The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,104
her head cracked open like a melon on the cement if she went one way—or trampled under those hooves if she went the other.
Edward moved before he was conscious of making the decision to get all up in there, even though Joey was closer, stronger and younger than he was. But by the time he got all the way down to …
Shelby caught the stallion’s bridle.
And somehow, as she made eye contact with the beast, she managed to hold her body in place upside down by squeezing her thighs on the top of the bars, and simultaneously arch down and start blowing directly into the horse’s nostrils. This gave the stable hands just enough time to open the ruined door and get it out of the way so that the wood splinters didn’t cut Neb any further and replace it with a sturdy nylon webbing. At the same moment, Shelby threw her hand out through the bars and one of the men put a head mask in it.
It took her a split second to get the contraption over Neb’s eyes and secured under his throat.
Then she kept blowing into those flaring nostrils, the stallion settling down, his panicked, blood-streaked flanks falling into a twitching display of partially leashed power, his belly pumping in and out … even as his steel-shod hooves became still in the sawdust.
Shelby righted herself with the grace of a gymnast. Climbed down. Ducked into the stall.
And Edward realized for the first time since he’d been kidnapped that he was terrified about something.
One of the few rules he’d given Jeb Landis’s daughter when she’d started to work here was the same across-the-board that applied to everybody at the Red & Black: No one got close to Neb but Edward.
Yet there she was, a hundred pounds of five foot five, in an enclosed space with that killer.
Edward hung back and watched her smooth her palms down the stallion’s neck as she spoke to him. She wasn’t stupid, though. She nodded to one of the hands, who unhooked the netting on the side closest to her. If Neb started going at it again, she could get to safety in the blink of an eye.
As if sensing his regard, Shelby looked over at Edward. There was nothing apologetic in her stare. Nothing boastful, either.
She had saved the horse from seriously injuring—or even killing—himself in a professional, expert fashion, without putting herself at undue risk. After all, Neb could have punctured an artery on that shredded, knife-sharp ruined door, and she could very easily have been terribly hurt as well.
It was beautiful to see, actually.
And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
Joey, Moe’s son, was standing on the periphery and staring at Shelby with an expression on his face that suggested the twenty-something man had regressed to being a sixteen-year-old boy again … and Shelby was the prom queen he wanted to dance with.
Which was proof that we were always every age we had ever been.
And also not something Edward particularly appreciated. With a frown, he was struck by a nearly irresistible urge to put himself right between the pair of them. He wanted to be a billboard with HANDS OFF on it. A living, breathing caution tape. A foghorn of warning.
But the protective instinct was rooted in the concern of a big brother watching out for his little sister.
Sutton had reminded him, in the most basic of ways, that she would forever be the only woman for him.
Upstairs in whoever-the-hell-Bradford-ancestor’s bedroom, Jeff hit print and put his hand out in front of the Brother machine. The ink-jet made a rhythmic whirring sound, and moments later, a perfect line-up of numbers came out. And then another. And a final one.
There were tiny words on the three pages, too, explanations for line items, notations he had spent the last two hours typing out on a laptop.
The most significant thing on the sheet, however, was the title.
BRADFORD BOURBON COMPANY
OPERATIONAL DEFICIT SUMMARY
Jeff put the document down on the desk, right on the keyboard of the open laptop. Then he looked over the snow pile of papers, notes, account reports, tables, and charts on the antique desk.
He was done.
Finished.
At least with the part where he traced the rerouting of accounts receivable payments and operating capital.
On second thought … he picked up the report, and made sure he was logged out of the laptop. He’d changed his password. Encoded all his work. And only sent his private e-mail account an electronic copy.