Believe in Me: A Rosewood Novel (24 page)

Having Ned in the ring didn’t just make her ride better; watching him was a treat in itself. Tidbit was a twelve-year-old mare who’d given them four fine foals and had already been covered by Nocturne this season. Yet Ned had the broodmare moving around the ring with her ears pricked forward, her neck slightly arched, and her hooves skimming the sandy footing, as alert and responsive as any of the horses they showed.

When they’d ridden for a half hour, they slowed to a
walk, allowing the horses to rest and stretch. Glancing over at Tidbit, Jordan said, “You should have taken her to Lexington, Ned. She’d have been in the ribbons.”

“Tidbit would have come home with a blue.” And he leaned over to scratch her sleek white neck fondly. “But you would have had to show her, Miss Jordan. I don’t have the patience for it anymore. I can get more accomplished staying here at Rosewood. How’s Mistral going for you? Looked like he did that simple change real nicely at the canter.”

“Yes, he did. I know Andy’s been introducing him to the flying change, but I didn’t want to ask him for it in case I confused him.” A flying change was aptly named, conveying the way a horse would switch leads in midair between strides at the canter—thus while “flying.” It was an essential move for both show hunters and jumpers. A flying change allowed a horse to switch leads as it changed direction, and thereby approach a jump balanced on the correct lead. In the show ring, a hunter could be penalized and lose points for a poorly executed or failed lead change.

“Mistral’s not easily rattled. Why don’t you do a figure eight down at the end of the ring and see how he goes? Just be sure you’ve got his haunches engaged when you give him the command, because that’s where the change is initiated. Ask him for one change in each direction and then bring him back down to a walk.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try.” Gathering her reins, she sat straighter in the saddle, closed her legs, moving her outside rail leg slightly behind the girth and applying a light pressure on the outside rein, and gave Mistral a “cluck,” a verbal cue. When he responded, lifting his inside shoulder to pick up the gait, she urged him forward with both legs.

Moving along the rail, she kept his canter collected and concentrated on feeling the rolling movement of his hindquarters beneath her while maintaining a light pressure on the reins so that when she reached the point in her
circle where they would change direction, she’d have him set up to make the flying change.

When she reached the center of the figure eight they were executing, she shifted her seat bones deeper into the saddle while moving her outside leg slightly behind the girth, as her fingers closed about her inside rein. She felt Mistral respond to the dual signals with a surge of his hindquarters as he took his next stride. When he came down on his foreleg, he’d changed leads.

Jordan’s face split in a grin as relief flooded her. She continued cantering, however, reminding herself to make her circle large enough to set him up properly for this last change of lead. It wouldn’t be right to screw it up for Mistral when he’d executed the first change so cleanly. She couldn’t afford to be complacent, either. Horses, like humans, had a stronger and weaker side and this might well be Mistral’s weaker side, although he’d picked up the lead easily enough when she’d cantered him earlier.

She focused on the rocking three-beat gait as once again they neared the spot where she would apply her aids to ask for a flying change. Mistral was a smart fellow, answering with a swish of his tail and a flick of his brown ears. Jordan felt a surge of power beneath her as he took his next stride, and then he was cantering on the other lead.

Straightening in the saddle, she closed her legs and hands to bring him to a walk, then immediately patted his neck. “Good boy, Mistral. Andy’s done a terrific job with him, Ned. He didn’t hesitate a bit when I asked him.”

“You rode that nicely, Miss Jordan, real clear and consistent. That’s why he didn’t back off on the changes. Even a nonrider could see that, ain’t that right, Owen?”

Jordan nearly gave herself whiplash looking around to where Owen stood, forearms propped on the top rail. His casual stance indicated he’d been watching her for some time.

“Uh, hi,” she said only to fall silent as she became abruptly
aware of how filthy she was after a morning spent cleaning stalls, brushing horses, and then riding under the warm spring sun.

