Chapter Three #2
I laughed, then spent the next couple of hours on Huxley, getting to know him as he got to know me. And it was strange, because in those two hours, I never felt the bite of the bitter-cold wind once.
I’d never been a good sleeper. I theorized it was from my childhood on the ranch.
Early mornings and late nights meant I was used to functioning on very little rest. On top of that, the excitement of meeting Huxley today, mixed with the lingering jet lag, made for a restless night.
I glanced at the clock beside me and saw it read just after midnight.
Rather than tossing and turning for hours, I threw back the covers and dressed in thermal jeans, a warm base layer underneath a red plaid shirt, and a thick equine robe.
Pulling on my Stetson, gloves, and my well-worn cowboy boots, I slipped out the cottage door and made my way to the barn where Huxley was housed.
Golden Oaks was a stunning equestrian center by anyone’s measure, but under the full moonlight, the lawns tipped with frost, and the huge pond with a fountain water feature in the center, it looked truly magical. The grass crunched under my feet as I took the shortcut over two fields to the barn.
The main house was in full view from this vantage point.
Low lights glowed on the outside porch, and a few windows were dimly lit behind light drapes.
Other than that, the only soundtrack of the night was nocturnal owls in trees and the shuffling of horses’ shod feet as they shifted in their stalls, their huffs of breath hitting frozen air.
The barn where Huxley was housed came into view.
It was a stunning Dutch barn painted in white with black beams, smaller than many around the property, but big enough to hold around ten horses.
Huxley and Seraphina were in this one. An indoor jumping arena was attached to the side for quick access, but that was out of bounds for some reason.
We riders used the other arenas just a short walk from the barn.
I entered the barn, and the warmth from the heating system immediately began to thaw my frozen bones.
I filled up a feed bowl with chaff and made my way to Huxley’s stall.
Most of the horses were lying down or sleeping standing up, but as if he sensed my approach, Huxley put his head over the stall door.
I smiled as his head bounced up and down in excitement, smelling the food.
I opened the stall door and stepped inside, placing the bowl on the ground.
I smoothed my hand over his neck and down to his shoulder under his winter blanket.
His coat was shiny and soft, and he felt cozy and warm in his rug.
Crouching down, I righted his crooked forelock and said, “I couldn’t sleep, baby boy.
So I came to see you.” His ears twitched at the sound of my voice, but Huxley wouldn’t be pulled away from his late-night feast.
Leaving the stall, I then topped up his haylage and made sure his automatic waterer hadn’t iced over.
I folded my arms over the stall door and watched Huxley.
As he finished eating, he moved his head beside mine.
I kissed his nose. “We have a tough season ahead of us, Lord Huxley,” I said, using his full show name.
“But I think we can do it. Don’t you agree?
” I asked, and as he huffed his nose over my hair, I smiled.
Stepping back, I patted him on the neck. “I’ll be back in the morning for training,” I said. “Get some rest, beautiful boy.”
Not quite ready to go home yet, I turned right instead of my usual left and wandered along the stalls.
Every single horse here was exceptional.
There were hundreds of stud farms around the world.
Aunt Jeanie even had one herself. But when it came to the cream of the crop for international show jumping, dressage, and eventing, there was no higher caliber than a Knighton-bred horse.
Finding myself at a closed door, curiosity got the best of me.
The barn was open and airy, and it was clear that something existed behind this door.
Never one to mind breaking a few rules, I decided to take a look.
Making sure the coast was clear, I slid the barn door open and peeked inside—there were a few more occupied stalls.
Perplexed, I wondered why these few horses were housed away from the others, but as I walked along them, it didn’t take me long to realize that it was because these were the Knighton family’s horses.
I first passed by Lord Barnaby, a pitch-black stallion who looked ripped straight from Hades’ underworld.
He belonged to Atticus. Next was Lady Aurelia, Forrest’s five-star-winning eventing horse.
After that was Lord Sebastian, Felix’s regal dressage horse.
But when I turned another corner, everything within me froze, and I lost the ability to breathe.
