Chelsea Bradley lowered her shoulders, allowing her black crêpe suit jacket to slide down her back and into her hands before throwing it over her lap. In hindsight, a nice button-down shirt and jeans would have been more appropriate for the riding instructor interview, but as her father always said; hindsight’s twenty-twenty.
She squirmed in the hard oak chair, trying to focus her nervous energy on anything but the farm outside the bay window. Rolling hills of pasture, dotted with horses and outlined with rows of black, split rail fencing, stretched far out of view.
The growing heat and humidity just outside the thin pine door threatened to destroy her chances of looking cool and collected. The butterflies churning in her stomach already made it hard to think straight. She took a deep settling breath, then another. This might be the most important day of her life, but by the sheer grace of God, she had to make it through the interview first. The stuffy office just off the main hall of the training barn smelled of hot horse flesh and fresh cedar shavings. Not the most pleasant of aromas to some people, but one she’d grown to like as a child. Rows of award ribbons hung on each wall over pictures of Champion Saddlebreds. Some she recognized, but most she didn’t.
“After leaving the horse show industry,” she continued, answering another of Eric Chandler’s many questions. “I worked for KGI, a medical supply company, in the payroll department as an assistant.”
“Where did you work before KGI?” His stare penetrated to her core. She couldn’t lie to the owner of Brigadoon Farms. He could probably smell a fib a mile away, but he didn’t need to know all the details about her past life, her mistake of a marriage to a cheating tycoon, or the humiliating divorce that followed. At least she had gotten away with the only thing that mattered to her. The one thing Chase Whitney would never have again if she could help it―her son.
“I was self employed as a personal assistant to a real estate developer here in North Carolina.” A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. It wasn’t a complete lie. Since marrying Chase, she’d spent her days running countless errands, planning parties, and entertaining the wives of potential clients. She’d been more of an assistant than a wife to the man who had claimed to love her. The sudden image of his face turned her stomach. Why did he have to be such a bastard?
“Now, Ms Bradley,” Eric continued. “It says on your résumé you once rode for Camelot Stables.” The owner of Brigadoon Farms looked up from the paper and lowered thick, black rimmed glasses to his nose. Chelsea nodded in agreement. “Did you own your own horse there?”
His implication didn’t go unnoticed. “No, sir,” she answered. “I spent a season filling in for the trainer after he broke his leg on a filly.”
He continued to stare as if asking for more. She took a deep breath of the warm, stale air. “He did the ground work, lead lines, jog carts, headsets. I did the riding, warm-ups, workouts, that kind of thing.”
The balding man behind the desk gave an approving nod and slipped his glasses back over his pale brown eyes.
“So,” he began again, reviewing the rest of the one page résumé, totaling her experience in the horse world and a stint as a payroll clerk at an office a few towns away. “Would you say you have sufficient experience as a trainer?”
The question set her on edge. She had applied to take over the schooling program at Brigadoon, not as a trainer. Or had she read the ad wrong? No. This interview would make or break her plans for a fresh start. She’d been too careful for such a foolish error.
“Mr Chandler?”
Eric looked up from the paper again, pushing his glasses down the bridge of his nose.
“I think there’s been some mistake. I’m answering your ad for a riding instructor. The one advertised in the Marshall City Gazette.” Her breath hardened in her chest. What if she had been wrong?
“No mistake.” He pulled the glasses from his face, folded the bows underneath their metal rims then laid them on top of her résumé. “I need an instructor. Molly, out there—” he pointed a bony
finger out the window to a short, dark haired woman leading a pony ridden by a small child “—is due in two weeks. Her husband wants her home with the baby. Do you have a husband?”
Chelsea quickly answered no, relieved she didn’t have that burden hanging on her anymore.
“Good,” the thin man went on. “I’ve also got a hot shot out there somewhere gunning to take over this place one day. I figure it’s about time to give him a chance at the reins, if he can match the wager we have going.” Chelsea tried to follow along. “Once he takes over my position, I’ll need a trainer to take his place. You seem to have some experience, so why not kill two birds with one stone?”
“Mr Chandler. I beg your pardon, but I hardly think what I did at Camelot would be considered training experience. Reggie McNeil called all the shots. I just followed orders.”
He had it all wrong. She’d helped train a few horses, sure. But nothing like what Eric Chandler had just proposed. And her experience at Camelot had been eight years ago. Eric leaned over the desk. A scowl crossed his face as he held her gaze. For a short, wiry man, he knew how to demand respect. Chelsea fought a sudden wave of nausea climbing up her throat.
“Ms Bradley. I’m a very busy man and I don’t mince words when it comes to business.” She felt heat build in her cheeks. “I called Reggie McNeil the minute your résumé hit my desk.”
