Page 4
“I know. I know.”
I stroke the long line of his neck, letting my fingers settle into his mane, and some of the tension in my body eases. This horse has been difficult from the beginning. But difficult isn’t the same as hopeless. And anyone who has spent enough time around horses should know that.
Oscar is headstrong, sensitive, and far too clever for his own good. But he is also fast, powerful, and eager once he trusts the person handling him. I’ve watched him improve week after week, and I know what he can become.
His first racing season is supposed to be the beginning of something. Not the end of it.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I tell him, scratching beneath his jaw. “I’m not letting some man who probably doesn’t even know your name put you on a trailer and send you off.”
Oscar snorts.
“Exactly. We agree.” I press my forehead briefly against his. “I’ll fix it.”
The fact that I have no idea whether I can keep that promise doesn’t stop me from making it.
I’ve been at Il Prato del Paradiso long enough to understand how things work. Racehorses are investments. And I can’t fault an owner for thinking about money when that’s the entire point of the business.
But there is a difference between knowing an animal’s value and understanding an animal’s worth. Oscar has become more than a horse I train. He is the first horse in years that has made me feel like I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
And I’m not prepared to lose him because some absentee owner looked at a set of numbers and decided another horse would be more profitable. So I’m going to meet Mr. M.
I leave the stables before I can reconsider and cross the property toward the main house. I stride over the stone path with enough purpose that I have no trouble imagining everyone watching me and deciding that the new trainer has finally lost her mind.
Maybe I have.
It would certainly be easier to mind my own business, keep training Oscar, collect my paycheck, and let the owner do whatever he wants with his horses. But I’ve spent too much of my life watching powerful people make decisions while everyone else quietly accepts them.
I’m done with that.
The main house is impressive, all pale stone, enormous windows, and carefully maintained grounds that make my little guest house look like an afterthought. I climb the steps, knock once, and barely have time to lower my hand before the door opens.
An older woman stands there, perfectly composed until she sees me. “Yes?”
“I need to see Mr. M.”
Her expression becomes cautious. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I reply, and in that moment, I start to question my reasoning, although not enough to change my tune.
“I’m afraid he isn’t receiving visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor. I work here.”
“That may be, but…” she begins.
“Let her in,” a baritone voice cuts in, stopping whatever argument she was preparing.
It’s deep, calm, and unmistakably authoritative. The housekeeper steps aside. And then I see him. My first thought is embarrassingly simple.
Oh.
The man standing several feet away looks nothing like the owner I had imagined. I had pictured someone older, probably gray-haired and distinguished. The sort of man who spent his days looking at breeding records and financial statements while other people dealt with the actual horses.
Instead, the man in front of me looks like he could walk into a room full of men twice his age and have every single one of them wondering whether they should stand. He is tall, broad, and heavily built, with the kind of muscular frame that doesn’t come from occasional gym visits.
His black shirt is fitted across his chest and rolled at the forearms, exposing tattoos that disappear beneath the sleeves. The dark trousers and expensive-looking shoes somehow make the entire outfit seem both effortless and commanding.
His black hair is slightly disheveled, his beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes are so dark they look almost black from where I’m standing. My reaction to him is uncontrollable and alarming. But it’s his stillness that gets me.