From her perch on Mistral’s back, she could tell Owen was as impeccably dressed as usual, a fact she found particularly irksome at the moment. Did he
always
have to look so good? And what was he doing here?

He didn’t seem put off by her less than genial greeting. “My office assistant is alarmingly efficient. She faxed me the tax forms yesterday afternoon. I brought them over for you.”

“Oh.” Pricked by guilt that she’d been less than thrilled at his unexpected presence when he was actually being a considerate employer, she quickly tacked on a “Thank you.”

He nodded before shifting his attention to Ned. “I think I saw them practice that maneuver at the Spanish Riding School, only in Vienna the riders did it several times in a row while crossing the ring.”

“That’s called a ‘tempi.’ It’s a dressage movement, performed at the Grand Prix level,” Ned told him. Jordan could tell he was thrilled that Owen had made the connection between her flying changes and the far, far more advanced dressage movement. “So you’ve been to the Spanish Riding School?” he asked.

“My parents lived in Vienna for a while. The performances and some of the training sessions are open to the public. One of my nannies liked horses.”

“If I lived in Vienna, I’d be at the school, ticket in hand, every time they opened the doors. Do you know they accepted two women into the program in 2008, Miss Jordan?”

“No, I didn’t. They must be exceptional riders.”

“That’s for sure. I saw the riders—all men—perform in D.C. when they were on tour. Not a sight to forget. You’re lucky to have been able to see them in the Winter Riding School.”

“I know. The building is almost as impressive as those Lipizzan stallions.”

Smart of him to know that for Ned the beauty of a horse would always outshine any man-made marvel, Jordan thought. But when Owen added, “Jordan looked pretty darn impressive doing that flying change on this horse here,” she was sure that even Ned, though proud as one could be of Rosewood’s horses, would think he was going a bit far.

But no.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he said approvingly. “Mistral’s only four, but Miss Jordan had him moving as smooth as cream poured from a jug. You should stick around and watch her ride Indigo. Now there’s a real talented mare. Travis and I think she’s got the potential to be a three-day eventer.”

“I’d like that. I don’t need to be in Alexandria until later this afternoon. Actually, I was going to ask you both if I could spend some time looking at the main barn, taking measurements and getting a sense of the layout. I know you’re busy today, so if it’s inconvenient—”

“That won’t be a bother, will it, Miss Jordan?”

It would be useless to say anything to the contrary. Ned wouldn’t understand her reluctance. In Ned’s world, anyone who showed a smidgeon of interest in anything equine should be encouraged until the person was certifiably horse mad. Then, too, if she made any protest, Owen might conclude that his presence somehow affected her, which was definitely not what she wanted her brand-new employer to believe. And wasn’t she being a little silly and overreacting, anyway? Owen was obviously respecting her request that their relationship be strictly professional. He was being a good employer and an affable neighbor. Maybe it was time she followed suit.

Recalling the grace with which her mother had treated their neighbors, she said, “Certainly. And if you have time, feel free to go up to the house. John Butler’s pattern book is in the library. It’s easy to spot. It’s on the fourth shelf from the top, to the right of the writing desk. Ellie Banner
or her niece, Miriam, my babysitter, can help you if you have trouble finding it.”

It was just too darn bad that when he smiled, Jordan felt a delicious warmth unfurl in the pit of her stomach, a sensation she hadn’t felt in ages and one that made her forget why exactly she wished to maintain a professional distance from Owen.

O
WEN DID HIS BEST
not to get in Ned and Jordan’s way. Essentially a city slicker, he found the work at Rosewood Farm fascinating. He’d always liked watching horses, so this was hardly a surprise. What did astonish him was the breadth of Jordan’s involvement in their training. He’d expected her day to involve riding a number of different horses, impressive enough, but soon he discovered her duties and abilities extended far beyond that.