Her heart skipped two beats. Would Reggie have told about the way she walked out in the middle of show season, with no notice? She tried to get his incensed face out of her head and push back the sudden guilt that followed.
“Reggie said you saved his farm that year. You’re a natural with horses and you follow directions. That’s what I need here, a shut-up and do-it person to take over when Steven becomes manager.”
Thanks Reggie, I owe you. Her chest eased, allowing her to take in much needed air. If Reggie thought she could do it, then she had to have a little faith in herself.
“What do you think of my offer, Ms Bradley?” He joined his hands and laid them on the desk in front of him.
I really need this job for one. She rubbed the silver cross hanging above her chest, a birthday present from her father, then threw caution to the wind. Turning back now would ruin everything.
“I’m all in,” she answered, not sure where the confidence in her voice came from, but glad to hear it.
“Ms Bradley.” Eric Chandler stood and extended his hand over the worn oak desk separating them. “It’s a pleasure to have you on board.”
She took her new boss’s hand and gave a strong shake. His smile set her at ease again. “The pleasure is all mine, sir.”
* * * *
Steven ran the metal sweat scraper over the colt’s wet fur, pulling steaming water from its mahogany colored coat. The mud red liquid hit the cement floor with a thud then splashed back up over his black paddock boots and the cuff of his worn denim jeans. Still early in the morning, he felt rejuvenated. Hard work and fresh air charged him from within, making him feel complete and at peace.
He’d been pleased with the colt’s workout. Only lunging today, but the colt had followed his commands well. He’d be ready for a jog cart by the end of the month and the sale the month after that.
“All in a day’s work.” Mario, the groom, tapped his shoulder and smiled at the sight of the exhausted animal.
“All in a day’s work,” Steven answered back, admiring the colt’s gleaming coat.
“Are you selling that dapple gelding today?” Mario asked, heading to the tack room at the other end of the fifteen-stall barn.
“Shit, I almost forgot.” The clock above the wash pit registered half past eight. Steven had just enough time to cool down the colt and get the gelding cleaned up. “Thanks, man.”
Mario gave a nod before disappearing into the dark room.
“That a boy.” Steven spoke softly as he unhooked the cross ties from the colt’s halter and led him out into the breezeway. The morning had been hotter than expected, and after running the animal through its paces, he needed to shed the sweatshirt now clinging to his every move. He let go of the
lead, separated the sweatshirt from the tee underneath and pulled it over his head. A breeze blew across his exposed abdomen before he could free a hand to pull his shirt back into place. The cool air felt good, but not as good as the stare he received from the woman now standing a few feet away. Glad to know his early morning workouts weren’t a complete waste of time, he grabbed the lead rope and walked the colt to an open stall.
Eric sure could size them up. By the way this one dressed, she had to be good for at least ten thousand dollars. Acer would be worth twice that if he could win a championship title. He watched the breeze play with the hem of her knee length skirt and wondered just how far those long, lean legs went up.
“I’m Steven Bradshaw, head trainer at Brigadoon.” He closed the door to the stall then offered his hand. “You must be…” Shit. Eric hadn’t told him her name.
“Chelsea.” She took his hand. “Chelsea Bradley.”
Chelsea Bradley. The name didn’t ring any bells. He would have remembered that face—lightly tanned and soft as silk—if he’d seen it before. She must be new to the horse market.
“Mr Chandler should be joining us shortly, but if you like, I can start showing you the prospects.” He hoped she’d wait. In ten minutes he could have the gelding gleaming like a freshly oiled saddle.
“I’ve already met with Mr Chandler.” She pulled her sunglasses off, revealing her pale green eyes. “I accepted his offer, and he suggested I take a look around the place.” Her lips parted when she caught his stare. “Don’t let me keep you from anything.”
The old man works fast. But, then again, Steven had never known a woman to beat around the bush when it came to spending money.
“Well, in that case how about a look at your new acquisition?” He led her to the last stall at the far end of the barn and opened the sliding door just enough to give her a view. Her type never wanted much more than a peek, and then to see someone like him riding their money-maker to victory. Never to get their hands dirty with the fundamentals.
“How’s his conformation?” she asked, ducking under his arm still on the door frame and walking into the stall. The silver skinned dapple lifted his head from the pile of alfalfa. Long strands of the rich hay hung loose from his mouth as he grazed.
So, she had a little horse sense. Probably something she’d picked up in the box seats at the Queen’s Cup. He crossed dark tanned arms over his chest and leaned back against the open door. So what if the horse’s back is mutton, she’d never know the difference.
