LITMIR.BIZ

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since the beginning of time.”

      “Breeding is Sutherland Farm’s bread and butter. Without the raw material, our trainers can’t produce champions. We continue to make money off successful mares and studs for years, sometimes even decades, after they leave the show ring.”

      “And why can’t the staff vet oversee that?”

      “Developing a winning bloodline is far more complicated than randomly pairing animals and hoping for a pretty foal. It’s an intricate mix of genealogy, genetics, biology and veterinary science aimed at producing an animal with optimal traits and minimal deficiencies. It’s a science—one at which I happen to excel.”

      He didn’t look impressed.

      “Tell me, Wyatt, exactly how much do you know about horse breeding?”

      “My knowledge of horses is limited to thoroughbreds.”

      That explained a lot. “And yet you bought a Warmblood farm. Thoroughbreds are bred naturally. Sutherland Farm does almost everything by artificial insemination.”

      “Why?”

      “There are several reasons. Our horses are too valuable to risk one of them getting injured during the natural breeding process, and artificial insemination allows us to service mares globally and not only in our barns. It’s cost-effective and less stressful for the mares than being shipped to the stallion’s home stable. Shipping a horse overseas is expensive and often disturbs her cycle. Plus quarantine is a hassle. Shipping semen is less aggravating. We simply freeze or chill it and send it out.”

      He pointed to yet another chart. “And this?”

      Hannah grimaced. She was fond of her charts and graphs. Charts were predictable. They made sense. She could weigh the pros and cons of practically any permutation on paper and erase her mistakes. Unlike life’s bad choices.

      “That’s the stallion schedule. Regular, predictable collection encourages better production. In layman’s terms, it’s our way of aligning supply to demand so we know where to set our stud fees. And the chart beside it is the pending shipment list—the one I need to get back to before I can give you the tour and before this sample loses viability. So please, Mr. Jacobs, go away and let me do my job.”

      “Wyatt,” he corrected.

      She didn’t want to be on a first-name basis with him. That implied friendship—something they would never have. But he was the boss and that meant she had to mind her manners.

      “Wyatt. Sutherland Farm bloodstock has been producing champion jumping and dressage stock for years. Let me show you to the visitors’ lounge in the office building. You can have a cup of coffee and look through the catalogue of our studs, mares and foals until I finish here.”

      His dark gaze lingered on hers until an odd sensation stirred in the pit of her stomach and her toes curled in her boots. “I can find the lounge.”

      The moment he left the room tension drained from her shoulders, torso and legs as if leaking through her soles. She sagged against the work table, bowing her head and taking a moment to collect her composure.

      Damn the man. How was she going to work with him when she couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with him? He made her uncomfortable with his long, intense examinations and he was clearly searching for a reason—any reason—to fire her.

      She’d barely gotten back into the groove when the door opened again. She snapped upright. Her stomach sank as Wyatt strolled in carrying one of the farm’s many photo albums and ending her short-lived reprieve. He parked himself on the stool directly across the table from her microscope.

      No. “I thought you were going to let me work.”

      “I’m not stopping you. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can get on with business.” He directed his attention to the book in front of him.

      Irritation sputtered through her. If he didn’t quit distracting her, he’d never get his tour, and he acted as if the delay was her fault.

      Determined to ignore him, she gritted her teeth and returned to the job at hand. Every time she looked up from the microscope her gaze slammed straight into his, and each time she felt those dark eyes on her or his body shifted her pulse skipped.

      She wanted him gone. From her lab. From her farm. From her life. Daddy, what have you done?

      Forcing herself to concentrate, she powered through her work with sheer determination. When she finally sealed the last tube in the shipping package, relief coursed through her. Dread trotted close behind. Finishing meant she’d have to spend time alone with her new boss.

      Resigned to the torture, she sighed. “Where do you want to start?”

      He closed the portfolio and slowly rose, unfolding one smooth muscle after the other. As much as she hated to admit it, Wyatt Jacobs had great conformation and grace in motion, like one of Sutherland’s prized dressage champions. “Anywhere.”

      She swallowed her impatience. She wanted to make this as quick and painless as possible. He wasn’t helping. “Narrow that down. We have two thousand acres. Which parts of the property have you not seen?”

      “Except for the house, this barn and the office building, I haven’t seen any of the farm.”

      Her mouth dropped open. “You spent millions of dollars without seeing what you were getting for your money?”

      “I had pictures, topography maps and the video package the real estate appraiser prepared. Sutherland Farm suits my needs.”

      She remembered the videographer’s visit several months ago. Her father had told her the film would be used for promotional purposes and she’d had no reason not to believe him because they often had photographers on the premises. That meant not only had her father lied, but he’d been scheming to tear her world apart for months. That hurt.

      But the past was over. She had to deal with the present, and the present included the testosterone-packed problem in front of her.

      “And what exactly are your needs?” She winced when she heard the double entendre of her words.

      As if a door slammed shut, Wyatt’s face instantly turned inscrutable. “To own a horse farm. What else?”

      Wyatt Jacobs was lying through his perfect white teeth. Hannah would swear to it. But she couldn’t prove it. And even if she could, what could she do about it? Right now she was nothing but a puppet. And he held her strings.

      Hannah didn’t believe him, and frankly, Wyatt didn’t care. He wasn’t here to make friends. In fact, it would suit him better if she got ticked off and quit her job.

      Playing chaperone to a spoiled princess had never been part of his plan. He’d bought the farm for Sam and had intended spending as little time here as possible. But Hannah would require more supervision than his planned sporadic visits.

      The door to the lab burst open, shattering the standoff between him and the bothersome brunette. A lanky redheaded guy rushed in. “Doc Will’s got another one.”

      Hannah’s body language changed instantly from resentful and reluctant to alert and attentive. Wyatt found the switch quite intriguing. She didn’t snap at the new guy for keeping the door open, dripping on the floor or tracking in mud. Instead, she wiggled her fingers in a give-me-more gesture.

      “He got a call to euthanize, but he decided to give you a look first. He’s down at the barn.”

      Those big blue eyes rounded. “He’s here instead of calling for a consult?”

      “Yep. It’s that critical. He hightailed it off the property as soon as the authorities gave him the okay. He says this one will be a real test of your skills.”

      “He’s assuming I’ll say yes.”

      The redhead chuckled. “Hannah, you never say no.”

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