Page 41 of Growing Into Love

“Ooh, that’s a fun name,” she says. “Can I get your full name for the room?”

“Jasar Taylor-Wexhall,” I say. “Is my room ready?”

“No, sorry, I don’t think anything will be available until later this evening. But there’s a shuttle to Windy Acres that’s about to leave if you’d like to head over and see the farm.”

“Cheers,” I say. I head out onto the sprawling front porch. The shuttle bus is stout and white with the wordsWindy Acresprinted on it in green block lettering. The drive isn’t a long one—I could have walked it to be honest. But as the bus pulls up to Windy Acres, I realize how huge it is.

Rings, tents, and barns are dotted along a vast expanse of green and surrounded by thick woods, dappled in the late afternoon sunlight. There are five rings total—I see a teenage girl doing some exercises on a gorgeous roan in one of them. There’s another rider in a different ring that I would guess is a hunter—that’s a different class to show jumpers. They’re judged on the horse’s accuracy and cadence, things like consistent rhythms between fences. As a show jumper, Cass still needs to be concerned with rhythm, of course, but she won’t be judged on it. Styles vary from horse to horse, and she told me once that she prefers letting Gal be Gal. That she has a style all her own and Cass wouldn’t want to train that out of her.

I admire that so much about her. Cass knows how to let animals be themselves.

This place is blindingly professional, easily the poshest spot Cass has jumped at. I feel extremely underdressed. The riders are kitted out in expensive gear, the horses all seem to be of the highest pedigree, and the trainers have this tough-as-nails look, snapping orders at their jumpers. I don’t see Cass or Gal anywhere, but I head over to a training ring to watch the teenage girl doing cavallettis.

I’ve seen Cass do cavalletti exercises before. They’re just poles on the ground or a series of very low jumps used for conditioning; pretty basic, and you can set them however far apart you want. The trainer keeps shouting things at the student, and I edge closer, hoping to pick up tips. I know Delilah said Cass doesn’t need my help but it wouldn’t hurt to learn a thing or two.

Another jumper, a woman who I’m guessing is from Spain based on the fact that she’s speaking Spanish to her trainer and wears the Spanish flag on her fleece, rides into a different practice ring. At once glance, I can tell she’s here for the Grand Prix. Her horse is enormous, a big black stallion, and the trainer is setting up some much more serious jumps.

I watch her take her horse around the ring a few times and then start on the jumps. The stallion sails over them with ease and I feel a twist of panic in my chest. Cass is facing some seriously stiff competition. The trainer calls out things to the rider in Spanish and I wish I could understand her. I take out my phone and look over the things Cass said at the airport.

Ankles flexed. I glance up and watch the rider’s ankles.

Bottom close to saddle. Got that one. Just the thought of Cass’s bottom makes my cock twitch, the echo of my orgasm shivering through me.

The stallion sails over the final oxer and the rider leads her to the railing. Rider and trainer chat in Spanish then the rider goes for another round. The horse is a magnificent creature and looks very well-cared for.

“Is that your daughter?”

I start and see the Spanish trainer looking at me.

“Sorry?” I say.

She jerks her head in the direction of the teenager, now dismounting the roan.

“Oh. No,” I say. “I’m Cassandra Wright’s trainer.”

The woman frowns. “She is not training with Delilah any longer?”

“She is,” I say. “Del had an accident and couldn’t make it.”

“I am sorry to hear.” She extends her hand to me. “Carmen Torres.”

“Jaz Taylor-Wexhall,” I say, shaking it.

She glances over at the rider. “Rosa and I competed against Cassandra and Delilah at the Andalucía Sunshine Tour a few years ago. She is a good jumper.”

“So is Rosa,” I say politely.

Carmen gives me a half smile, like she isn’t sure if I’m being honest.

“Where is Cassandra now?” she asks.

“Er, that’s a good question,” I say.

“Who else do you train?”

“I don’t,” I admit. “I’m a local farm vet.”

“Really?” She raises an eyebrow. Then she turns and calls out, “Rosa!”

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