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)
I could have tagged along with my father, standing in the background and watching him do what he does best but ten out of ten days, I’d rather hang with Rory at the training center.
Mornings for my uncle started early, before any potential sun had fully burned through the mist, with him out on the gallops, watching the young horses go through their paces. He had keen eyes and a nose for sniffing out promise. He called instructions to the riders and made sharp assessments of which ones had a shot and which needed more time. He worked alongside the head trainer, discussing conditioning plans, adjusting feed regimens, and deciding which horses were ready to move from basic fitness work to more serious race prep.
By mid-morning, he’d be in the steeplechase fields, setting up courses or watching a handful of jumpers test their form over fences, barking out encouragement or muttering under his breath when something wasn’t quite right.
Afternoons were spent overseeing the schooling barn, checking in on horses recovering from injury or being retrained after poor starts to their careers. He’d take meetings with owners who had sent their horse stock to Glenhaven, giving them updates with his usual blunt but fair assessments. If a horse needed a stronger hand, he’d be the one to get in the saddle, working them until they got it right. And in between all that, he’d somehow find time to pull me aside for a stolen moment of training, sneaking me onto the steeplechase course when no one was looking. No matter how busy he was, Rory always made time for me—because he knew I wanted more than just a life of standing politely beside some man my father chose for me.
As I neared the main training barn, I heard voices—Rory’s amused laughter and another voice that had a low rumble to it.
I stepped inside and stopped short.
Standing beside Rory was a man I didn’t recognize.
He was young—maybe a little older than me and boy, was he tall. And, well… built. Broad shoulders, wide chest and black-as-midnight hair that curled just slightly at the ends. His face was all sharp angles and arrogance, his mouth full, and his blue eyes—Christ, his blue eyes—were full of mischief as they landed on me.
For a moment, I just stood there, taking him in.
And he stared right back at me.
I’d seen plenty of handsome men before. Brian was one such fella, in that polished, well-bred way. Some of the trainers had a roguish charm. But this one… this one was different.
There was something about him, something unrefined and restless, maybe even a bit dangerous. You put it all together and God help me, it was simply too compelling.
Rory smirked, clearly catching the way I was staring, and decided to take pity on me. “Fiona, this is Tommy Blackburn from America. Tommy, this is my niece, Fiona Conlan.”
It hit me.
The American who had come to stay the summer.
Tommy’s smirk widened, and he tipped an imaginary hat at me. “Pleasure to meet you, darlin’.”
I bristled. Darlin’? Although admittedly, his accent was charming.
Rory chuckled. “Fi, why don’t ye show Tommy around? Get him acquainted with the place.”
“Oh, but…” I looked over my shoulder, through the open barn doors and even tossed a thumb that way. “I should… I mean, I need to…”
Rory just stared at me, letting me work through the stammer, but my words dried up. My uncle grinned, pulling off his work gloves. “Show the lad around. We’ve got him set up in one of the old steadings and I’ll take him over there later.”
“I will, yeah,” I managed to say.
Rory clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Enjoy yer time because this afternoon, we put ye to work.”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied with an incline of his head.
Rory shot me a wink and brushed past us, and just like that, I was left alone with the cocky American.
“The old steadings?” Tommy asked, and I jolted because he was now standing very close to me.
I took a small step back. “They’re a group of cottages that house some of the pass-through workers. They’re small and basic, but a solid roof over yer head.” I observed him closely, wondering what type of lodging this visitor was used to. The American looked as if he belonged on a farm—just not ours. Not anywhere around here. His shirt was too crisp, his boots too fine, and he didn’t carry himself like a man used to hard labor.
Oh, I had no doubt he’d worked before—his forearms, bared by the rolled sleeves, had the lean muscle of someone who knew his way around a horse—but he wasn’t hardened by it. And the leather of his belt and boots? Far too new. Money. That’s what he smelled of, even above the faint scent of horse and hay. He didn’t have to be here—he was here because someone made him. “Where are ye from, anyway?”