“He will that. And here we have Spud. He’s young and feisty but goes well.”
“A dark horse.” Iona moved over to run a hand down his black mane. “With a weakness for potatoes.” She caught the look again, used a smile. “His name. Spud.”
“We’ll use that one if you like. And here’s Queen Bee, as she thinks she is. She bosses the others every opportunity, but she likes a good ride.”
“I wouldn’t mind one myself. She’s had some trouble with her right foreleg?”
“A bit of a strain a week or so back. Healed up nicely. If she told you different, she’s just looking for sympathy.”
Unsure, Iona took a step back, slid her hands into her pockets.
“I’m not likely to get the jitters if someone shares a communion with horses,” Meara commented. “Especially someone blood kin to the O’Dwyers.”
“I’m good with them. Horses,” Iona qualified as she stroked the regal-eyed Queen Bee. “I’m hoping to work on getting good with the O’Dwyers.”
“Connor’s an easygoer, with a weakness for a pretty face. You’ve got one. Branna’s fair, and that’s enough.”
“You’re friends.”
“We are, and have been since we were in nappies, so I know Branna, being fair, wouldn’t have sent you to us if you weren’t suited.”
“I’m good at this. It’s what I’m good at.” All, she thought, she was certain she was good at.
“You’ll need to be. All my life,” Meara said at Iona’s questioning look. “So I know it’s the one who communes with horses who makes the three.”
Iona thought of the looks from the waitstaff over dinner the night before. “Does everyone know?”
“What people know, what they believe, what they accept? Those are all different matters, aren’t they? Well then, since Boyle’s running behind, we can—” She broke off, pulled out her phone when it jingled in her pocket, checked the text. “Ah, good, he’s on his way. We’ll just go out, if that’s good for you, and meet him.”
Her potential new boss, Iona thought. “Any tips?”
“You could remember Boyle’s fair as well, though he’s often short on words and temper.”
Meara gestured Iona along as she shoved her phone away again. “He’s riding Fin’s latest acquisition over. Fin’s Boyle’s partner, and travels about when he’s a mind to buying horses and hawks or whatever strikes his fancy.”
“But Boyle—Mr. McGrath—runs the stables.”
“He does—or they both do, but it’s Boyle who deals more with the day-to-day. Fin found this stallion in Donegal, and had him sent, as Fin himself’s still rambling. He plans to stud him out later in the year, and Boyle’s just as determined to teach him manners.”
“Fin or the stallion?”
Meara let out a big, brassy laugh as they stepped back outside. “That’s a question, and it may be both, though I’d wager he’ll have better luck with the horse than Finbar Burke.”
She nodded toward the end of the road. “He’s a fine-looking bastard for all that, with a devil’s temper.”
Iona turned. She couldn’t say if Meara spoke of the horse or the man astride him. Her first impression was of magnificence and hotheads on both counts.
The horse, big and beautiful at easily sixteen hands, tested his rider with the occasional buck and dance, and even with the distance, she could see the fierce gleam in his eyes. His smoke gray coat showed some sweat, though the morning stayed cool—and his ears stayed stubbornly back.
But the man, big and beautiful as well, had his measure. Iona heard his voice, the challenge in it if not the words, as he kept the horse at a trot.
And something in her, just at the sound of his voice, stirred. Nerves, excitement, she told herself, because the man held her happiness in his hands.
But as they drew closer, the stir grew to a flutter. Attraction struck her double blows—heart and belly as, oh, he really was as magnificent as the horse. And every single bit as appealing to her.
His hair, a kind of rich caramel that wasn’t altogether brown, wasn’t quite red, blew everywhere in the breeze. He wore a rough jacket, faded jeans, scarred boots, all suiting the tough, rawboned face. The strong jaw and a mouth that struck her as stubborn as the horse he rode just echoed the hard lines of temper barely leashed when the horse bucked again.
A thin scar, like a lightning bolt, cut through his left eyebrow. For reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend, it stirred up a delicious little storm of lust inside her.
