The chestnut’s head came out over the half door, her white blaze bright in the shade of the barn. The mare spied her and whickered, whiffing down her nostrils. Beryl went to her, happiness welling, and laid her cheek alongside Lacey’s, breathing in the familiar scents of horse and hay and leather and dust that spelled contentment. Her fingers trailed under the crest of the mare’s mane, feeling the warmth of her hide and the softness of her coat.
“Did you miss me?” She hadn’t seen the mare in over a week, and while to most people that might not seem like very long, to Beryl, it had seemed forever. “Are you looking forward to blowing away the winter cobwebs as much as I am? It seems we’ve hardly done more than walk along the bridal paths in Central Park for ages.”
Valentine’s Highland Lace—to use her registered name—nudged Beryl with her muzzle, awaiting the expected treat. Beryl laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if it is me you miss or the peppermints.” She placed a red-and-white candy on her palm, and Lacey lipped it up, her whiskers tickling Beryl’s hand.
“You shouldn’t give her that garbage.”
Beryl turned and looked into a pair of deep, green eyes. Major Kennedy. A burst of hyper-awareness shot through her, and her breathing quickened. “I beg your pardon?” Up close he was even more handsome than she’d first thought, and his disapproving frown didn’t detract from his good looks.
“If you want to give her a treat, make it a carrot or slice of apple at least. Candy isn’t good for her. She’s fat as butter now. Candy will make it worse.”
Her back straightened. “She’s not fat, she’s just a little plump. And she loves peppermints. Surely a little piece here or there won’t matter.”
“No candy in my stables.” Enunciating every word, he crossed his arms and gave her a stern look as if she were a child acting out in church.
Stung, she snapped back. “These aren’t your stables, sir. They belong to the Schmidts. And this isn’t your horse. She belongs to me. If I choose to give her a treat now and then, it’s certainly none of your business.”
The man scrubbed his short dark beard, tugged a folded paper from the inside pocket of his tweed hacking jacket, and studied it. “According to this list given me by the Schmidts, that horse belongs to one Wallace Valentine.” He quirked his right eyebrow at her and studied her from hairline to hem. “I assume you are not Wallace?”
Heat crept up Beryl’s face. “Of course I’m not. I am Miss Beryl Valentine, his daughter.” What impertinence.
He shrugged and restored the paper to his pocket. “Miss Valentine, the Schmidts have put me in charge of this stable for the next three months. That includes the well-being of both their horses and all those that board here. The vet was out this morning, looking over the new arrivals, and he is concerned about this animal. Doc says she put on quite a bit of bulk this winter, and he’s put her on a restricted diet to get her weight down, which means no treats that aren’t approved by either him or me.”
Concern scampered through Beryl’s middle, and she put her hand on Lacey’s neck. “What else did the vet say? Is this serious? I know she’s plumped up some….”
“Other than being a bit overweight, she’s sound. She needs work and a proper diet.” Major Kennedy pushed himself off the wall. “If you’ll wait out by the ring, I’ll tack her up for you, and we’ll start some of that work.”
“I prefer to do my own grooming and saddling.”
His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure? It’s hardly expected of a lady.”
At this point, Melanie giggled from the doorway and edged into the barn. “Sometimes I tease Beryl that she’d make a great stable hand. She’d spend all day in the barn if she could.” She held out her hand. “Melanie Turner. I’ll be taking lessons from you, too, Major Kennedy.” Her brightest smile lit her face. “I declare, you’re even more handsome than I’d been told.” Lashes fluttering, she dipped her chin.
Beryl groaned inwardly. She loved Melanie; she really did, but sometimes she wanted to smack her. Flirting, acting like a silly chit, calling Beryl a stable hand.
“A pleasure, Miss Turner. And please, call me Gard. I’m no longer a major.” He took Melanie’s proffered hand for a moment. “Do you have a horse of your own here that I can see saddled, or will you be using one of the Schmidt mounts?”
“Oh, I don’t own a horse. I haven’t ridden since I was a child.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “I’m sure I’ll need plenty of instruction.”