“His conformation’s fine. You’d be hard pressed to find a more perfectly leveled animal.”
“Seems a little flat-backed to me.” She rubbed her hand from the gelding’s withers to the middle of his back and down his flanks.
Flat-backed? Not any animal he’d picked out to train and sell. At least not enough for an unskilled, first time buyer to notice. “He’s just high withered.”
She ran a hand down each back leg then squeezed the cannon, picking up each hoof. “Nothing to get upset over,” she said in a flat tone, as if they’d been friends forever and he’d taken a poke at the ribs too hard. “Ride him with a key-hole pad under the saddle and he should be fine.”
This has to be a joke. He half expected Eric or one of the grooms to come out of the tack room laughing with a video camera in hand. He wouldn’t put it past any of them, after his arrogant remarks about being able to run the farm with one arm tied behind his back.
“Is he broke to saddle yet? He looks like he can’t be more than three, maybe three and a half years-old.” Her hands continued to search the gelding, stopping at the base of his mane and giving a scratch. The gelding twisted his head to the side and mouthed the air in gratitude.
“Broke him myself,” Steven answered, wondering if she got under everyone’s skin the same way she had his. Hadn’t Eric already gone over this with her when they finalized the sale? Eric had lost his touch after his wife died. Just another reason why he needed to let Steven take over before he ran the farm into the ground.
“Yourself, huh?” She stretched a bare arm around the animal’s girth. “He’s very well groomed. No sweat marks. Mr Chandler told me you were meticulous. I see he’s right.”
“Thanks.” His answer came wrapped in a layer of deep sarcasm. “So how did you become the equine authority?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m an authority. I just picked up a few things here and there.” She didn’t look up from her work, checking each hoof. “This horse’s feet are filthy.”
Now it was getting personal . Really funny joke, Eric, wherever you are.
* * * *
Chelsea had had about as much of Steven’s macho nonsense as she could take. Trainer or not, his condescending attitude had grated on her last nerve. Even she could see the hoof needed to be cleaned and treated before the condition worsened.
“He has thrush. Look at this back foot.”
Steven didn’t move from the door. Typical of the know-it-all stereotype she’d already labeled him with.
“Do you have a hoof pick?” That budged him. He pulled a shiny flat blade from his back pocket. She dug the blade into the black dirt surrounding the frog of the foot. The strength of the smell, sour and earthy, took her by surprise.
He must have smelled it too. Before she could look up, he had knelt beside her in the shavings and examined the hoof himself.
“Damn it, Mario. He knows better than this.” He took the pick from her hand and raked the infected dirt from the hoof. Chelsea noticed the pink rising on his cheeks and attributed it to more than just the building heat of the late morning.
“Do you have any Thrush Buster?” The ease of recalling everything she’d learned from Reggie surprised her. Maybe she could pull this off.
“Mario,” Steven called over her shoulder. “Get out here, now!” The anger on his face faded slightly when he turned back to her. “Ma’am. I’m sorry about this. We’ll have him healed up before next week.”
She felt the need to defuse his frustration. Maybe she’d overstepped her bounds, calling out the head trainer before officially starting to work under him. “It’s not that bad an infection, probably no more than a day or two old.”
A short Hispanic man wearing a barn logo across his chest appeared at the door of the stall. He pushed the door open further and walked inside with a bucket half full of warm water. Steven mumbled something under his breath, then lifted the back hoof and scraped away the rest of the infection. The groom, Chelsea guessed, stood at the door. They both ignored her. Chelsea took the opportunity to look around the rest of the training facility. The barn, modest looking on the outside, boasted maroon and black stall fronts with brass nameplates on each door. The one she’d just come from read “Acer, Brigadoon Farms”. He must be one of the schooling horses used in the riding program. If so, why would the head trainer go into hysterics over a small case of thrush?
“Ma’am.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. She’d been too deep in thought to hear Steven walk up behind her. The smart-aleck smirk he’d held steady on his face just moments ago had been wiped clean. She noticed his arms, thick with lean muscle and covered in a fine dust from the shavings in the stall.
“Mario’s taking care of the hoof.” He wiped his arms across his shirt. “We’ll have the vet in tomorrow to check the foot, and hold off on paperwork until then. Again, please allow me to apologize for this inconvenience.”
What’s with the one-eighty on the attitude?
She’d underestimated how seriously Eric took his schooling program. A small case of thrush could happen to anyone. This guy acted as if it would make or break his job. She started to console him again when she heard Eric’s voice coming from outside the barn door.
“Well,” Eric rumbled, a wide smile stretching across his narrow face. “I see you two have become acquainted.”
