3. Chapter 3 A Prince at the Paddock
JULIANA
Sage is pretending he doesn’t know the mounting block exists.
Standing three feet away from it, hip cocked, the gelding's head is turned just enough so he can watch me with one eye while I hold the reins and watch him right back. I don't pretend to be doing anything else.
"You’re being very mature about this," I tell him.
He flicks an ear.
Over on the far side of the arena, two of the teenage volunteers are schooling a mare at the trot. The rhythmic thud of hooves and the soft murmur of their voices blur into the background, along with the creak of leather and the faint metallic chink of a bit.
This is my favorite hour of the day.
Late afternoon, that time when the Santa Fe sun turns everything honey gold. Dust hangs in the air, glowing where it catches the light, the air scented with the smells of warm horse and weathered wood.
"Come on," I coax. "We’ve had this conversation. The block is not going to eat you. Standing still for ten seconds won’t kill you. I promise I’ll do the actual hard work, you just have to…cooperate."
I cluck softly and ask him to step forward.
He takes one exaggeratedly slow step. Stops. Blows out a long, put-upon breath through his nose.
"Drama queen," I mutter, smiling to myself.
"Is that your professional diagnosis?" The smooth, deep voice comes from behind me and slightly to the right, sending a swarm of butterflies fluttering in my belly.
My hands tighten on the reins, and I quickly force my hold to loosen before Sage decides to take even more issue with this exercise.
The gelding flicks his ears toward the sound and waits to see what I’m going to do.
I turn.
A breathtakingly handsome man leans against the fence nearby. Why didn't I hear his approach? More to the point, why didn't Sage react to his presence until the man spoke?
Maybe he did. Maybe that's the reason it feels like we're back at square one with the mounting block.
For the first time in memory, trying to figure out what's causing a horse's behavior takes a backseat to the human in the vicinity.
A man. Tall in a way that makes the top rail of the arena fence look lower than it did five seconds ago, his broad shoulders are encased in a tailored suit jacket that doesn’t belong anywhere near horsehair or dust. Yet, somehow, his Gucci loafers are still pristine and so are the dark slacks covering his muscular thighs and—
I jerk my eyes away from the bulge there…between his legs…and back up to his gorgeous face, with its beard so close-cropped it could pass for five-o'clock shadow. Dark brown eyes glimmer back at me with masculine amusement above his aquiline nose.
He noticed me looking.
There.
Oh, lord. Kill me now.
"The professional diagnosis," I say, because I’m apparently still capable of forming words, "is that he’s being stubborn."
Wow, go me, talking past my embarrassment.
His mouth curves, just a little. "Stubborn," he repeats. "And does the professional have a name?"
His accent is English, but there's a barely there soft roll on his Rs, like maybe he's from Southwest Asia and Arabic is his first language. I only know that because the mother of two of my favorite horse enthusiasts, six-year-old twins who take riding lessons here on the ranch, is from Dubai.
I recognize the thought tangent for what it is. An attempt to deal with a situation for which I have no easy reference.
I'm an introvert, but I've learned how to talk to donors. To parents. To anxious riders. I know how to talk to men when I have to, as long as they’re in safe categories: fathers of my therapy kids or volunteers, fellow rockhounds in hiking boots and sun hats, Lonny with his easy laugh and his carefully non-pressuring hands.
This man is none of those.
"Yes," I say.
I mean, he might be a donor, but my reaction to him is too strong for him to be classified as safe in my brain.
One of his brows lifts, just a fraction. "And will she share it?"
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "Juliana."
"Juliana," he says, and my name in his voice does something ridiculous to my knees. "Just the woman I'm looking for. I’m Gabriel."
The gelding chooses that moment to nudge my shoulder with his nose. I stagger a half step, bumping into the mounting block.
Gabriel pushes off the fence, like he's going to come over it to my rescue. In his Gucci loafers.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
"Yes, I'm fine." Doing my best to ignore the way my heart just kicked against my ribs like it’s trying to break out and throw itself at him, I step away from the mounting block.
Of course, Sage follows because that's the direction he wants to go too. Away from his nemesis. We don't know why Sage has such an issue with the block, but helping him overcome it is part of my job as a volunteer horse trainer.
"He does that when he thinks I’m ignoring him," I say when we reach the fence.
