Page 2 of Training the Heart

“It has nothing to do with you being a woman. Some of the most respected trainers in the industry are women. Hell, the trainer you’re here to replace now, is a woman.”

Something in her eyes softens and looks almost sheepish, as she drops her arms to her sides.

“Oh, I just assumed with the name Sam—”

“Samantha,” I cut her off. “Assumptions most always get you nowhere,” I add gruffly.

I rake my hand through my hair and sit down, leaning back in my chair. She’s got a feisty attitude, I’ll give her that, and she’s probably the prettiest woman I’ve laid eyes on in, hell, a really long time. Alright, she’s fucking breathtaking. I’m talking my-dick-stood-at-attention-the moment-she-tossed-her-long-raven-colored-hair-over-her-shoulder-as-her-boots-hit-the-dirt breathtaking.

Ivy Spencer. I look at her now and wonder how I could’ve forgotten her name.

She follows suit, relaxing a little as she sits down across from me. I take a breath before I continue. I wasn’t intending for this interview to start off so intensely. I’m not actually an asshole. I just have so much going on all the damn time that I speak swiftly, and nine times out of ten, out of frustration just so I can move onto the next task.

“Look, if we’re being honest here, you are young, you can’t have more than what? Five years’ experience?”

There’s that defiant look again. Her heart-shaped face gives nothing away—high cheekbones, a slender straight nose, and plump pink lips, those features are all perfectly settled. It’s her eyes. Her eyes are stormy and tell me she’s fixing to put me in myplace, and fast. If I wasn’t so fucking exhausted today it might amuse me.

“Almostfifteen,actually. If you count all my intern hours, but even without that, I have a degree in Equine Studies from U of K, on a full scholarship, five years of training thoroughbreds at Bellingham Ranch …” She cocks a brow as if to ask,impressed yet, Mr. Ashby?“Three years at Nottingham Rehabilitation Center before that as a cooperative. Oh, and four summer internships with the American Quarter and Thoroughbred Association under Peter Sampson during high school and college.” She mentions a well-known trainer that helped to train the 2015 Triple Crown winner.

Well, fuck.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Assumptions most always get you nowhere,” she says. A coy little grin turns her pretty lips up, and something about it makes me want to do all sorts of things, most of which are highly inappropriate, to wipe that look right off her face.

I grunt and she seems to relax a little.

“Look, I’m good at what I do. I have a modern approach I’m guessing this ranch doesn’t run with—one that might help you, especially if you’re hoping to make another derby run at some point,” she offers.

I look at her and wonder if she could possibly be the one to take over. Fifteen years? So she’s been working with horses since she was … a kid? I shake my head, some compartment of my brain asking me why I’m so interested in her life story.

She stands up and motions to the door.

“You want to show me around this place while we talk or is this interview just going to be you sitting there judging me silently?”

My mouth falls slack for a brief moment at her sassy tone, then I get it together and return my hat to my head as I stand.

“Barns are this way,” I huff out as I breeze by her.

Twenty minutes later, we’re standing outside our large arena watching one of our trainers, Dusty, try to work with a nervous new colt. This colt is skittish, and just getting him to keep eyes and not spook has been a task.

Ivy stands watching, learning the horse’s ways like she has a telepathic connection with him while I answer questions from three of my ranch hands. For some reason, all of a sudden they’ve decided they need to be working right where Ivy and I are. As if I don’t know it’s because she’s the attraction of the hour.

One of my leads is chatting Ivy up like they’re old friends. They laugh, and I instantly know this woman cannot work here. She’s too distracting, too charming. These fuckers will never get anything done if she’s here, and I’m all about productivity on my ranch. The last thing I need is one more thing to worry about on the daily.

“How’s it going, Sarge?” Nash, my lifelong friend, claps me on the back, coming from breakfast at the big house with my mother and sister.

“Argh,” I grunt out.

“That good?” he asks, chuckling. “You think maybe you’re being too hard on her. Six minutes late? Really?”

“Maybe. Her resume is good.” I give that much to him, watching as she grabs a training stick down from the tack wall and takes it upon herself to enter the corral.

Nash and I look at each other and then quickly go after her as she swings the gate open, making sure it’s safe to enter.

“Mind if I try?” she asks Dusty boldly.

Dusty looks at her like,who the fuck is this?And then he smiles wide.

“Have at it, he’s a stubborn bugger, won’t let me assert any type of dominance with him.”

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