Her palm still tingled.
Once, she hadn’t been able to get enough of the feel of his rough, masculine hands upon her.
And now she remembered.
But really, she’d never forgotten.
CHAPTER SIX
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
Though Bran ostensibly stood on the central platform of Endcliffe Grange’s training track, calling out commands to Radish’s jockey, Lafferty, what he was doing in reality was keeping a too-close eye on his pocket watch.
Noon.
The hour Lady Artemis said she would be here.
His plan was simple—to be in the thick of the training session when she arrived. That way, she could observe her fill and leave him be.
Again, he checked his pocket watch. Five minutes shy of noon.
He returned his attention to Radish and Lafferty. The jockey was good, but Bran had detected something out of balance between him and the colt. Today, he was determined to right it. “All right, Lafferty,” he called out. “I’ll give the command at the next post.” When horse and rider reached the track’s next straight, he called out, “Can-ter,” the first syllable lower than the second. Radish immediately responded and picked up his pace.
Bran had always found deep satisfaction in this—taking a talented horse in hand and guiding them toward their best.
And there was no doubting Radish’s potential.
Further, there was no doubting that Endcliffe Grange was the place to help him reach it. A sprawling, well-tended estate, its practice track was no different, with its even, close-clipped turf, freshly whitewashed fencing, and lack of a single hole or divot on its smooth surface. He knew because he’d sent five lads ahead to inspect every inch before he’d allowed Radish to step hoof on it.
In truth, the turf was middling soggy today, for a heavy soaking rain shower had rolled through two hours ago, leaving behind a thick blanket of clouds and an unseasonal chill in the air.
It was actually perfect.
Doncaster had a reputation for throwing bad weather at the horses on race day, so it was important for Radish to train under these conditions. And what had become clear in the last hour was the colt liked running in the slop.
Radish was a mudder.
Bran had taken note of a few other dominant qualities, as well. He was aggressive, like many Thoroughbreds, but not overly so. Rather, he was assertive in the business-like manner of one who had a job to do and wasn’t about to let anyone stand in his path.Focused.Further, Radish was intent on having his own way, as if he understood the sport of racing better than any human of his acquaintance.
All Radish wanted to do was run.
Bran experienced a niggle that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in two years—or longer, truth told.
Hope.
Taking first at the St. Leger was a steep hill to climb. After all, there would be a field of other talented Thoroughbreds to beat. It wasn’t enough for the owner or the trainer or the jockey or the lad at the betting post to want it. The horse had to want it, too.
And Radish wanted it.
Bran was becoming certain of the fact.
Yet only four weeks remained until the St. Leger, and of those four weeks, only two of them could be used for strict training, as Radish would be walked to Doncaster and then rested in the final week before the race. If by some miracle Radish won—Bran was hopeful about his chances, but not unrealistic—then it would be only three more weeks until the Race of the Century. Simply, there wasn’t much time to work out Radish’s eccentricities and test his mettle.
He put a hand to his mouth and called out, “And trot.” This time, the first word was high and the second low.
Once Radish slowed, Bran pursed his mouth and emitted a short shrill whistle. Radish came to a stop. The colt might’ve been intent on having his own way, but he was trainable.
Again, that unreliable feeling—hope.