Finished walking around the main barn and taking notes and measurements, he’d wandered outside to find Jordan and tell her he going to take her up on the invitation to browse through John Butler’s pattern book. He’d spotted her walking with Ned, the two of them bringing a mare and her foal in from the pasture. Ned was leading the mare. The foal, wearing a tiny halter, was being walked by Jordan. At the sight of Owen, the foal tried to bolt, rising up on its hind legs in a half-rear. Holding on to the lead rope, Jordan brought its head down. Its forelegs back once more on solid ground, the foal started skipping around. Although only a tenth the size of its mother, it still had enough strength to inflict some damage. But Jordan never lost her cool. Bringing the skipping, circling young horse back under control with a “Whoa, Cosmo. Easy, boy. Walk, Cosmo,” she then praised him quietly when he settled into a prancing walk.

Thinking he might have caused a dangerous situation for Jordan or the foal by approaching them, Owen tried to apologize, but Ned set him straight.

“Cosmo’s got a lot of spirit. We bred his dam, Hello Again, to Nocturne, so he’s full Thoroughbred. He needs a steady hand until he understands that shying and spooking won’t get him anywhere,” Ned said.

Jordan didn’t appear angry either. “He’s calmed down already. So this has been a good lesson for today.” With another “whoa,” she halted the colt a few steps in front of him. “Here, stretch out your hand slowly, palm up, so he can catch your scent.”

The colt was amazing-looking, with long stiltlike legs and a tiny, slender body—all ribs and bones covered by a fuzzy dark brown coat. Owen took a careful step forward and extended his hand. Slowly the colt brought his muzzle close, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed tentatively, ready to spook at the slightest invitation. Determined not to offer one, Owen held himself still. The foal watched out of dark brown eyes, framed by impossibly long eyelashes that looked like they belonged on a creature in a Disney cartoon. Even longer whiskers covered the bottom of his lips. Their ends tickled his open palm as Cosmo extended his neck and nuzzled him. Owen smiled.

“How old is he?” he asked, his voice low.

“Six weeks,” Jordan said.

“He’s beautiful.”

Ned nodded. “Ain’t he though?”

While they spoke, the foal’s fuzzy pointed ears swiveled back and forth. Then, stretching his neck, he curled back his upper lip, exposing six small teeth in a baby horse laugh.

“Yup, he’s a card, all right,” Ned said as they resumed walking toward the broodmares’ barn. “You should have seen him the first time he tried to stand on those legs. Somersaulted right into the corner of the stall. Didn’t like that one bit. Now he’s one of the fastest of the bunch. He beat Turner the other day, who’s a big, strapping fellow.”

Deciding to put off leafing through Butler’s architectural designs in favor of watching Jordan work with the baby
colt, Owen tagged along. It didn’t take long for him to be hooked. Her handling of the foal was as impressive as the fancy riding he’d seen her perform earlier. Though the session only lasted around fifteen minutes, so that Cosmo wouldn’t get overwhelmed, she got him to lift each of his tiny hooves, to stand quietly while Ned used a soft brush all over his body, and to back up a few paces when she applied pressure on the noseband of his halter and his bony shoulder.

Owen didn’t need to be an expert to recognize the care they took with the foal. Though they clearly had a busy day, with a lot of work to accomplish, there wasn’t a single hurried or rushed movement around this delightful, excitable creature.

It intrigued him that the Jordan Radcliffe whom he’d met at Nonie Harrison’s, whose poise epitomized the well-mannered, garden-club, president of the Historical Society type, turned out to be equally comfortable and competent in this far more earthy and sensual world of gently mastering these brute animals, where the smell of horses was mixed with that of wood shavings and oiled leather. She slipped into the role of foal handler as easily as she would a pair of black patent pumps.

Finished with the colt, Jordan gave him a vigorous scratch along the top of his neck where a short black mane was growing in, a scratch Cosmo obviously loved, for again he stuck out his nose, curling his lip back as if in laughter.

“Yeah, this has been fun,” Jordan said as she offered him a light pat on his bony shoulder. “Now it’s back to the field with you so you can play with your buddies and nap in the sunshine. You ready with Hello Again, Ned?”