Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Tommy looked at me playfully. “Want me to take you away from here and marry you to save you from Brian?”
I huffed a laugh despite myself. “Ah, go way with ye. I’ll sort meself, thanks.”
He chuckled. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Tommy chatted about Blackburn Farms as we made our way back to Rory, but I couldn’t help but steal glances at him.
I had a feeling Tommy Blackburn was going to be nothing but trouble. And in my crazy, disordered world where I didn’t feel like I had control over anything, trouble didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
CHAPTER 6
Tommy
Sweat rolled off my brow and I swiped at it with the back of my gloved hand before pushing the heavy wooden rail into place. It braced perfectly against the uprights, and I huffed out a long breath. I’d been hard at work all afternoon with Rory and I suspected he was testing me, but I was up to the task. I might have liked to party, but I learned a solid work ethic from my father and could pound nails and work horses until my hands bled if necessary.
I didn’t mind it. Hard labor had always been the best way to shut off my brain, keep my hands busy and my thoughts focused.
But today, my thoughts were quite scattered.
No matter how many rails I lifted or how much dirt I kicked up, my mind kept circling back to the same thing.
Or rather, the same girl.
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to focus as I shoved the last rail into its slot. Across from me, Rory gave a firm nod of approval as he assessed our work.
“Good job,” he said, stepping forward to test the jump’s stability. “This one was gettin’ a bit loose—last thing we need is a horse takin’ a fall.”
I pulled off my gloves, stuffing them in the back pocket of my jeans. “Never worked with steeplechase before,” I admitted. “What’s the difference between this and regular jumping?”
Rory’s green eyes twinkled, clearly enjoying the chance to educate me. “Difference is, this isn’t for show. It’s a race, lad. Speed and endurance over fences, all at a full gallop.” He gestured toward the rolling course, where several jumps were spaced out over the undulating ground. “This isn’t a tidy little ring with measured poles. This is real cross-country ridin’—banks, ditches, water jumps. A horse needs heart for this, and the rider needs to be fearless.”
I whistled low, watching as a groom led a young gelding past the training course. The bustle of activity around the training center was nonstop. “Hell of a sport.”
Our saddlebreds couldn’t compete in this level of equine activity. They were bred for elegant high-stepping, fluid motions rather than speed and endurance. Our horses competed to show off conformation and precision and I loved that breed beyond compare. I was, however, discovering a newfound appreciation for the thoroughbred and I’d only been here a day.
Rory chuckled. “Aye, it is a hell of a sport. And it’s not for the faint of heart.” He fixed me with a prideful look. “Takes a rider with guts. One who trusts their horse more than they trust their own senses. If a horse refuses mid-run, could be disaster.”
I was intrigued, because any type of riding came with its own perils. Serious injury and sometimes death were always the possibility on a thousand-pound beast. “So, how do you know if a horse’s got it in ’em?”
“Watch their stride,” Rory said, pointing toward one of the jumps. “Watch how they read the ground. A good steeplechase horse won’t hesitate—they’ll adjust naturally, find the perfect takeoff spot. If they’re second-guessin’ themselves, they’re not built for it.”
I scanned the course with a new appreciation and tried to imagine myself flying over it. While I’m an accomplished horseman, I’d never jumped one before. “And the riders? What makes a good one?”
Rory grinned knowingly. “Confidence. Good hands. A feel for the horse. And a brain that can shut out fear.”
On my best day, my father would call me reckless, but I think even I’d have enough sense to let this challenge go. A short laugh escaped me. “So basically, you gotta be insane.”
“That too,” he admitted with a chuckle, then tilted his head at me. “But ye did good today, Blackburn. Ye’ve got a steady hand with the horses, and ye’re not afraid of gettin’ dirty. Means ye were raised right.”
“Appreciate that. I don’t mind hard work.”
Rory opened his mouth to say something else but then stopped, his attention shifting toward the far end of the field. His smile widened with a deep fondness and I twisted to follow his line of sight.
A petite figure walked toward us, leading a tall chestnut horse with a sleek coat that gleamed even under the dull gray sky. I estimated it to be about seventeen hands upon a brief perusal, but it wasn’t the horse that had my undivided attention.