Mr. Kennedy raised his eyebrows, appraising her. “So, you’re a beginner?” He stepped forward, ran his hand down Lacey’s nose, and held it so the horse wouldn’t startle, and then he shouted down the barn to the open back doors. “Hey, Asa?”
The dark-skinned man they’d seen at the training ring trotted inside. “Yes, sir?”
“Asa, it turns out that Miss Turner here is a novice rider. Please, saddle Starlight, and do an assessment of Miss Turner’s abilities for me.” The look he gave the older man spoke of a long relationship where much was communicated but not much needed to be said. Beryl liked the way he treated the groom with respect and dignity, saying please and asking rather than ordering him about.
Melanie, predictably, pouted. “But I thought you would be my teacher.”
“Asa is better with beginning riders than I.” Mr. Kennedy gave a slight bow. “He’ll take good care of you.”
Having no option but to go, Melanie turned, sending a perturbed look back over her shoulder at Beryl. Sighing, Beryl shook her head at her friend’s theatrics but then pushed them out of her mind. She was in her happy place, and she refused to let disquieting thoughts—whether of her mother’s matrimonial determination, her flirtatious, pouting friend, or her handsome new riding instructor—upset her.
Opening Lacey’s stall, she led the chestnut out, clipping leads to her halter to cross-tie her in the barn aisle. She stroked her neck, looking her over from nose to tail. She seemed to have traveled well, no nicks or bumps that she could see.
Mr. Kennedy, instead of leaving her alone with her mount, leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and his ankles.
His stare unnerved her. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Just to watch how you handle a horse. To see if you need help.” His tone implied that she would need his help.
She bristled. “I assure you, I can handle my own horse. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Well, you just say so. I don’t have any proof, and the safety and care of the horses is my responsibility.” He flicked his hand. “Go ahead. I won’t step in until you need me.”
Frustration at things being not as she had expected welled up. “I wish Avila hadn’t gotten hurt. She never hovers.”
His dark brows rose again, and she felt as if he were mocking her. Hot embarrassment chased up her cheeks.
“So what you’re saying is that she pretty much let you do whatever you wanted.” He sounded resigned, as if that’s what he had expected all along.
Beryl took a deep breath. Better to ignore him. She picked a body brush out of the grooming toolbox on the wall and stroked it across the mare’s broad back. Lacey tucked one hind leg and promptly lowered her eyelids. She loved to be groomed and would stand still all day if Beryl would indulge her. “Don’t you fall asleep. I want you to give me a good ride today.”
With long, brisk strokes, she brushed Lacey from neck to rump, lifting surface dust from her hide and burnishing her chestnut coat until it shone. With a damp rag, she washed Lacey’s face, though the mare jerked away and snorted. It was the only part of the grooming process she fussed about. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re worse than a toddler about having your face cleaned.”
Feeling Mr. Kennedy’s eyes on her the entire time, she donned a burlap apron hanging from a nail by the grooming box to protect her riding habit and carefully lifted each of the mare’s feet, cleaning them out with a hoof pick, checking for any cracks or chips, and testing that her shoes were still firmly attached. Straightening, she
whisked off the apron and dropped it back over the nail.
Mr. Kennedy pushed himself off the wall. “Nicely done. I didn’t expect you to do the hooves, too.”
“‘A horse is only as good as his feet.’” She quoted her first riding instructor, an old groom of her father’s from way back who was now pensioned off at her father’s stud farm upstate. “I don’t shirk work when my horse’s well-being is at stake.” Starchy didn’t begin to describe her tone.
“But you shirk work otherwise?” The corner of his mouth twitched.
Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and went down to the tack room. His boots crunched on the gravel behind her, but she didn’t look at him.
“I’ll carry your saddle for you.”
“No, thank you.”
His hand came out and touched her arm.
She stopped cold, staring first at his hand and then up at him. “Pardon me?”