Staring back at me with pitch-black eyes and a coat so pristine it looked like the purest white silk, was Lord Henry.
My heart kicked into a sprint, and a highlight reel whirled in my head of all my teen years spent watching this horse achieve the impossible.
Lord Henry flicked his head up and down, seeking my attention, and I moved my feet closer.
When I stopped before him, I lifted my hand and in total awe ran it down his thick, muscled neck.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say I was starstruck.
Most people got flustered at seeing their favorite actor or singer in person.
Me? It was this horse. The most impressive one to ever exist.
Lord Henry looked to be still in perfect fitness, even though he’d been retired from the circuit for eighteen months. In fact, he looked like he could join the Sandings Grand Prix tomorrow and dominate in the most prestigious arenas the world had ever seen.
Lord Henry was the lightest gray horse I’d seen in person. He was eighteen hands of pure power, muscle, and grace. I’d always thought that he looked just like Shadowfax from Lord of the Rings. Up close, I could confirm that he was his doppelg?nger.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Henry,” I said, removing my huge, robe-style coat now that I’d warmed up, leaving me in my plaid shirt and jeans.
I hung my coat and hat on a nearby bridle hook, and then just stood, running my hand gently over Henry’s face.
“You are the greatest horse I’ve ever seen jump,” I said, like he could understand me.
Canyon would tell me that he could. He was as close to me as a brother, and he always said that horses understood our emotions and tone of voice, rather than the words themselves. I liked to think that was true. I wanted Henry to know how much I admired him.
It was like I was deep in meditation, seeing my dream horse in real life.
What I would give to just simply ride him over a course once.
Henry stood still and let me fawn over him like the gentleman he was.
Suddenly, a loud crash sounded from a nearby door, disturbing the serene moment, making Henry spook and retreat into the safety of his stall.
Not wanting to be seen, I ducked into the empty stall beside Henry’s, putting myself well out of sight.
The name plate on the stall’s door said “Lady Dahlia.” My stomach sank. That was Genevieve Knighton’s horse, the one that fell on top of her in Saint-Tropez. I hadn’t seen or heard of Genny or Dahlia since.
I momentarily wondered where the mare was and whether she was okay when arrhythmic footsteps sounded in this private area of the barn.
My heart began to thunder. I wasn’t meant to be here, that was for sure.
The closed barn door had clearly told me that this section was out of bounds.
If I was caught, I knew I’d be in trouble.
I pushed myself farther into the stall’s corner, trying to blend into the dark.
Then I heard, “Hello, Henry.” The softly spoken words were said with a slight slur, but I held my breath when a familiar posh English accent instantly sent goose bumps down my spine.
The sound of Henry’s door latch opening echoed off the barn walls, piercing the silence of the night.
The shuffling noises of someone stumbling hit me next, then nothing until, “Sorry, boy. I’m not in a good way tonight.
” Not a part of me moved as I listened to the man I’d idolized for too many years to count talk to his treasured horse.
Jasper Knighton was on the other side of the wall. The Jasper Knighton.
“Two years,” Jasper said, his voice catching and making my heart squeeze at the pain in his fractured tone.
I caught the sound of sloshing liquid hitting glass, then a deep swallow.
The smell of whiskey drifted on the frigid air to where I was stood.
A long sigh came next. “I haven’t been able to find out who it is yet, boy,” Jasper said, and the sadness in his voice echoed how I’d felt once too.
After a couple of minutes of quiet, I carefully looked between the metal bars of the stalls and froze when Jasper came into view, dressed in black jeans and a white Aran wool sweater.
But what had tears pricking my eyes were his arms wound tightly around Lord Henry’s neck.
And how the stallion, understanding how broken his rider was, just stood there and let him shatter against his light-gray coat.
In one hand, Jasper clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
His dark-brown hair was longer than it used to be, falling in messy waves over the side of his face.
Feeling like I was intruding on a very private moment, I began to inch slowly out of the stall. Once in the main section of the barn, I turned to make a beeline for the back door when Henry suddenly moved, the sound of his shod feet scraping on the ground, and Jasper asked, “Is someone there?”