Leaping Hearts (4 page)

“Er—but if he has the innate talent, then he can win.”

“What’s the use of the best foundation in the world if you can’t raise the roof because the walls are unsteady?”

“My point exactly,” Peter said.

“Well, you’re both wrong. I’m going to turn him into a champion.”

“You’d have a better result if you turned him into dog food,” Peter muttered.

Standing in front of the woman who’d captivated him, Devlin shifted his weight and changed the position of his
cane. He saw her eyes flash downward again as she tracked the movement, and hated that his physical weakness was so obvious to her.

Seeing her up close, he realized that he recognized her after all. She was the daughter of Garrett Sutherland, the incredibly wealthy engineer, and a newcomer on the professional circuit. In her middle twenties, she was just cutting her teeth in the big leagues but showed some real promise as a competitor. The guy with her had to be Peter Conrad, the one who ran the stables.

Ignoring Peter, Devlin kept looking at the woman and decided she was damn beautiful. Her features were strong, her chin determined, and her startling blue eyes met his head-on. He liked all of that. She also had the glow of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors and carried herself with the physical poise that comes from being an athlete. The fact that she filled out her jeans like they were a test she had all the right answers to didn’t hurt, either. He found himself wondering what she looked like with that auburn hair free around her shoulders.

“I have faith in him,” she was saying, “and I’m going to start by riding him in the Qualifier.”

“You’ll be the laughingstock of the circuit,” her stepbrother countered.

“Or maybe he and I will win.”

In two months, the best jumpers in the country would be competing for spots on a team destined to face the top riders in Europe. At the end of the competition, whoever won the most points got to be the captain of the team headed across the ocean and, because the whole sport was looking forward to the Olympics in another year, that rider would be considered the heir apparent to lead the American contenders for a shot at gold. The Qualifier was a prestigious event, held at the incomparable Borealis Hunt and Polo Club, and the open roster meant that anyone could compete even if they didn’t have a ranking.

It was a competition Devlin knew well. He’d won it many times. It was also the very event that had cost him his career.

“You can’t do this.” Peter was shifting back and forth in his Italian loafers, a nervous metronome. “You simply can’t. You’re going to make a fool out of us.”

“Thanks for all the support,” she replied dryly, and then looked into Devlin’s eyes.

Meeting her gaze, Devlin caught on to the insecurity she tried to hide.

She’s right to worry, he thought. The stallion was going to need a lot of work and, even then, there’d be no telling what would come of the investment. Time and her inexperience were likewise working against her. Two months would be a stretch for any rider and new mount to forge a relationship, even if the rider was working with a compliant horse and had years of competing under her belt.

“I’m warning you,” Peter said to her before turning to go. “Don’t try to bring that horse into my stables.”

“Our stables,” she corrected.

But the man had already started walking away, delicately sidestepping a pile of hay in front of another stall and then yelping as a curious muzzle reached out to him.

“Damn animals,” he muttered.

A.J. turned to Devlin and, as her eyes traveled across his wide shoulders, she momentarily forgot her frustration. She noted that his hair just brushed the top of his collar, the silky waves breaking against the flannel, and she wondered what it would feel like. Her fingers curled the baseball cap into a ball and her heart began to pound with a crazy anticipation.

Aware her cheeks were flushing, she cleared her throat and said, “Don’t you think it can be done?”

Devlin regarded the hope in her face with nostalgia. Thinking back, he could dimly recall the emotion in himself. He was less than ten years older than she but felt ancient looking into the crystal blue of her eyes.

What color is that? he wondered. Sky blue?

He felt a stirring in the boiler room of his body and had to look away from her face to somewhere safer. Watching her fiddle with the hat, he caught a glimpse of the logo and frowned.

Devlin had always had an aversion to the kind of moneyed,
restless people who were sometimes attracted to the horse world. Although all of the wealthy elites weren’t bad, he couldn’t abide the ones who played at the sport just because they thought it was glamorous. That was the way horses got mistreated or injured.