“Look, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong lead.” He removed his hand and rubbed his bearded chin. “It’s clear you would prefer to be under Avila Schmidt’s tutelage, and I would much prefer not to be a riding instructor this summer, but here we are. You did a nice job grooming your horse, and I’m sure you can saddle her all by yourself, but allow me to be the gentleman that I wasn’t right off the bat.” He tilted his head and smiled. “Surely you can be lady enough to do that?”
His eyes were the color of the jade carvings she’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, pale green, fringed with black lashes, and they held a challenge.
Relinquishing the saddle, she nodded. “Of course.”
As he walked down the breezeway, she tried not to watch the slight sway of his shoulders, the lean-hipped, long stride of a lifelong horseman. He might be nice to look at, but that was where her interest ended. Melanie might flirt and giggle, but Beryl had more important things on her mind.
Gard saddled the mare, double-checking the girth around her rotund middle before lowering the stirrup on the sidesaddle. Miss Valentine had some grit to her. When he’d questioned her horsemanship, she’d bristled like a hedgehog.
Miss Valentine was beautiful, though he chided himself for noticing such a thing. Which was why he’d jumped on her about feeding her horse sweets, acting defensive when she hadn’t really done anything wrong. It wasn’t like him to be distracted by a pretty woman … though if he was honest, he hadn’t been around too many.
Her concern for her horse had been quick and real when he mentioned the vet’s visit. And he’d only slightly exaggerated the situation. The horse was overweight, and candy wasn’t good for her. But mostly Gard had baited Miss Valentine to get a reaction. She’d looked so composed and picturesque in her riding habit and hat, her hair all bound up in that net-thingy. She’d looked the epitome of the upper-crust, come-to-play-at-riding-but-not-serious-about-horsemanship debutante he had feared he’d be saddled with when taking this job in the first place.
But she’d groomed her horse by herself. And it clearly wasn’t the first time. She had been calm and businesslike, and affectionate, too. What a puzzle. Had he judged her wrongly? He shrugged. Better to get on with the lesson.
“Do you want to use the mounting block, or shall I give you a leg up?” He led the chestnut out into sunshine, talking to Miss Valentine over his shoulder.
“I’ll use the block, thank you.”
Hmm, still a fair amount of frost in her voice. She took her time, checking his saddling job for herself, and he had a fleeting memory of his days as a new first lieutenant, straight from West Point. He’d inherited a sergeant who had ridden with General John Buford at Gettysburg and had forgotten more about military mounted tactics than Gard would ever learn. He’d checked and double-checked Gard’s work for months until he was sure the green officer wouldn’t harm himself or the horses through some oversight.
Good old Sergeant Barker.
Miss Valentine gathered her skirt, discreetly buttoning it up on her right hip to keep the excess out of the way while in the saddle—he’d had no idea that’s how women’s riding habits worked—and stepped onto the block. Gard held the chestnut’s bridle as Miss Valentine settled herself into the saddle, putting her right knee into the top pommel and the dainty, black-polished toe of her riding boot into the stirrup iron.
Very tidily done.
She adjusted her skirts and gathered her reins, patting the mare on the withers.
“I’ll open the gate.” He went ahead of her to the training ring.
Miss Valentine waited until he was several strides ahead before following so her horse wouldn’t run up his heels. Considerate.
“Go ahead and warm her up as you usually do.”
He went to the center of the ring, while she walked her horse around the perimeter, letting her familiarize herself with the layout inside the fence. Gard turned slowly with their progress, taking note of her seat, her hands, her leg angle. He had set up the ring this morning with low poles on the perimeter, a clear oval path inside that, and in the middle a ring of six cross-rails, all eighteen inches or lower. Basic lesson tools.
Miss Valentine’s reins were not as loose as he would like—downright snug—but he said nothing, wanting to get more information first. When she moved the horse into a trot, she posted, but she was slightly behind the rhythm. Rusty or unlearned? Her center of gravity seemed to be off a bit, putting her just behind the proper pace.
The canter was better, and she certainly didn’t appear timid, but those hands … and her eyes were looking in the wrong place. He wondered at Avila Schmidt’s riding techniques if this is how one of her most advanced students rode.