"Ah." The man's gaze flicks to the gelding and back to me. "Jealous."
I laugh. "Got it in one. He thinks all attention and all treats are his by divine right."
Gabriel’s eyes warm just a fraction. "I know the type."
I have no idea what to do with that comment. He knows horses like that, which honestly? Are most of them. Or he knows men like that?
"You’re here for…?" I let it trail off, hoping he’ll fill the silence with an explanation for why a man who looks like he stepped out of an ad for Hugo Boss is currently standing under the sun at a horse rescue and equine therapy center on the outskirts of Santa Fe.
"A tour," he says.
"A tour," I repeat.
"Yes." He glances around. "DeeDee said you were the best person to show me around."
Of course she did. Despite the fact that I never give the tours to potential donors.
DeeDee, who started volunteering here after we met when she brought her third-grade class to visit the ranch on a field trip. DeeDee, who has repeatedly told me I need to meet more people, preferably those with Y chromosomes, since that's the kind I'm sexually attracted to.
She tried setting me up with a couple of women, but while I enjoyed their company, there was no spark. But neither of us took that as a given that I didn't lean that way, since I didn't feel sparks for most of the men I came into contact with either.
Not until I felt more than a spark for Lonny.
DeeDee, who must have met this man and thought, yes, I’m going to throw him directly at my shy friend. What could possibly go wrong?
"I don't usually do the tours," I tell him. Not because I don't want to spend more time in Gabriel's company, but because I don't want him to think he's going to get a well-rehearsed presentation.
"The director thought you could this time," he says with that casual assurance some people have that their plans will naturally come to pass. "I found myself with an hour and wanted to look into Solace Ridge Renewal Ranch's setup. The combination of horse rescue and equine therapy is unique."
I don’t know how to relate to someone who just drops by the equine therapy center in tailored trousers because he has an hour to kill.
"You’ll need boots if you want to come into the arena with the horses." It's the first thing I think to say.
He looks down at his shoes. They’re dark, expensive, and absolutely not appropriate for any environment that involves manure.
"I’ll stay on the safe side of the fence," he says. "Perhaps a tour of the stables?"
Why didn't I go there first? Of course he doesn't want to come into the arena. He's not looking to train the horses but to get an idea of how we do things.
"Okay." I pat the gelding’s neck. "As soon as I finish Sage's lesson. It could damage our progress if I stop now. If he cooperates, it should only take about ten minutes."
"May I watch?" His voice does a thing to the word watch that has nothing to do with observation and everything to do with awareness.
"Sure." Because what else am I going to say? No, please go away, your face is doing terrible, confusing things to my hormones?
I turn back to the gelding, grateful for the excuse to put my eyes somewhere other than on Gabriel.
"Let’s try this again," I murmur to the horse. "You and me. And the very attractive audience we’re pretending isn’t there."
The horse snorts.
I lead him toward the mounting block. He hesitates, but not as much as before. We’ve been working on this for weeks and he knows the routine by now. I set him up parallel to the block, gather the reins, and climb up.
"Good boy," I say, letting my voice go low and soothing. "Stand."
He shifts his weight but doesn’t move his feet.
"Stand," I repeat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Gabriel, one hand resting lightly on the top rail of the fence, his attention focused entirely on us. I don't like being the center of attention. At all.
But I really like having this man's eyes on me.
"Okay," I say softly, more to myself than to the horse. "Here we go."
I swing my leg over and settle into the saddle in one smooth motion. The gelding stiffens for a heartbeat, then exhales, shoulders relaxing.
"That’s it," I breathe. "See? The block didn’t devour you."
We walk off.
I put him on a loose rein at first, letting him feel the movement, the weight, the rhythm. We circle the arena, then cut across the diagonal, then circle the other way. He’s still tense around the mounting block, his ears flicking toward it every time we pass, but his feet stay where I put them.
I forget to be self-conscious for a few minutes.
It’s just me and the horse, the pattern of the arena, and the small corrections I make with my legs and hands.
This is where my body feels right to me.
Not in front of a mirror, not in a dress on a date, but here, where how I look is irrelevant to the task at hand and the animal under me cares only that I am clear, consistent, and not an idiot.
Before the promised ten minutes is up, I bring the gelding back to the center and dismount.
"Very impressive," Gabriel says.