Page 20 of The Black Trilogy

“Why doesn’t she ride Majesty?” I’d asked.

“That horse is far too clever for her. He’s worked out she’s not a good rider, so he just dances around until she falls off,” Susie said, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.

“Why on earth doesn’t she sell him to somebody who can ride?”

“Because then she’d have to admit she can’t. Plus he’s pretty, and she imported him from Qatar for some stupid amount of money that she never misses an opportunity to brag about.”

Majesty reminded me of Stan, which meant even though he was a git, I still liked him. Plus he had the measure of his owner, which made me even fonder. Still, none of that explained why Susie and Hayley were traipsing out to see her.

“From what I’ve heard, Portia being around is a good reason not to be out here.”

“Her brother’s come with her,” Susie said, a faraway look in her eyes.

“So?”

“Just wait until you see him.”

Wait until I saw him? Yeah, I could wait. I finished filling the haynets then returned to the barn to fetch the feed buckets, and when I walked in, it seemed as though everybody at the farm had gathered there.

Susie and Hayley were walking up and down, looking for non-existent poop, while Jessica and Marianne brushed horses that had already been groomed. Half a dozen girls whose horses lived in the other barns pretended to talk to them, and a couple more hovered around Arabella, another of the owners. Arabella was sitting outside her horse’s stable, stuffing her face with crisps.

All heads pointed in the direction of Samara’s box, and I could hear a high-pitched whine coming from inside. A whine I could only assume came from Portia.

“She’s got dirt on her rug. She needs a new one.”

A male voice replied, low, gravelly and seemingly exasperated. “If you get her a new one, she’ll get that dirty too. She’s a horse. She doesn’t understand she needs to stay clean. Can’t we just get it washed?”

“No! That’s not the same. She doesn’t want a used rug. Besides, this colour doesn’t suit her.”

“But you chose the colour,” the man said.

“Well it was difficult to judge the exact shade in the shop. But now she’s wearing it, I can see it doesn’t suit her.”

“She probably doesn’t realise that.”

Ooh, wrong thing to say. I felt sorry for the guy as Portia’s voice rose an octave and the volume increased.

“Well she might not know, but everyone else does, and they’ll think I’m a stupid colour-blind person who can’t even pick a rug that matches her horse. Sammy can’t wear it anymore. And Majesty and Gameela need new rugs too, because if Sammy has one and they don’t, they’ll think I love her more than them.”

Impeccable logic there. I bet horses talked about things like that all the time while the humans were asleep.

The poor bloke sighed and admitted defeat. “Okay, get them new rugs. Just make sure they’re the right colour this time, because you’re not buying more next week.”

Now she’d got her own way, Portia’s voice turned sickly sweet. “Ooh, you’re the best brother ever.”

The guy emerged from the stable, and there was a collective intake of breath from everyone except me. He breathed deeply himself, leaning against the wall outside Samara’s stable with his eyes closed. His clenched jaw and balled fists suggested he was a man on the edge.

I took the opportunity to get a good look at him. Just over six feet tall, he had tousled, dark blond hair a month past needing a cut and a day’s worth of stubble. Were his jeans well-worn or designer? Hard to tell these days.

Three months ago, Bradley, who looked after my wardrobe as well as my diary, had presented me with a pair full of holes and informed me they cost over a thousand dollars. I’d counted up—sixty dollars per hole. He hadn’t been impressed when I told him to go with the cheap ones next time and I’d do the holes myself.

Next time. A sigh escaped. When would that be?

I shut down that wayward thought and looked back at Portia’s brother. Surely he must be freezing in only a T-shirt and a beaten up leather jacket? Still, his lack of clothing let me see his goods, and I ran through my mental checklist. The verdict? Not bad. I’d had better. I worked with better. In the department I ran, every day was Diet Coke Break day. But yeah, in Lower Foxford, I could see why Mr. Halston-Cain warranted a fan club.

I checked the thermometer on the wall. Judging by the flushed faces around me, the temperature seemed to have risen by a couple of degrees, but the mercury remained steady.

Good grief.

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