Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Over the next few days, Winnie kept a low profile as much as she could, maintaining her distance from the rest of the staff and not speaking with Matthew at all. The last thing she needed was for him to talk to her about the call with her family, reviving her embarrassment all over again, so she dove headfirst into preparations for the faire, doing her best not to dwell on him.
She did her best not to think about him as she reviewed the knights’ scripts. She did her best not to admire his finesse on his horse as he charged down the list over and over again during practice. And she did her best not to notice how appealing he looked as he broke for lunch each day. Helmet off, curled hair dripping with masculine sweat, sunglasses hanging from the front of his breastplate.
Obviously, her best wasn’t good enough—nor could she avoid him forever, as discussions with him had to occur and meetings with him needed to be held.
On the following Thursday, a little more than one week before the festival, she called a meeting in the assembly hall, sharing with the staff what else needed to be done before the big event .
Everyone seemed in good enough spirits, if not a little tired, as they listened to her seemingly endless list of items until she excused them for the day. She’d kept her gaze mostly off of Matthew throughout the meeting, and he’d shockingly maintained his silence, leaving quietly with the rest of the group when the time came.
While Winnie appreciated his lack of snarky comments, she hadn’t been able to understand it. She’d thought for sure he would have used his newfound power over her to put her on the spot and embarrass her in front of the others even more. Was he waiting for a better chance, or was he taking the high road after all?
Her rumination continued as she stood alone in the assembly hall, gathering her tablet and a few papers across the table before the door opened with a loud creak.
She glanced up, half-expecting to see Matthew and only half-disappointed when his dad appeared instead.
“Mr. Wintour,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
The two of them had met nearly every other day to discuss the progress being made toward the event—if they were within their budget, how the staff was handling their workloads, and about a thousand other things—though their meetings were usually held in his cozy study instead. To see him anywhere other than that room was an anomaly for Winnie.
“I needed to get out and stretch my legs a bit,” he said. “And I wanted to see if there’s anything I could do for you.”
Winnie smiled, thanked him for his generosity, and gave him an update on the meeting and all that needed to be accomplished.
“Everyone seems really eager to help, though, so I have no worries that we’ll get it all done,” she said with a confident smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.
The pressure had increased tenfold over the last couple of weeks, and her nerves had been marinated, grilled, and burned because of it .
“Excellent,” Mr. Wintour said, leaning on his cane, though not as heavily as he’d done the day she’d arrived. “And… everyone is helping?”
Winnie knew at once who he was referring to, so she was quick to answer. “Surprisingly enough, yes. Everyone is helping. Matthew, too.”
She could have sworn she’d seen disbelief in Mr. Wintour’s eyes for a moment, but he blinked it away in an instant.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I know I speak for my entire family when I say we have high expectations for the festival. We can’t wait to see what you’ve pulled off.”
Winnie knew his words had been meant as an encouragement, but she could have done with maybe a little less faith. She wasn’t used to such lofty hopes—not with her family, at least. Was she going to be a monumental letdown to each of them, the Wintours included, when all was said and done?
After Mr. Wintour took his leave, Winnie was left alone again to a buzzing phone and a mile-long list of to-dos which she checked off little-by-little until her stomach rumbled—her only indication that she was in need of a break.
Still staring at her phone, signing off on the carousel delivery and another food booth, Winnie headed out of the assembly hall. As she did so, just like every day she worked in there, the smell of horses, leather, and feed from the stables drifted past her nose.
Most days, she walked straight past the smells, ignoring the wave of nostalgia that always rushed over her, but this time, whether it was due to hunger or simple exhaustion, her strength wasn’t what it usually was.
She stopped, staring wistfully—and perhaps a bit fearfully—at the stable entrance. She hadn’t willingly been within any stables since she was eighteen years old and her heart had been crushed. It was too hard, the happy memories that returned, the peace and joy she hadn’t felt since those days of blissful horseback riding. Somedays, those memories were so powerful, so potent, it was hard to breathe .
And yet, today, her eyes remained on the stable doors, the nickers and whinnies from inside tying a rope around her heart and tugging her toward them. The pull had always been there, but it had grown stronger each day at Foxwood as she’d been surrounded by the animals that had once filled every part of her life.
Still she hesitated outside. No good could come from flirting with temptation by going inside to take a look around.
She turned away with her chin held high, settling on her decision to leave. That is, until another nicker from within the stables cinched its hold tighter around her, and she paused.
Then again, what harm would occur if she did go inside? After all, she’d been around horses for the last two weeks now and had been perfectly fine. She hadn’t been thrown back into her past too uncontrollably or anything. She was sure she could handle it.
Besides, once the festival was over and she was tasked with improving Foxwood, the stables would inevitably fall under that umbrella. It was only logical for her to get a sense of how many horses they had and what the stables were like. One quick look around would be fine, she was sure of it.
With hesitant steps, she moved forward, reminding herself she was a decade older and wiser now as she finally entered the stables, and instantly, all other thoughts fled her mind.
When she was younger, the stables she’d trained at had been impressive with clean cement flooring, white posts separating the horses’ stalls, and large windows in the ceiling.
