“That’ll be a nice change,” Bubba replied as the three of them began walking toward the barn.
“By the way, Bubba, we got a saddle around here that could fit Ty?”
“A saddle for me?” Ty’s voice squeaked in surprise.
“Yeah. I was thinking you could warm up Macintosh for me while I ride Cantata. I’m running late, what with one thing and another, and I’ve got an appointment with the insurance agent this afternoon.”
“But I couldn’t possibly . . .”
“Sure you could. You told me you’ve ridden before.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Did you show?” Steve asked, not giving her a chance to finish.
“Yes, I was competing in Junior Jumper before I gave up riding. But that doesn’t mean . . .”
“Means you can’t be too awful, or else you’d have quit the sport much sooner. You get to that level, and you’ve got to be pretty good. Too easy to wind up with a broken neck otherwise. Nothing to worry about, anyway. Macintosh is super-forgiving, and I’ll be keeping a real close eye on you.” He gave a quick grin as though that was all the reassurance she needed, but when he turned to ask Bubba a question, he missed Ty’s finger involuntarily tracing the scar on the side of her eyebrow. “So, Bubba, you think you can find one?”
“Yup.” Bubba nodded. “I seem to remember one left here a while back.” Man, did he remember. Damned hard to forget the temper tantrum Allegra Palmer threw the day after she left her three-thousand-dollar Herm?s saddle out in the pouring rain and was told in no uncertain terms by Steve that she’d have to re-oil it herself; Bubba had better things to do with his time than salvage equipment ruined through gross negligence. The noise that woman had made! The way Allegra had practically screamed the barn down, you’d have thought Steve was forcing her to clean every scrap of leather at Southwind. Bubba was certain Allegra’s saddle was still in some corner of the tack room, still sporting discoloring water stains. For when Steve hadn’t relented, Allegra had simply driven into the city and purchased a brand new Herm?s at Miller’s. All so she wouldn’t have to spend an hour or so oiling her own saddle.
Terrific,
Ty thought, when Bubba nodded his head and said he’d get right on it. A cold knot of anxiety settled like a weight in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of getting back on a horse for the first time in eight years, her every move—correct that, her every blunder—noted by Steve’s expert eye. Kind of like playing a round of golf with Tiger Woods. Or stepping out on the dance floor with Gene Kelly. She could refuse, but mulish stubbornness kept her quiet.
So much for having a chance to regroup, to recover her emotional equilibrium after the tumult of Steve’s kisses.
A
t least she’d gotten to run back to the house, change into her breeches, grab a cinnamon raisin bagel, and guzzle down a cup of lukewarm coffee before facing the music—Macintosh, that is. Steve had hustled her off to the house, saying that he and Bubba would get the horses ready while she changed.
Breathe!
Ty commanded herself repeatedly, whenever she felt close to hyperventilating. True, Macintosh wasn’t some old hack that would plod around a ring in a semicomatose state, indifferent to the rider on its back. But she’d ridden before, owned a horse for years. For Pete’s sake, she’d even shown in hunter, equitation, and junior jumper classes. Surely she’d be able to pull this off and ride adequately enough not to make a complete fool of herself.
Sure,
a nasty voice inside her head sneered back,
but it would be a whole lot easier to impress Steve
with your riding skills if you hadn’t been so darned stubborn these past eight years.
Well, she’d heard that riding after a long break was basically just like the old adage about getting back on a bicycle: one never forgot.
Oh, of course,
that persistent voice mocked.
A bike and a thousand pounds of horse with a mind of
its own? Sure thing, the similarities are endless!
Forgetting to breathe again, Ty choked on a mouthful of bagel, feeling it scrape its way down her throat, all the while praying that Macintosh was indeed as forgiving as Steve promised.
“So Shepp, you going to fill me in on my new boss? Like where you found her?” Bubba had rooted around the tack room and finally unearthed Allegra Palmer’s old saddle. He’d propped it up on the lower half of a stall door and was carefully rubbing conditioner into the abused leather. This was the best he could do right now. Later on, he’d oil the entire saddle thoroughly, coaxing the leather back to life. Next to him, Macintosh was hooked to the cross ties, standing patiently while Steve went over the horse’s shiny chestnut coat with a bristle brush.
