Читать книгу Winning Heart - Laura Browning - Страница 8

Chapter 4

As summer wore on, Nelson made a point to catch glimpses of Wynter whenever he could between work and business trips that drained what energy he had recouped. He looked forward to those glimpses. They were a tonic, especially when he saw her gaining weight and looking healthy and happy. He couldn’t help feeling a bit like she was one of the young show horses they trained. When the time was right, she’d be ready for the show ring too.

God knew she had the lines of a Thoroughbred. One evening, he had passed her while she ran along the main road in shorts, a sports bra and beat-up sneakers. Her strides had been easy and ground-covering as though she was accustomed to running long distances. He had watched her slim, graceful form in the rearview mirror until another driver honked, and he realized he’d almost crossed the center line. Yes, her body would make men sit up and take notice, but that was just part of the package. The girl possessed a brain.

On another occasion, she’d been curled up in a rocking chair on the front porch of the office, engrossed in an advanced mathematics textbook. One hand had balanced the book and the other had twirled the braid she wore. Nelson had found himself wondering how long her hair was, and how it would feel to run his fingers through her thick tresses. Did it feel as silky as it looked? He had imagined the strands lying in contrast against her milky skin.

God! She was way too young for him. He turned away in disgust. What on earth was he thinking?

He’d found her another time, after a long day of caring for horses at a show, curled up on a horse blanket on top of the hay bales in the feed stall of a show barn. Thomas had started bringing Wynter along to groom and braid horses, although he was under strict instructions from Nelson not to overwork her. If the older man had thought anything of it, he had hid his feelings well.

As Nelson had watched her sleep, he had felt heat stir in the pit of his stomach. She had lain on her side. His gaze had traveled her long legs to the curve of a hip and the dip of her waist. Her t-shirt had ridden up to reveal the pale, creamy skin of her flat stomach. When his gaze had moved to the swell of her breasts, he’d swallowed. He had pivoted away, the move almost making him lose balance.

She was a means to an end, he reminded himself, just a means to an end. He took a guess at her size and ordered clothing the next day. It was time he started playing Pygmalion.

* * * *

Wynter saw Anderson rarely, but when she had mentioned something to Thomas, he had said the younger man was away on business. Then she’d see him at some of the shows at the Hunt Horse Complex in Raleigh. Sometimes she had caught him watching her. It made her nervous, because her whole body heated up every time. It was as if his dark blue eyes were some kind of laser that set her on fire.

“Wynter,” Thomas called. “Quit daydreaming, lass. I want you ready to go with us this afternoon. You squared away with your classes?”

She set down her book, stood and stretched. “Yes. Is there anything left to pack?”

“Take your braiding gear with you. You can pick up some extra money.”

Wynter blinked. “You’ll let me take on customers outside our horses?”

“If it doesn’t cut into what you must do for me, I have no problem with you pickin’ up extra cash. Figure you must need it, what with your schoolin’.”

She wanted to hug him but was afraid it would embarrass the crotchety Scotsman. Instead, she smiled. “Thanks, Thomas.”

This show was bigger than the last one she’d attended. More riders from outside the state. After she recognized a couple of riders from Southside Virginia, Wynter tucked her giveaway hair up under a baseball cap and introduced herself to everyone outside of Pheasant Run as Win Riley, short for Winifred she told them with a wicked grin as she explained her mother’s awful sense of humor.

After she had landed the first braiding jobs, more followed over the next three days. As fast as she’d finish one horse, someone else would head her way.

Wynter resorted to wearing leather gloves when she worked around the barn. Her fingers were raw and numb from sewing in so many tiny braids. Every time she grimaced with the pain, though, she’d pat the growing wad of cash in her pocket. By the last day of the show, she had pocketed more than eight hundred dollars.

Though she knew he was around, she had hardly seen Nelson Anderson during the entire show. While she stood in the warm-up area near the indoor arena that last day, he rode past in a covered golf cart. A thin, blond-headed woman with more gold on her fingers than sense in her head drove the cart, gesturing and talking as she went. Nelson looked bored and distracted, as though he wasn’t listening at all.

“Hey, Wyn,” a Mexican teenager about two years younger than her yelled from the middle of the ring. “You got any smokes on you?”

She caught Nelson’s head turning out of the corner of her eye, but then he was past and headed around to the front entrance to the arena.

“Sure, Rico. Come and get one.”

The teenager jogged over and jumped the railing of the ring. She handed him a cigarette. He lit hers then his own. He was from Southern Pines, where he worked for a big Hunter/Jumper barn. He and Wynter had hit it off after he’d heard her swearing a blue streak at one of the horses she’d been braiding . He’d promised to teach her Spanish if she would teach him the swear words she knew. It had sounded like a good deal to her because, heaven only knew, she commanded a wide vocabulary of acceptable and unacceptable words.

“You leaving tonight?” he asked in heavily-accented English.

