Dead Heat (Alpha and Omega) - Patricia Briggs Page 0,37

pay attention and stay in the saddle.”

Kage led them through the front doors, through an airy reception room decorated Southwestern casual complete with an Old West–style wet bar. Glass double doors took them to a viewing stand that looked out over a large arena two-thirds the size of a football field. There was a tractor wetting down the arena with a water tank and spray rig. The woman on the tractor waved to Kage and continued working.

“Pretty late for chores,” said Charles.

Kage nodded. “Staff is usually done by five, except for the foaling managers, who rotate on twenty-four-hour shifts this time of year. But we’re gearing up for the big horse show. Lots of people come to the show specifically to buy horses. We’ll have a presentation or ten out here during the show, so we’ve got to get the barn ready and groom all hundred and sixty horses and not just the thirty we are showing. That means overtime for everyone.”

He looked at Charles. “You ought to take her out to the show. It’s not as over-the-top as it was thirty years ago.” He grinned at Anna. “We had all sorts of celebrities and entertainment industry people then, and people came to look at them as much as the horses. Millions changed hands both in real money and on paper to dodge the tax man, and the Arab industry attracted a different crowd. But the show is still spectacular. Lots of pretty horses and horse-mad people.”

They entered the stabling area. It smelled of cedar shavings and horses, with a faint tang of urine and leather. On the inside of the three of them, when Anna turned the corner she was next to the first stall.

A copper-colored horse thrust his head toward her, and she found herself nose to nose with him.

Not just any horse, either, but a fairy-tale horse. Every hair in his mane and forelock lay as though someone had separated them from each other and put them exactly where they would look best. The narrow stripe that ran from between his eyes down to between his nostrils looked as though someone had powdered it with baby powder to get it white-white, except for a small triangle of pink on the end of his nose. His chestnut coat was flame-brilliant, and, when she reached out to touch his cheek, the skin under her fingers was soft and sleek.

“Careful,” cautioned Kage. “He’s only a two-year-old and a stallion, which means he’s lippy. He’s not mean, just looking for handouts. But he will bite if you aren’t watching.”

“Like you, boss,” someone shouted from a nearby stall.

“And I fire people who get above themselves, too,” Kage called back with a grin.

“Yeah, I’m worried, boss,” said the same guy. He was hidden somewhere in the row of stalls. “If you fire me, you’ll have to muck out twenty stalls before you can go to bed. I’ve got job se-cu-ri-ty.”

“You go on thinking that way, Morales,” said someone else. “If you want more security you can clean my stalls, too.”

Anna petted the colt’s velvet cheek and sought out the spot just behind his ear to scratch. It was the right spot because he pressed his neck into her hand hard enough to bang it against the side of the stall opening, then twisted his neck to make her fingers hit exactly where he wanted them. His eyes closed and his lips waggled in ecstasy.

“Why aren’t horses more afraid of us?” Anna asked. “I mean, if I were a grizzly bear he wouldn’t be asking me to rub his neck, right?”

Charles’s stance had relaxed the moment they’d entered the stables; she didn’t think he knew it. Her man loved horses the way he loved music.

He smiled, but it was Kage who answered. “Horses are adaptable. I mean, I go out to some poor, half-grown colt smelling like the steak sandwich I ate for lunch. I throw a piece of dead cow on his back and tell him it won’t hurt him. Pretty amazing that they’ll let us get anywhere near them.”

He reached out and rubbed the other side of the horse’s face. “If you were in wolf form and all snarly and ready to attack, I suppose they’d freak, all right. This one might just try to trample you—he’s not got a lot of fear in him. Hosteen says they just think you smell like a funny kind of dog, and they know about dogs.” He paused. Looked at Charles. “So what do you