Once the foal’s shoulders were clear, Michael cleaned the membrane away from the nose. The foal was wet, still attached by the umbilical cord. Though Michael wanted to pull it clear, see for himself, he waited with Laura as the foal struggled free of the birth sac, and the cord broke as nature intended.

For a while, there was no sound in the stall but the mare’s steadying breathing and her first soft, delighted whinny as she understood she had a child.

“He’s beautiful,” Laura murmured. “Just beautiful.”

“She.” Grinning, Michael swiped at the sweat on his face. “We got ourselves a girl here, Laura. A beautiful girl. God bless you, Darling, look what you did.”

She looked, and with a mother’s instinct climbed to her feet and began to clean her baby.

“It’s lovely every time,” Laura murmured, easing back so as not to interfere with the bonding. “You’re not disappointed?” she asked Michael. “No stud?”

“She’s got four legs and a tail, doesn’t she? And her mother’s coloring.”

“Apparently you’re not.” She laughed, delighted with the look of stunned joy on his face, and held out a formal hand. “Congratulations, papa.”

“The hell with that.” Riding high, he yanked her into his lap and crushed his mouth to hers.

Instantly breathless. And dizzy. And weak. They were covered with sweat and blood, punchy from a night without sleep. The hay beneath them was filthy, the air thick and ripe.

And they were locked together like hope and glory.

He’d meant it only to share with her that heady exuberance, to thank her, in his way, for being a part of the moment. But he sank into her, into the need, into the heat, into those silky limbs that clung as though she were suspended over a cliff and he was her only salvation.

He was murmuring something, a jumble of the wild and reckless thoughts that jammed into his head. His hand streaked up her hip, closed possessively over her breast. She bucked, arched, moaned.

“Steady.” He used the same patient, soothing tone he had with the laboring mare. But his teeth nipped at her jaw, scraped over the rampaging pulse in her throat and made the quiet order impossible.

“I can’t.” Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t let go. “Michael.” Dazed, she pressed her face against his throat. “I can’t.”

He could, he thought as the ache spread viciously. He could, and more. But he’d chosen his time and place poorly. She’d stood by him through the night, he reminded himself. Taking advantage of her now, as he was, only proved that even an honest man could lack integrity.

“I wasn’t angling for a roll in the hay.” He kept it light, whatever it cost him. “Relax.” Careful to keep his hands gentle, he shifted her. “Look, our little girl’s growing up already.”