“Yeah. Thomas wants to get the horses back to their own stalls as fast as possible.”

“Too bad. We have a big party on the last night.”

Wynter shrugged. “I’m not much of a partier. I have classes tomorrow.”

“Oh. GED?”

Wynter shook her head. “College.”

It set her apart, and Rico’s manner cooled. “I see you next show then.”

He was off and already calling out to another girl groom. Wynter smiled. Dropped like a rock, but she didn’t care. She lit another cigarette and took a deep draw on it.

Wynter O’Reilly, Duke University Freshman. Nothing would get her down, not hands that hurt like hell, not even the persistent stiffness in her neck and shoulders. She rubbed the back of her neck. She would have loved nothing more than to massage it, but her fingers were too sore.

She watched the horses in the warm-up ring. As she continued to rub her neck, some of the tension dissipated. As usual, it was chaos. Trainers barked at their students while riders made turns and called “Heads up!” before the fence they wanted to jump. It was always amazing, she thought. There were seldom, if any, crashes.

“Smoking, Wynter?”

She dropped the cigarette and remained standing, still staring at the ring while her hand dropped to her side. She felt like a child caught doing something wrong. Why she wasn’t sure. Slowly, she turned to see Nelson Anderson, this time behind the wheel of the golf cart, and no one with him. His expression was unreadable.

“Hi, Mr. Anderson.” Wynter shifted from one foot to another. “How are you?”

She hadn’t spoken more than a passing greeting to him since the morning he’d dropped her off at the barn. He scooted over to the passenger side on the cart’s bench seat, using the cane to give him leverage.

“If you don’t mind, I could use your help. I need you to give me a ride out to my car, then turn the cart back in to the show office.”

“Sure.” She climbed in. How hard was it to drive a golf cart? What she didn’t count on was the interrogation that went along with it.

“What’s with the hat?” he asked. “You have lovely hair. It’s a shame to cover it.”

“I—thank you,” she said, flustered.

“So, why the hat?”

“I-I was just trying to keep my hair out of the way while I worked.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be the Wyn Riley everyone hired to braid their horses?” He paused, and she glanced sidelong to find him staring at her gloved hands and the loose grip she maintained on the steering wheel. After she stopped the cart at his car, he continued to sit. “Take off your gloves, Wynter.”

“No, that’s all right,” she responded, “I’ll keep them on.”

“Take off the gloves,” he ordered.

His tone put her back up, but God she needed this job. So she stripped off the gloves and let her hands drop back in her lap, hoping he wouldn’t see them since her fingers dangled between her thighs. Instead, he surprised her by reaching over and lifting one hand. He turned it over, rubbing her palm while he stared at the raw skin of the thumb and first two fingers. He turned her hand back over and set it down.

“How much money did you make?”

The quiet firmness in his tone told her it would do no good to lie or even tell him it was none of his business.

“Eight-hundred and fifty dollars.”

He arched one dark brow at the amount. “Was it worth ruining your hands?”

“I need the money,” she retorted, and feeling stung by the criticism, added, “not that you’d know anything about that. You’ve always gotten everything you wanted.”

Anderson’s mouth twisted with bitterness and his expression closed like the shutter on a camera. “Not everything. No. Some things money can never replace. All it buys you in the end is some satisfaction, and you should hope like hell you never have to learn that lesson.”

She assumed he had been referring to the leg and whatever happened to it. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me and childish.”

He sighed. “You start classes tomorrow, don’t you, at Duke?”

“Yes,” she replied in surprise. She had told no one about signing up, so she’d assumed he’d seen the papers the night she had fallen asleep in the tack room.

“How will you take notes in your classes, Wynter, if you keep butchering your hands trying to make money braiding at every horse show?”

“I’ll figure it out,” she began, an edge of anger and rebelliousness not far from the surface.

Anderson’s fingers grasped her chin. “I’ll pay you not to do it. A thousand dollars per show.”

Wynter pulled back in shock and suspicion. “I-I don’t understand.”

His smile lifted one corner of his mouth. In a man less handsome, it might have been called a sneer. “You heard me. I’ll pay you one thousand dollars above and beyond what you make if you will not do any braiding.”

“I couldn’t do that,” she stammered, gut twisting even as she refused the tempting offer. “I—it’s not right.”

He looked off in the distance, his blue eyes remote. “It’s the least I can do. I don’t know much about you, and I won’t pry, but you must be an outstanding student to have made it into Duke with your background. Furthermore, you must have incredible drive to pursue your education,” he turned and reached for her hand again, “if you’re willing to do this to your hands to help pay your own way. Accept the offer, Wynter. I won’t repeat it.”

With that he climbed from the golf cart and limped over to the Rolls. She watched while he started the engine and drove off. That was one of the strangest conversations she’d ever had. Someone willing to pay her not to do something? She shook her head. Not likely. Rich people always had some motive, something they wanted to hold over another person’s head. The Southards had taught her that lesson all too well.