“I didn’t. She found me. Ty’s father is this big real estate guy. Ever heard of Stannard Limited? Yeah, just about everyone has. Anyway, she came to me with this idea of helping me get Southwind back in business if I agreed to a partnership. She was convinced her father was about to buy up the property and develop it.”
“Develop it? Turn Southwind into lots of rich city creeps’ houses? I like this woman already.”
“Yeah, it would have killed me, too, Bubba.” Steve bent over and ran his hand down Mac’s foreleg and fished a hoof pick from the back of his pocket. Two careful strokes along the frog of the hoof, and it was clean.
“Bubba, we need to get the farrier out here before New York. I hate the footing at the Garden.”
“Will do,” Bubba answered. Then, refusing to abandon their previous topic of conversation, he asked in a bland voice, “So, was that why you were acting so
grateful
to her out in the pasture?”
Steve shot him a dirty look before ducking underneath Macintosh’s neck to pick out the second hoof.
“Hell, no. Nothing to do with it. She’d gone and picked up two apple trees at a nursery this morning. Wanted to plant them for Fancy.”
“Nice idea.” Bubba paused, his sponge suspended over the saddle’s pommel, thinking it over. “Real nice.”
“Yeah. Kind of floored me, to tell you the truth. Then one thing led to another . . .”
“Uh-huh.” Bubba’s voice rumbled. “Well, that explains it, then.”
“What explains what?” Steve asked, positioning the chestnut’s rear leg against the top of his thigh.
“Why you can’t keep your eyes off her. Never seen that look in your eye around a woman before.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t look at her in any particular way at all. And you’ve been here how long, half an hour? Kind of jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”
“Don’t think so, boss man. You and I go back close to eleven years. You’re looking at her, all right, real speciallike. Surprises the heck out of me. I swear, I thought you only looked at TBs that way.”
“Thoroughbreds?” Steve clarified dryly. Finished with Macintosh’s hooves, Steve grabbed the bridle hanging on a nearby hook and walked over to the cross ties. Unsnapping them, he slipped the reins over Mac’s head, and unbuckled the horse’s leather halter.
Bubba came up beside him, placed a snow-white saddle pad on Macintosh’s withers, then lightly deposited the Herm?s saddle on top of it. The leather conditioner he’d used had already soaked into the fine grain of the saddle, like rain in the desert.
“Yeah, thoroughbreds, TBs,” he repeated, picking up the thread of their conversation. Reaching underneath Macintosh’s belly, he grabbed the girth that Steve normally used on the gelding and slipped it through the looped end of the martingale before fastening it. Macintosh gave a quick toss of his huge head at the sensation of the girth tightening around him.
“And what have thoroughbreds got to do with it?” Steve asked, despite the fact that he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear Bubba’s answer.
“See, that’s what makes it interesting.’Cause it means you’re definitely broadening your horizons, Shepp. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you salivating over a TFB. In case you don’t know it, that stands for
‘trust fund baby.’ ”
A sudden, dangerous blue, Steve’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not suggesting I’m after her money, are you, Bubba?” he asked softly, holding the other man’s gaze.
“Hell, no.” Bubba shook his head calmly, unperturbed. “ ’Course not. If you’d been interested in rich chicks, you could have had your pick long before now. Allegra was ready to hop in the sack with you any day, any time, all you had to do was say the word. Her family could have kept you in million-dollar horses for the rest of your life. This Ty Stannard must have something extra special—other than looks and money,” Bubba mused. His mouth widened in a crafty smile. “You figured out what it is yet?”
“No,” Steve replied testily, thoroughly annoyed by the whole conversation. Bubba was a tough man to shut up when he felt like talking. “But I promise I’ll let you know the second I figure it out.” His sarcastic tone was lost on his barn manager.
“Now there’s a promise I’ll hold you to.” Bubba laughed, adding an “Oh” as he caught sight of long legs encased in black breeches approaching them. “Here comes that ultra-fine specimen now.”
Since Bubba was standing near them in the center of the indoor ring, a broad smile of amusement lingering on his face, Steve did his best not to look at how nicely Ty filled out a pair of breeches, only enough to affirm that she had great lines. Even he didn’t kid himself that he was talking bloodlines. Everything became that much harder when Steve went to give her a leg up. True, Ty probably could have managed to haul herself up into the saddle by dropping the length of the stirrups, but Macintosh was a big horse. And Steve’s fingers itched at the chance to touch her again, however briefly.
