1 Chapter 1
The stallion’s scream nearly drowned out David’s words.
“I have to see you. Please.” David’s voice quavered and he ran his freckled hands down his thighs.
Marcus Denton recognized the need in the other man’s eyes.
Malotov bellowed again, more than a whinny, his guttural call to the mare in the breeding pen sent a vibration through Marcus’s chest. They stood a few yards from Malotov’s stall; the rich odors of manure and hay and horse permeated the September breeze. The stallion paced, moaning, his lush chestnut coat white with sweaty froth from neck to belly. He kicked out and the metal bars of his stall door shook.
Marcus looked over the barn area. In the breeding pen, Dr. Lee bent over his vet’s bag, setting out gloves, cleanser, a tail bandage. A groom adjusted the mare’s protective back pad, talking to her in low tones. She was calm. A nine-year old, she was experienced. Her tail swished lazily; they’d tie it up for her in a few minutes.
David glanced at the others and stepped closer. “Marcus, please?” David raised one hand toward him.
“Don’t do that.” Marcus had to turn away. He felt a twist in his stomach, the unsettling feeling of David’s blue-eyed gaze on him, the desire that heated David’s voice.
Marcus moved into a storage stall and uselessly re-stacked a few hay bales. He felt David’s yearning gaze on him, knew David was torn about what he saw in Marcus and what he felt. Dust motes wafted in the air, and the smell of fresh hay hung over them.
Marcus took a deep breath and turned to face David. “What if I told you the other night was a mistake? That it can’t happen again?”
The feel of David’s taut torso against him. David’s gasp of passion and surprise as Marcus pulled them together on the office desk, the soft whisperof papers fluttering to the floor as they grappled…
David controlled his face. His eyes didn’t lower, his mouth didn’t turn down. But Marcus saw the sag of his shoulders and his belly clench beneath the sweaty T-shirt he wore.
“I won’t accept that, Marcus. I’m not buying it. You feel it, too,” David whispered. He stood in the stall’s doorway.
Marcus turned away, his throat suddenly tight. Now, he didn’t trust his own face. David stepped into the stall with him, closer. Marcus could feel David’s body heat, smell his sweat and the rich odor of horse that clung to him. Too close. He needed distraction.
“Doc, you ready?” Marcus called. When he got a head nod, he pointed to Malotov’s stall. “All right, Goldie. Show me you’ve learned how to handle a stallion like this.”
A long glance, then David grabbed Malotov’s bright red halter and snapped on the nose chain. He stood at the stall door, his voice soft and low. “Come ‘ere, Malotov, let’s go see the little lady, come on over.”
Malotov whinnied again and stamped one front hoof. His flanks quivered and his neck twitched with agitation. His eyes were rolling, wild. David kept up his smooth talk as he opened the stall door. The stallion lunged forward. David held his ground against thirteen hundred pounds of worked-up horse. He raised his arms, the halter and rope rustling. Malotov veered away with a snort.
“Come on, big guy, you’ve got a date with the prettiest mare on the block, she’s right over there. Come on.” David stepped closer, shoulders rounded and turned slightly away from the horse. Malotov lowered his head. David set the halter in place and looped the nose chain over Malotov’s shivering muzzle. He rested his fingers on the stallion’s damp jaw and murmured as he leaned close. When the stallion was under control, David gazed at Marcus.
“Good job. You’ve learned a lot this summer,” Marcus said.
“I could learn a lot more.”
Marcus didn’t want to ponder that comment, not now. It was time to concentrate on this breeding and keep focused on the expensive animals.
His thoroughbred farm had an internship arrangement with the University of Florida. Their veterinary program supplied him with interns each semester; he supplied the students with hands-on experience at a working breeding operation. Of the half dozen that had started with him in January, David Livingston was the most promising. He certainly wasn’t the best rider—he’d fallen off twice just cantering in the ring. He wasn’t the best student either. His weekly reports were adequate—nothing special.
David’s forte was horse handling. He had the touch, a real connection with horses that couldn’t be taught, no matter how many pricey “horse whispering” clinics a student took. His voice, his posture, his demeanor, all spoke to the animals and he handled them with flair.