Steven took two long strides to meet the man before he reached her. His throat vibrated as he mumbled something then looked back to her.
Chelsea hoped he didn’t tell the older man how she’d overstepped her bounds on the first day. She had to swallow hard to keep the acid building in her throat from cresting. Eric looked in her direction and gave a satisfied nod and a slight tip of the straw Stetson resting on his head.
“I hear you’re already proving your worth.” Eric walked closer to where she stood at Acer’s open stall. “I knew Reggie wouldn’t steer me wrong. To think, you had your doubts.”
She had to smile at that. Even she’d been impressed with the amount of Reggie’s tutelage she’d retained. Then she looked at Steven, still several steps behind Eric. His face had gone pale and glowed with sweat.
“Well, it was all Steven, sir.”
The man wilting in front of her needed help, and she wanted him to like her. If she was to get through this show season with her job intact, she’d need all the help she could get.
“Aw, Ms Bradley, you’re too modest.” Steven took a step closer and laid a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Give the credit where it’s due, Eric. Your new stable girl’s got a knack for finding trouble.”
Steven’s arm twitched, causing the muscle on his forearm to spasm. He caught her watching and stared until she thought he could see right through her skin to her wildly beating heart underneath.
“Don’t be angry, Steven. It’s not her fault you have a bad memory.” Eric tipped his hat up in Steven’s direction. “I told you the name of the woman interested in the gelding was Judy Holloway. She’s in her mid-sixties and nowhere near as pretty as our new riding instructor, Chelsea.” Eric laughed. “Judy should be here any minute.” Eric fumbled with the Rolex on his wrist. Chelsea recognized it as the same style she’d given her ex-husband for his thirty-fifth birthday. “Steven, maybe you should let Chelsea help you get Acer ready.”
Steven looked like he’d just taken a slap to the face. Eric took a halter and lead rope off the wall beside him and handed it to Steven before leaving through the open breezeway.
“Here.” Steven tossed the lead to her then walked past with hostile grumbles spewing from his mouth. “You get the horse and bring him over to the wash pit.”
Seconds later he returned from the tack room with a long wooden box filled with brushes.
“You thought I was a buyer?” she said, taking a curry from the box and brushing it in circles over the horse’s body.
“Ah-hum,” he mumbled, not giving any notice to her standing inches from him.
“How much is he worth?” she tried again. Somehow she’d have to find common ground with the man who held her future at Brigadoon in his hands.
“Ten-thousand.” He threw the comb he’d just used on the tail back in the box and picked up a hard brush. “Use this. I already curried him this morning.”
She took the brush and made huge sweeps over the dapple coat. He did the same on the other side, keeping his eyes on the horse and avoiding hers. She tried to do the same, but his light brown eyes contrasting with the deep tan of his skin intrigued her for reasons she didn’t understand. Before she could brush the gelding’s legs, Steven had picked up a soft brush and made his way across the whole animal’s body, pushing her out of the way when he passed. She wanted to call him a jerk. He deserved it the way he acted. But, realizing she’d played a role in his recent humiliation, she opted for a truce.
“Look,” she said when he threw the brush back into the box and picked up the towel hanging on the wall. “I’m sorry if I got in the way. I thought you knew who I was. Really, I thought you were just testing me out.”
He said nothing, just rubbed the towel over the horse’s coat until it gleamed under the halogen lights.
“How long are you going to brood over this?” She wished she could take the words back before they ever left her mouth. What a heartless thing to say to someone she’d just met and probably embarrassed beyond words.
From outside the barn, she heard a woman laughing. Eric’s low toned voice drifted in after. Steven threw the towel down over the box then turned to face her. Standing only inches away, he pinned her against the side of the wash pit, his breath hot on her face and the sweat from his shirt cold on her bare skin.
“Let’s get one thing straight here.” His cold eyes focused on hers, causing her to stop breathing altogether. “This may all be a game to you, but I’ve got better things to do than watch after some rich, spoiled brat while her hubby’s off making the family fortune and sleeping it off with the secretary.”
His words cut deep. She winced and he pressed her harder against the wall.
“Mr Bradshaw.” A new strength grew inside her when she said his name out loud. “I’d appreciate it if you’d back off. I was only trying to help you.”
He moved just enough to allow her to catch her breath. The smell of cedar shavings from his arms mixed with the pine scent of an aftershave. His eyes grew wild as he took a step closer again. The woman’s voice from outside grew louder, and she heard Eric say something about resale statistics for grand champions.
They’re coming, you bastard. You better back off.
Steven took a step away and unhooked the horse from the cross ties. “Don’t ever lie for me again.” He led the gelding out of the wash pit and out the side door towards Eric and the woman.