And, however unassuming the woman in front of him looked in her blue jeans and barn jacket, he knew more about the wealth of her family than about her riding skills. Watching that logo twist and turn in her hands, he was more than tempted to brush her off and walk away. Her father’s greenbacks aside, the last thing he wanted was to comment on the hopes and dreams of another rider. He’d had a bad enough year trying to deal with losing his own.

In the end, Devlin got caught again in her eyes and couldn’t deny her an answer. Looking into that blue, he found that something inexplicable happened to him. He felt cleansed, somehow. Less cynical, less tired of life. It made him want to get closer to her.

“I don’t know you or the horse well enough to say,” he answered cautiously. “Hard work and training will probably get you both over the fences, assuming he doesn’t throw you just for the fun of it. But winning? That takes teamwork and you can’t teach it. In horses or people.”

Her face registered trepidation but then switched to optimism.

“I need a trainer,” she declared.

Devlin felt a physical shock as he figured out where she was heading. “With what you can afford, you’ll find one, I’m sure.”

“I want you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“But you’re the best and I want—”

“You want a miracle worker. And I ran out of miracles at last year’s Qualifier.”

She reached out, touching his arm. He was stunned at how the soft touch affected him. It was like getting burned except he liked it. He pulled away sharply, even as he was curious about the sensation.

“Please, I can pay—”

“Money doesn’t solve everything,” he said.

Before he lost his wits again, he turned and walked away, his limp more pronounced than usual.

Standing in front of Sabbath’s stall, A.J. let him go, feeling bad. She’d clearly offended him, which was the last thing she’d intended. It had seemed like a really good idea, though. Who could be better than he to help her turn the horse around?

She leaned back against the stall door and remembered McCloud’s story. About ten years ago, out of nowhere, he’d erupted onto the jumping scene, becoming an overnight success. Even though he was in his early twenties, he quickly became known for being a hard-nosed, unflappable competitor with an instinct for horses that was unrivaled. After winning a string of events on mounts that were good under the bit for other people but spectacular with him on their backs, he’d found his perfect match in a pale gray, dappled mare. He and this horse, Mercy, went on to dominate the sport for so long, most couldn’t remember a time when the two weren’t on top.

Whether it was in the ring or out over a cross-country course, they were unbeatable and the crowds loved them. It wasn’t just because the pair won. They were beautiful together, man and animal moving as one, connected, not separated, by the saddle. With his special mare and all his talent, it had seemed like Devlin McCloud’s reign as king of the sport of kings was going to last forever.

But tragically, that didn’t turn out to be the case.

People got hurt in competitive jumping. So did horses. It was the dangerous underbelly of the sport and, for some, maybe those risks were part of the thrill. In most cases, the fallen walked away with bumps and bruises, but not all. Tragically, Devlin and Mercy weren’t that fortunate in an early-morning warm-up before the Qualifier. Devlin had to be taken out of the ring on a stretcher. Mercy had to be put down, right where she lay.

News of the accident had spread throughout the riding community within the hour. Immediately, the whole sport went into mourning and wanted to share their sympathy with Devlin. But, no matter how many people tried to reach out to help him, he rebuffed all kindness. With his reputation
for being a loner, his retreat afterward wasn’t a surprise to anyone. Shunning the support of the horse community, he turned in on his pain and shut out the world. Rumors circulated that he’d left the area, moved out of Virginia and would never be seen again but A.J. had known that wasn’t true. Every once in a while, she’d be pulling in or out of the winding drive of Sutherland Stables and she’d see him, behind the wheel of a pickup truck, looking dark and preoccupied.

She sighed with resignation, feeling sad at all that he had lost. He was an enigma. A startlingly handsome, devastatingly sexy man who in five minutes of conversation made her feel like she’d swallowed a pint of moonshine. And that voice of his…She found herself wondering what his lips would feel like pressed against hers.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she said out loud, feeling her face flush. Her palms felt ice-cold as she brought them to her cheeks.