Beryl Valentine’s riding was average at best. Promising but not polished. There was plenty to build on, but plenty of work to do as well.
If she was amenable to teaching. That aristocratic bearing, something he’d seen in many of the young officers who had been under his command, could prove tough to crack.
“Bring her in.” Gard waved her closer. Lacey was puffing a bit, even after that short warm-up. Seriously out of shape.
“First, I’d like to know what you want to get out of these lessons. What’s your aim?” He rested his hand on Lacey’s neck, looking up at Miss Valentine—Beryl—he couldn’t go on calling her Miss Valentine, not when they were going to be working together.
“I want to ride her in the summer training hunts with the Garrison Hunt Club. And I want to show at Deep Haven at the end of summer.”
Deep Haven. Schmidt had contracted with Gard to ride Arcturus at Deep Haven, explaining that it was one of the largest shows in the state and sure to garner plenty of attention for the young stallion, who was the reigning Open Class Champion. Miss Valentine had a lofty goal considering her current riding level. “Have you shown before?”
“Of course. Since I was a child.”
“And how have you fared?” Because if he’d been judging, she would have been middle of the class at best based upon what he’d seen today.
She shrugged. “Depends on the show. I’ve won a few ribbons. I’ve never ridden at Deep Haven, but I’ve always wanted to. Avila said this was the year.”
He nodded. “If you’re willing to work hard, I think we can improve on those results. But better than that, you can give your horse a better, more comfortable ride.”
Her nostrils flared and her brows rose. “A better ride?”
Here was where he would find out if she had what it took or if she was all show and no stay. “That’s right. You’ve got a promising horse here, but you’ve let her get into some bad habits. Her back end is weak, and she’s not striding out. Probably because you’re snatching at her mouth. Your hands are too firm on the reins, and she’s tucking her chin. And you’re about a half stride off on your post. It looks awkward and has to feel worse for the mare.”
“I beg your pardon? Avila never complained about my riding, and I hold the reins exactly as she taught me.”
Lacey, catching the tension, sidled and shook her head.
>
“I suppose she taught you to ‘keep in contact with your horse’s mouth at all times’?”
“Of course.”
Gard refrained from rolling his eyes, not wanting to undermine Mrs. Schmidt, but her way of thinking created riders with less security in the saddle than they should have, and it also created horses with leather mouths and tentative movements. He tried to decide how to frame this so Miss Valentine wouldn’t be totally offended.
“If you could watch yourself ride, you would see that you’re tugging at your horse’s mouth. Without meaning to, you’re pulling back at the same time you’re urging her forward. She’s not striding easily, or confidently, because she’s confused as to your signals.” He ran his hand down Lacey’s shoulder. “I know the last thing you want to do is confuse her or hurt her mouth.”
Doubt clouded her blue eyes. She looked at the reins in her hands, her dark brows bunched.
“I’ll tell you what.” Gard motioned toward the gate. “My saddle is here. Let me ride her, and you watch. See if you can tell a difference.”
Swapping saddles took only a couple of minutes, and Beryl stepped back, tucking a stray curl off her cheek and behind her ear. “She hasn’t been ridden by anyone but me in a long time.”
Gard nodded, putting his boot into the stirrup and gathering the reins. “A good horse needs to be able to be handled by more than one rider.” He swung into the saddle. Lacey was broad backed and sturdy, like straddling an upholstered barrel. “Watch the difference in her stride when I use a loose rein as opposed to a tight one.”
He squeezed his lower legs against Lacey’s sides, and the chestnut moved forward at a walk. Keeping the reins tight, Gard could feel the hesitance in the horse’s movement. Chin tucked too far under, short-strided. Half a lap at a walk, and then Gard urged her into a trot, keeping the reins snug as Beryl had done. Lacey trotted more up-and-down than forward as a result, and when they completed the lap, Gard pulled her to a stop near where Beryl stood.
“Now I want you to watch her again. It might take a few laps, but you’ll notice a change in her once she realizes I’m going to leave her mouth alone.”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 36