In between the sea and the cars, there had been a brief stint as a mercenary, during which he’d learned too much about killing and warring for profit. And maybe he’d been afraid he was too good at it, afraid it would satisfy him too well. It had fattened his wallet but scarred his heart.

He’d been married once also, only briefly, and could claim no success from that experience either.

It was during his stuntman stage that he fell for horses. He’d learned that craft, gained a reputation, broken several bones. He jumped out of buildings, rioted in staged bar fights, was shot off roofs, set on fire. And he tumbled off of countless horses.

Michael Fury knew how to take a fall. But he wasn’t able to roll when he fell in love with horses.

So he bought them, and bred them, and trained them. He had put down a sick horse and labored through the birth of a foal.

Though he knew the odds were long, he thought he’d found what he’d been looking for.

It seemed like fate when his stepfather called, telling Michael that he and Michael’s mother were going to sell the property in the hills. Though he had no sentiment for it, Michael heard himself offering to buy it.

It was good horse country.

So, he’d come back, and nature had delivered a hard backhanded slap in welcome. He didn’t give a good damn about the house. But his horses—he would have died saving them, and he’d come dangerously close as those acres of mud tumbled down.

There he was, filthy, exhausted, alone, looking at what had been his next start. The oozing rubble of it.

There had been a time when he would have simply cut his losses and moved on. But this time he was sticking.

Now Josh had offered him a hand, and weighing his pride against his horses, Michael had accepted.

As he swung up the drive toward Templeton House, he hoped he wasn’t gambling on the wrong roll of the dice. He’d always admired the place. You couldn’t help it. So he stopped in the middle of the drive, got out, and took a long look.

He stood in the mild winter air, a rangy man with an athlete’s disciplined body, a brawler’s ready stance. He was dressed in black, his most usual attire, because it saved him from thinking when he reached for clothes. The snug black jeans and sweater under a scarred leather bomber jacket gave him the look of a desperado.

He would have said it wasn’t far from the truth.