“On the count of three,” Steve instructed, grasping Ty’s booted leg in his cupped palms, trying not to breathe too deeply. He was worried he might do something really stupid if he caught a whiff of Ty’s perfume, Bubba only ten feet away notwithstanding.
Ty turned, nodding wordlessly, and Steve saw her eyes, positively enormous with nerves.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Steve said softly, sympathetically. “Riding Macintosh is easier than sitting back in a big, old, comfy recliner and watching the afternoon game on TV. Just make sure you don’t fall asleep. Okay, ready? One, two, three.”
At three, Ty pushed off from the ground with her right leg, hands gripping the saddle’s pommel and cantle, pulling herself upward—though she hardly needed to, Steve’s strength easily propelling her into the saddle.
She settled herself, her thighs automatically adjusting themselves to Macintosh’s breadth. It felt a little like straddling a barrel. Immediately, she gathered her reins, holding them loosely while Steve checked her stirrups.
“Let’s drop them two holes. Your legs are longer than Allegra’s. But first, swing your leg forward so I can tighten your girth. Mac always blows himself up.” Steve moved over to Ty’s left, intending to lift the saddle flap.
“I can do it,” Ty said. Already some of her initial nervousness was wearing off, replaced by rising excitement. She wanted to get going, to see whether riding at twenty-five matched the sweetness of her memories. “This was Allegra Palmer’s saddle?” she asked, tugging Macintosh’s girth a notch tighter.
“Yeah, she abandoned it after leaving it out in the rain one night. You mind using her cast off?”
“Why should I? The saddle fits fine, although it’s a little more padded than I’m used to. But that might be a good thing, considering how long it’s been.”
“Uh, exactly how long ago was it since you rode?” Steve asked, lowering Ty’s right stirrup as she worked on the left.
“Eight years,” Ty admitted, shamefaced. “Are you sure you trust me on Macintosh’s back?” she asked, ready to jump off despite her growing enthusiasm if Steve hesitated.
“Eight years,” Steve repeated, shaking his head. “Hell of a long time to be away from the saddle. Difficult to imagine. Let’s see what your body remembers after this many years. Just take it nice and easy. Why don’t you walk Mac on the rail for a while, give yourself the chance to get the feel back.” Steve turned, addressing his stable manager. “Bubba, d’you mind tacking Cantata for me and bringing her out?”
“No sweat, Shepp,” Bubba replied easily, already heading toward the paneled gate. “Good luck, Ty,” he called out with a grin. “Don’t go landing on your butt, now.”
“Thanks, Bubba. I’ll try my best to avoid it.”
Steve let Ty walk around the perimeter of the indoor ring for the next several minutes in peace. She was sitting all neat and tidy, perhaps a mite too stiff. As if she were entering her first equitation class. He needed to give her something to think about; maybe that would loosen her up a bit.
“All right, Ty, here’s the deal: Mac’s got a real soft mouth. You only need to keep a light contact; he doesn’t respond well to grabby or jerky hands, so loosen your reins just a fraction. That’s it. While you’re working him on the flat, you want to maintain an unbroken line extending from your elbow to the bit. Good, keep contact with his mouth, but don’t fuss.”
Steve gave her a minute to absorb his instructions, drawing a cigarette from his vest pocket and lighting up. Exhaling a stream of smoke, he continued. “Now, let’s move on to your legs. You look real pretty up there and all. But there’s no way you’re going to be able to keep Mac rounded and beneath you once his attention wanders if you’re perched too far forward of the vertical. He’s a good horse, not a robot. You need to sit up straighter and
down
into your saddle. Don’t be afraid to use your butt, even if you do land on it,” Steve advised, pleased when he startled a laugh out of her. She was beginning to relax.
“That’s better. Bring your leg back a hair more. Right, just like that, so you’ve got him listening. How’s he feel?”
“Lovely. Big, far bigger than my mare was. Then again, maybe I’ve just forgotten the sensation of being on a horse’s back.”
“Doubt it,” Steve replied with a laugh. “Even I feel like I’m climbing onto a huge tractor or a World War II tank when I switch from another horse to Macintosh. But he’s as steady as they come. Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. All right, let’s see you move him into a trot now. Remember: light hands, strong, centered lower body.”