But Foxwood’s stables? They were unmatched. The same gray, black, and brown stone that covered the interior of the assembly hall now filled the aisles of the two-storied structure. Each horse’s stall had been constructed of gorgeous, dark wood, while the individual gates were made of black wrought iron, the doors curved low and centered to allow the horses to pop their heads over into the aisle whenever they wished.
Ornate lanterns hung from the walls near the stalls, casting warm, glowing circles across the stone flooring, and every inch of the place shone with cleanliness and care.
What really caught her attention, however, was when she let out a sigh of appreciation, and one by one, horses poked their heads out of their stalls to see who had come to visit them.
One, two, three, four. She counted faster. Seven, eight, nine. And that was only the first aisle. How many horses did they have? How many did they need ?
She was one to talk. She’d had lofty goals of housing hundreds of horses when she was younger.
Her heart twisted. She moved to turn away, but when she caught the eye of the third horse down, jet black face and mane, she paused. That was Matthew’s horse.
She knew she ought to turn away right then, having learned long ago that ignoring horses—no eye contact and no touching—was far better than to pine after them, as she’d done when she was younger.
But Matthew’s horse continued to stare her down, as if to say, “Hey, you disturbed us and got our hopes up. The least you can do is give us a pat.”
Could she? Should she?
She drew a deep breath, a hint of manure on the air. She’d never been offended by the smell. It had an earthy scent to it that brought to mind summer trail rides and shared sugar cubes.
A few of the horses in the stables pulled back into their stalls, but Matthew’s remained, still watching her. She’d purposefully not learned his name. Names only brought attachment—as did touch.
Did proximity?
Biting her lower lip, she stepped forward, the black horse still watching her as she approached. He had as penetrating a gaze as his master.
“Hey, there,” she whispered, drawing closer and closer to him. “I’ve seen you around here. I’m sure you’ve seen me lurking, too.”
He made no movement, his ears pointed toward her .
She shifted her belongings to her left arm, slowly raising her right hand toward him before hesitating once again. She hadn’t touched a horse since…since quitting. But surely one stroke of his hair wouldn’t tear down all the walls she’d placed around her heart.
Using more courage than she cared to admit, Winnie shifted her hand to below the horse’s nose, allowing him to sniff her. But the second he blew a soft breath back onto her fingertips, a rush of emotions overcame her. A lump formed in her throat, tears flooded her eyes, and she was taken straight back.
Straight back to when she’d been encouraged to ride as a child, wearing her black velvet hat and tall black boots. Straight back to when she’d performed for thousands at countless shows. Straight back to when she’d had a purpose, a passion for life.
The black gelding shifted to the side, as if encouraging her to pet him, and her mind struggled to remain in the present. This reaction was what she’d feared all along—dwelling on the past, being filled with so much regret and sorrow, she could hardly stand it.
And yet, the gates had been opened. There was no stopping the pain, the intense ache in her heart at how badly she missed riding. With shaking fingers, she reached her hand toward the patient horse’s neck, flashing from the past to the present with each stroke of his hair. Her fingers glided across his silken coat, the rhythmic movement of her hand mimicking his breathing until the tightness in her chest eased, and the sorrow in her heart soothed.
How had she forgotten that horses had that effect on her, the ability to calm whatever was ailing her? The pain remained, but with her proximity to the gelding, she could regulate her feelings better. She could sit in them for a moment without longing to flee from the discomfort.
Soon, her tears dried away, and though her sorrow remained, a different emotion arose, one she’d shelved long ago on the dusty recesses of her childhood memories—an emotion of deep love and respect she’d always had for the animal.
How she missed them.
“I’m Winnie,” she said softly to the horse. “I’d ask for your name, too, but I don’t think you’d be able to tell me.”
He blew out a breath, and she smiled, moving her hand to the bridge of his nose, then to his forelock.
He accepted her affection, leaning toward her with a nudge of his broad nose to receive more. “You’re an all-in kind of guy, then, huh?” she asked with a smile.
She lowered her belongings to a bench she found nearby, then returned to the horse at once, using both hands to stroke him.
For longer than intended, she remained there, petting him, breathing in his scent, allowing his sensitivity to adjust her emotions.
Everything was working fine until reality slowly settled in, and the reminder of what had occurred in her past crept up behind her like a stalking cougar.
Dad’s words. His heart-wrenching actions. Her pleading that had never been enough.
She winced at the pain tightening around her chest. She never should have come in here. She never should have touched him. It was too great a reminder of all she’d lost—all she hadn’t been allowed to do.
The black horse nudged her again, as if to break her from her thoughts, but she didn’t stroke him again. Her heart was weary, though her tears had dried. It was time to go.
As she took a step back, the gelding raised his head, his ears pointing down the aisle, as if he knew she was about to leave…Or as if he knew someone else was coming.
She turned in the direction he looked. Not a soul was down the aisle, but still she watched, trusting the horse’s ears and instinct until she heard the footsteps herself.
Was it a groom? Mrs. Birdwhistle? Perhaps one of the boys still hard at work?
All of her guesses were wrong as Matthew appeared around the corner instead.