Page 64

“Excellent,” Mr. Wintour said, leaning on his cane, though not as heavily as he’d done the day she’d arrived. “And…everyone is helping?”

Winnie knew at once who he was referring to, so she was quick to answer. “Surprisingly enough, yes. Everyone is helping. Matthew, too.”

She could have sworn she’d seen disbelief in Mr. Wintour’s eyes for a moment, but he blinked it away in an instant.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I know I speak for my entire family when I say we have high expectations for the festival. We can’t wait to see what you’ve pulled off.”

Winnie knew his words had been meant as an encouragement, but she could have done with maybe a little less faith. She wasn’t used to such lofty hopes—not with her family, at least. Was she going to be a monumental letdown to each of them, the Wintours included, when all was said and done?

After Mr. Wintour took his leave, Winnie was left alone again to a buzzing phone and a mile-long list of to-dos which she checked off little-by-little until her stomach rumbled—her only indication that she was in need of a break.

Still staring at her phone, signing off on the carousel delivery and another food booth, Winnie headed out of the assembly hall. As she did so, just like every day she worked in there, the smell of horses, leather, and feed from the stables drifted past her nose.

Most days, she walked straight past the smells, ignoring the wave of nostalgia that always rushed over her, but this time, whether it was due to hunger or simple exhaustion, her strength wasn’t what it usually was.

She stopped, staring wistfully—and perhaps a bit fearfully—at the stable entrance. She hadn’t willingly been within any stables since she was eighteen years old and her heart had been crushed. It was too hard, the happy memories that returned, the peace and joy she hadn’t felt since those days of blissful horseback riding. Somedays, those memories were so powerful, so potent, it was hard to breathe.

And yet, today, her eyes remained on the stable doors, the nickers and whinnies from inside tying a rope around her heart and tugging her toward them. The pull had always been there, but it had grown stronger each day at Foxwood as she’d been surrounded by the animals that had once filled every part of her life.

Still she hesitated outside. No good could come from flirting with temptation by going inside to take a look around.

She turned away with her chin held high, settling on her decision to leave. That is, until another nicker from within the stables cinched its hold tighter around her, and she paused.

Then again, what harm would occur if she did go inside? After all, she’d been around horses for the last two weeks now and had been perfectly fine. She hadn’t been thrown back into her past too uncontrollably or anything. She was sure she could handle it.

Besides, once the festival was over and she was tasked with improving Foxwood, the stables would inevitably fall under that umbrella. It was only logical for her to get a sense of how many horses they had and what the stables were like. One quick look around would be fine, she was sure of it.

With hesitant steps, she moved forward, reminding herself she was a decade older and wiser now as she finally entered the stables, and instantly, all other thoughts fled her mind.

When she was younger, the stables she’d trained at had been impressive with clean cement flooring, white posts separating the horses’ stalls, and large windows in the ceiling.

But Foxwood’s stables? They were unmatched. The same gray, black, and brown stone that covered the interior of the assembly hall now filled the aisles of the two-storied structure. Each horse’s stall had been constructed of gorgeous, dark wood, while the individual gates were made of black wrought iron, the doors curved low and centered to allow the horses to pop their heads over into the aisle whenever they wished.

Ornate lanterns hung from the walls near the stalls, casting warm, glowing circles across the stone flooring, and every inch of the place shone with cleanliness and care.

What really caught her attention, however, was when she let out a sigh of appreciation, and one by one, horses poked their heads out of their stalls to see who had come to visit them.

One, two, three, four. She counted faster. Seven, eight, nine. And that was only the first aisle. How many horses did they have? How many did they need?

She was one to talk. She’d had lofty goals of housing hundreds of horses when she was younger.

Her heart twisted. She moved to turn away, but when she caught the eye of the third horse down, jet black face and mane, she paused. That was Matthew’s horse.

She knew she ought to turn away right then, having learned long ago that ignoring horses—no eye contact and no touching—was far better than to pine after them, as she’d done when she was younger.

But Matthew’s horse continued to stare her down, as if to say, “Hey, you disturbed us and got our hopes up. The least you can do is give us a pat.”

Could she? Should she?

She drew a deep breath, a hint of manure on the air. She’d never been offended by the smell. It had an earthy scent to it that brought to mind summer trail rides and shared sugar cubes.

A few of the horses in the stables pulled back into their stalls, but Matthew’s remained, still watching her. She’d purposefully not learned his name. Names only brought attachment—as did touch.

Did proximity?

Biting her lower lip, she stepped forward, the black horse still watching her as she approached. He had as penetrating a gaze as his master.

“Hey, there,” she whispered, drawing closer and closer to him. “I’ve seen you around here. I’m sure you’ve seen me lurking, too.”