After all, did she really want a trainer who affected her the way Devlin McCloud did? She could barely be in his presence for a moment or two before she felt like she was losing her composure. Considering the way the stallion behaved, it was going to be hard enough to make it to the Qualifier in one piece without complicating the workouts with a coach she was interested in getting physical with.

“So it is you with the horse,
non?
” A heavily accented voice broke through her reverie.

A.J. turned and had to smother a grimace as Philippe Marceau approached. He was widely known as a better rider than human being and it was like seeing someone with a bad head cold coming at her. She just wanted to run in the other direction.

As he strutted down the aisle, he reminded her a lot of Peter. He was likewise overdressed, wearing a pale silk suit, and a pastel shirt and tie that were a startling pink color. As the man sidled up to A.J. and the stallion, he straightened that glaring tie theatrically, pinkies cocked like gun hammers. She thought he looked like a lounge singer who’d gotten lost on his way to work and decided she’d be more than happy to redirect him to anywhere else on the planet.

“It is a good buy,” he said, nodding to the stallion. “If one is looking for a busting bronc.”

“Nice suit you got there. You headlining somewhere tonight?”

“Always with the comeback, you are. Pity that a woman as beautiful as you wastes her looks on tomboy clothes and her lovely lips on bad humor.”

Sabbath, who’d gone back to eating after Devlin left, lifted his head at the new scent. Giving Philippe the once-over, he flattened his ears.

“So tell me,” Philippe said as he moved in closer, the smell of his cologne overwhelming her. “When will we have that dinner together? A good French meal, some wine, some conversation. Perhaps something more…”

A.J. thought she’d rather eat tin cans with a billy goat. And as for the something more, she was the last person who’d fall for his continental lothario act. She knew the man’s attentions were thrown around with the discretion of someone seeding a lawn and, even if she liked short men who were tall on conceit, she wasn’t about to become another name at the end of what was a surprisingly long list.

“Thanks for the invite, Philippe, but I don’t date.”

“So I have heard. The ice queen living in her father’s castle.”

“Better to discriminate than be in bad company.”

“
C’est vrai,
when that is the best you are able to attract.”

A.J. held her tongue, about to remind him how he’d just propositioned her.

She said instead, “I’m going to be too busy getting Sabbath ready for the Qualifier.”

“You are riding this thing in the Qualifier? Have you forgotten? It is two months from now,
cherie.
You will need another horse or an eternity before you can compete at that level.”

“Well, then you can certainly understand why I’m not going to have dinner with you.”

“C’est dommage,”
he said, running his eyes over her. “You are foolish to attempt such an event on the back of this worthless horse, but then, no one would expect you to
win anyway. When you fail, there will be no surprise and so you have nothing to lose. In this, you are lucky.”

A.J. would have given him an earful about how seriously she took competing except he was already launching into his favorite subject. His dramatic sigh was like a singer warming up vocal cords.

“You cannot understand the burden of being a champion. The pressure to perform, to excel. Myself, I face this every time I go into the ring, even to practice.”’

The man had the same conversation with anyone unfortunate enough to get pulled into his orbit. People had been known to back themselves into rakes in hopes of getting free, and A.J., having been the audience herself a few times, was willing to bet that a whack in the head was less painful than listening to the man drone on.

As he continued, she watched Sabbath’s head emerge from his stall. Philippe, however, was too self-absorbed to notice as the stallion inched his muzzle forward. She had a feeling the horse was up to no good but gave him the benefit of the doubt. There was plenty of time to step in, she reassured herself, as she watched Sabbath get closer to Philippe. Surely the stallion had had enough fun for one day.

It turned out she was wrong on both accounts. In a black flash, the stallion lunged forward, grabbed ahold of Philippe’s sleeve and gave it a sturdy tug. The man tottered in his platform shoes and then fell over like a sack of grain, collapsing against the door of the stall.

Philippe’s face ran an indignant red and he brushed off his suit with hands that shook. A.J. figured the torrent of words leaving the man’s lips were probably curses. Even though they were in French and she couldn’t understand a thing, she had a feeling it wasn’t a list of the virtues of falling on his butt.