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He waited for her response, but her mind continued to draw a blank.

“To…look at the horses?” he guessed, closing the distance between them and setting the buckets on the floor next to the stall.

“Yeah,” she said. She’d go with that. “Are you still working?”

He looked to the buckets he’d set down, one filled with water, the other with grooming supplies. “I guess you could call it that. But I don’t really consider grooming horses work. It’s more…”

“Therapy,” she finished aloud without thinking.

Their eyes met, and a strange light appeared in his. “Exactly.”

She knew the feeling well—brushing down horses as she thought through problems or simply practiced mindfulness. The shine on the black horse’s coat told her Matthew must come out for therapy often.

A horse nickered nearby, his chestnut head sticking out over the stall door down the aisle as he eyed Winnie and Matthew.

“Do you groom all of them?” she asked. “’Cause that one looks a little jealous.”

Matthew smiled, entering the stall of his own horse. “That’s Char’s horse, Prince. He’s jealous of everyone. But sadly, no, I don’t have the time. Their owners or the Birdwhistles take good care of them, though.”

Winnie paused. “Their owners?”

He secured the horse with a lead on either side of his halter, then reached for the buckets, hanging them on latches inside the roomy stall. “Most of the horses here are being boarded by members of the staff, residents of Grassington, and friends of my dad. We only own about a third of them.”

“I was wondering about that,” she said. “I just thought you guys really loved your horses.”

“We do. Just not that much.”

That same twinkling in his blue eyes from Sunday appeared now. Was that his way of showing that he was playing? Or was it a warning that he was going to embarrass her again?

“Well, you guys are lucky,” she said, trying to keep the good mood going. She didn’t want to jinx it, but they’d actually been carrying on a civil conversation for the last few minutes. “I mean, that your family can share that love of horses.”

He studied her, his gaze remaining past the point of what she was comfortable with, purely because she knew another question was perched at the edge of his lips.

Whatever that question was, she was pretty sure she didn’t want to answer it. “And this one is obviously your horse,” she said, distracting them both.

Fortunately, he took her bait. “Yep, this is Nightshade.”

“I thought you would have gone for something more historical or knightly. Or something from Harry Potter.”

“I did toy with naming him Sirius—you know, Sirius Black—but Nightshade fit him better,” Matthew replied.

Sirius Black. She thought she recognized the name from the films, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Do you ride?” he asked.

“I did. When I was younger.”

“Ever had a horse of your own?” he asked, rummaging through the bucket beside him before pulling out a hoof pick.

Discomfort pressed at the bottom of her heart. “One. Once upon a time. She was a palomino. Goldilocks.”

She had been the most gorgeous horse Winnie had ever seen—even more so than the black ones she used to pine after. Creamy golden coat. Silvery mane and tail. White socks above her hooves and a white stripe down her nose. She had been tall, regal, majestic. Perfect.

“A clever name,” Matthew said.

“For a seven-year-old,” she returned.

“Do you still have her now?”