheridan rarely made mistakes. He was leaning casually against one of the tall pillars supporting the porch roof, and his hands were thrust into the front pockets of his corduroy slacks. Even in the relaxed pose, there was tension, strain in the way his smile tightened over his teeth, a coiled energy lying just beneath the surface in his eyes.
In the dim light, his mouth appeared more sensual than she had remembered and the rough angles of his face seemed less threatening. His jet-black hair was without a trace of gray and gleamed blue in the lamplight. Only his eyes gave away his age. Though still a sharp, intense silver, they were hard, as if they had witnessed years of bitterness. The skin near the corners of his eyes was etched with a faint webbing that suggested he had stared often into the glare of the afternoon sun.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, straightening as his bold gaze held hers.
“No problem,” she returned and wondered what it was about him that she found so attractive. She’d never been a woman drawn to handsome faces or strong physiques. But there was an intelligence in Zane’s eyes, hidden beneath a thin veneer of pride, that beckoned the woman in her. It was frightening. “Please come in.”
I can’t be attracted to him,she thought.He can’t be trusted. God only knows what he wants from me.
He walked with her to the den. “I’m sorry for the interruption this morning—” she began.
“My fault. I should have called.” A flash of a brilliant smile gleamed against his dark skin.
Tiffany didn’t bother to wave off his apology. Zane’s surprise appearance on her doorstep had thrown her day into a tailspin. It had been a wonder that she could even converse intelligently with the reporter from theSanta Rosa Clarionconsidering the bombshell that this man had dropped in her lap.
