Page 4 of Run for the Money

I glare daggers at him and clamp my mouth shut. I knew better than to answer him the first time, but I did it anyway. It’s concerning how easily I walked into his trap. I won’t be doing it again.

“Diana Walters was a powerful rider,” he says, impervious to my glare. “She had speed and strength on her side, and the emotional momentum of a stellar qualifying round. But the final course didn’t play to her strengths. She always rode like she had nothing to lose, and more often than not, it cost her. You’ve always been the more calculating rider, better able to adjust to problems on the course.”

“You mean I’m a scheming…witch,” I snap, stumbling a little over the last word because it’s not the one I think a man like him would use.

“No. I mean you’re analytical in your approach to show jumping,” he says. His eyes hold mine a moment, a hint of humor glinting in them. “And I’d never call a woman a witch—or a bitch, for that matter. That sort of language is too rough for a place like this.”

He’s definitely trying to goad me into something—an argument? Cursing to prove I’m no better than him just because I don’t like to swear? It’s hard to say. There’s something odd about the way he’s watching me, like he’s hit a button and he’s waiting for a machine to roar to life. But I’m ready for the trap this time. The less I engage, the better.

“Whatever I am, I’m going home. Nice to meet you, Nicholas. Have a great evening,” I say coldly.

I turn to the door again, but he grabs my arm. My whole body goes stiff at the unexpected touch, and he lets go instantly.

“Here, take this,” he says.

I stay exactly as I am, facing the door. There’s a rustling beside me, and then he presses a crumpled business card against my palm. It must’ve been in his pants pocket rather than his wallet, because the corners are worn away. Printed on the front is his name and email address, and on the back is a physical address.

“That’s my ranch. You’re a good rider, and I don’t think you’ve approached the limits of what you can do. There are more trophies for you to win, if you’ll try.”

A chill totally unrelated to the weather rips up my spine. It’s not exactly glowing praise, but it’s not an insult, either. A quiet, often-ignored voice at the back of my head tells me to wait a moment, to hear this guy out. I’m torn between listening to the voice and squashing it down until it suffocates.

“I’ll see you in the stables tomorrow morning, Miss Manners,” Nick says. “Don’t keep me waiting. We’ve only got five qualifiers to make it to nationals, and if we miss nationals, we can kiss the next Olympics goodbye.”

He brushes past me to go back inside. I stand shivering on the rooftop for another five minutes, trying to get my bearings. I don’t know who Nicholas Korbel thinks he is, but he’s dead wrong about who I am and what I can do. The Olympics aren’t a real goal anymore, not for me. Those days are done. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to his ranch tomorrow—or ever.

Chapter 2

Nick

Melanie’s not going to come by the ranch, not after last night’s catastrophe of a first impression. I couldn’t have made the idea of riding for me less appealing if I’d tried. My grand plan of waltzing into the museum gala and dazzling her went south before I even arrived at the venue when I discovered the tux I’d borrowed didn’t fit properly and I didn’t have any dress shoes, just my boots. I left the house pissed off, and by the time Melanie decided to join me on the roof, my plans were shivering with the penguins in the South Pole.

I ought to call her and apologize. It’s not Melanie’s fault I was waiting on that freezing rooftop for damn near an hour. The second I walked into the gala, I couldn’t wait to leave. It’s my fault for trusting that Mirielle lady when she promised to introduce Melanie to me first thing. Why the hell would I be her priority? It was clear from the way Melanie spoke to me that she had no idea who I am or why I was there. I shouldn’t have snapped at her, but she was so fucking hostile it was hard not to respond in kind.

Now I’m SOL. She was my one chance, and I went and pissed her off in less than five minutes. I know better than that. Women like her—rich, stuck-up, silver-spoon debutantes—have to be handled with care. They’re the fine china of humanity and I treated her like a Dixie plate. I’d hate me, too, if I were in her over-priced heels.

I slide my pocket knife along the top of a fresh bag of horse feed with too much force, and the bag splits down the front. Feed spills all over the ground, and pellets roll in every direction. I know it’s going to take me ages to clean up the mess—not to mention I’ve now wasted half a bag of feed. I can afford it now, but it still makes me flinch to throw thirty bucks in the dirt. Fifteen years ago, it would’ve come out of my paycheck and I would’ve gotten a dressing-down for the ages.

It doesn’t matter how high I climb or how much I achieve. Part of me will always be the scrawny teenager in ill-fitting boots, breaking my back day and night to take careof rich people’s horses for a pittance. All those years I spent bonding with some of the most incredible animals on Earth, only to watch a parade of jackasses in skin-tight white breeches and fucking spandex blazers take full credit for the horses’ success, bent my soul out of shape. There’s a bitterness under my skin I’ll never be able to purge. Last night only reinforced the truth: I might be closer to their tax bracket now, but I’ll never be one of them.

Edwin, my stable manager and best friend of thirty years, sidles into the barn, whistling. He eyes the mess I made and chuckles lightly.

“Skipped breakfast today, boss? Wanted a little snack?” he asks.

“No, that’s for you,” I say, gesturing at the pile of feed pellets at my feet. “You weren’t in your stall, so I didn’t know where to leave it.”

“So you chose to leave it everywhere?”

“Yep.”

He laughs, and grabs a shovel off one of the hooks on the wall near the front of the barn.

“I’ll clean this up and finish feeding the horses. Don’t want you to be late for your first appointment,” he says.

I squint at my watch. The face is scuffed up, but I can still see the hands clearly. It’s barely seven in the morning, and my first appointment isn’t until eleven. There’s a homeschool kid with Olympic dreams who boards his dressage horse with me, and after him there’s a long break before the afternoon riding lessons start. Edwin knows as well as I do that I’m not the one running any of those appointments, though. I’ve got a staff of trainers for the kids in the afternoon, and the homeschool kid has his own coach.

“What the hell kind of appointment do I have at this hour?” I ask Edwin.

Can’t be the bank, ’cause they’re not open yet. Won’t be a potential buyer, because I have enough sense not to schedule those visits until after morning chores are done, and I don’t have any horses for sale at the moment. I’m at a loss. Unless…it’s a long shot, but…

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