“Mrs. Sullivan, you’re a fine woman, but you’re as stubborn as six mules when it comes to certain matters. And while you mark my words, I’ll wager a month’s pay you’ll be eating your own soon enough.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Miffed, Ann poured coffee for Laura and prepared to take it upstairs. “That boy is trouble.”

“If he is,” Mrs. Williamson said placidly, “it’s the kind of trouble a smart girl dreams of having. Wish I’d had more of that sort of trouble in my life.”

As Ann sailed out, streaming dignity behind her, Mrs. Williamson hummed a bright tune.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe there’d been a foal born in the night. It was simply that Ann Sullivan preferred to see with her own eyes. She marched to the stables, grudgingly carrying the basket of muffins Mrs. Williamson had pressed on her. If she had her way, Michael Fury wouldn’t be eating from the Templeton House kitchen for long.

She looked up at the apartment first, frowning a bit as she noticed the fresh paint on the trim. Just trying to ingratiate himself, that was all, she thought. Making himself handy and agreeable until he could wreak havoc. Well, he could pull the wool over everyone’s eyes but hers.

She strode into the stables, something she had avoided doing since Michael’s arrival. Surprise came first. The place was tidy as a drawing room and smelled not at all unpleasant, of hay and horses. She jolted when Max poked his head out and bumped her shoulder in greeting.

“Lord save us, you’re big as a house.” But his mild eyes made her smile, and checking over her shoulder first to make certain she was unobserved, she stroked his silky nose. “What a pretty boy you are. Are you the one who does all the tricks the girls are forever talking about?”

“He’s one of them.” When Michael stepped out of the foaling stall down the block, Ann dropped her hand and cursed herself for not looking around more carefully. “Want to try him out?”

“Thank you, no.” Stiff as a lance, she moved forward. “Mrs. Williamson sent you some muffins.”

“Yeah?” He took the basket, chose one. Steam poured out when he bit in. He could have whimpered in gratitude. “The woman is a goddess,” he said with his mouth full.

“I don’t think you’re playing Red Riding Hood, delivering goodies to the wolf, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“A lot you know about fairy tales. She was waylaid by the wolf, an innocent girl on her way to her grandmother’s.”

“I stand corrected.” Because she put his back up every bit as much as he put up hers, he went back into the stall to finish medicating the lactating mare and her foal.

“That’s a fine-looking horse.”