Page 6 of Run for the Money

It comes off more sarcastic than intended, but once again, she’s pushing my buttons. It’s taking a significant effort on my part to keep this civil. I can’t afford to chase her off a second time, though, so I persevere.

“Why would you name a descendent of Secretariat ‘Grand Theft Equine’?” she asks. “That’s like putting truck nuts on a Bentley. What is wrong with you?”

Edwin doesn’t bother to hide his laugh with a cough this time. As amusing as it is to hear the phrasetruck nutscoming out of Melanie’s mouth, I’m more focused on the subtext. She looked up GT’s pedigree at least eight generations back. Despite her outright refusal last night, not only is she here—she looked up my horse. There’s still a chance, then, that I can persuade her to compete for me; I just have to go about it carefully.

“Who says I named the horse?” I challenge.

“Unless there’s another Nicholas Korbel breeding thoroughbreds in the United States, you named that poor horse after a violent video game,” she says ferociously.

Whatever research she did after we met must have been cursory, since she hasn’t mentioned the all-importantjr.suffix on my name.

“GT is no weirder a name than Explosions W or American Pharaoh. Any other pressing issues you’d like to shout at me?” I ask mildly.

“Yes, actually. Why are you jumping a racehorse? And why is your tack room full of nothing but Western saddles? What gives you the audacity to even approach me with this far-fetched idea about making it to the Olympics when you’re clearly nothing more than a rancher with more money than sense?” she asks, hands on her hips and eyes blazing. “Stick to trail rides and teaching the next generation of city-bred, wanna-be cowboys how to lasso things. I bet you don’t know the first thing about equestrian sports.”

There are plenty of things I could address there. She’s barely made it six feet into one of my three stables, so she has no idea what kind of tack I have. The woman doesn’t even know what kind of horses I’ve got on the property, or what my background is. She’s got no way of knowing I’ve been in the horse world longer than she has, because I was never the one in the saddle. Most importantly, she might know who GT’s parents are, but she’s oblivious about mine. I decide, however, to keep things simple and start with her first question.

“I’m not jumping him; you are.”

She snorts, sounding alarmingly like Ophelia Jane. “Don’t get cute with me.”

“Oh, you think I’m cute? I’m flattered, Miss Manners, but I’m afraid I’m still not interested in anything but your athletic prowess,” I tell her.

“I haven’t agreed to do this. I could still walk away,” she warns, all the warmth drained out of her tone.

But for some reason, I don’t think she’s going anywhere. I call her bluff by sweeping my arm out in a wide gesture toward the open door. “Be my guest.”

She doesn’t budge. The barn is silent with the exception of the scrape of Edwin’s shovel against the ground as he scoops up some more of the spilled feed at a glacially slow pace—probably so he can enjoy the show Melanie and I are putting on. He’s going to be insufferable about this.

“If you’re not here to meet GT and start your training, then why are you here?” I ask Melanie.

She looks down, her gaze landing in the vicinity of my boots. “I came here to apologize for my attitude last night, but I’m second-guessing whether or not I want to anymore.”

I avoid checking the sky for flying pigs, but just barely. She wants to apologize to me? Or at least she did before I opened my ornery mouth. After last night’s stunning performance, I ought to have learned my lesson. If I’m ever going to convince Melanie to work with me—and IneedMelanie to work with me—I have to turn this situation around. And fast.

“I should apologize to you,” I say. “I wasn’t very gentlemanly last night.”

“Shocker,” Edwin mutters, loud enough for Melanie to hear.

Her gaze flits to him, then to me. For the first time, I see something in her expression other than hostility. Maybe I’m imagining it, but there’s a chance Melanie Archer is smiling at me. Not with her mouth, but her eyes are doing something new. Of course, it’s in response to Edwin mocking me, so it’s not exactly a win. I’ll take whatever progress I can get, though.

“The thing is, I’ve been trying to track you down for a while now,” I explain. “I tried calling. A lot. Not that you ever answered. You’re a tough woman to get ahold of, so when I spoke to Mirielle Cunningham and she promised you’d be at the fundraiser and she’d introduce us, I assumed she’d filled you in. You came barreling out of those doors toward me like you were on a mission, and well…you know the rest.”

To my utter bewilderment, she blushes. “That might be my fault, actually. Not the calls—I don’t take calls from unknown numbers. But last night, with Mirielle. She called me before the gala and asked me to find her when I got there, which I did, but then we got locked in a gallery with these breathing statues and my—well…long story short, as soon as the gallery doors opened, I bolted. She called again last night after I went home to see if I’d met you. So, I apologize for my part in last night’s unpleasantness. Let’s put it behind us.”

“Water under the bridge, Miss—Melanie,” I say, catching the Miss Manners nickname a split second before it escapes my mouth. When she says things likelast night’s unpleasantness, it’s hard to hold back making fun of how formally she carries herself.

“Well, alright then. I’ll…probably not see you again, but have a nice day,” she says.

This time, she turns around and walks out the door, no bluff about it.

“Wait—don’t leave yet,” I call out. “You haven’t met the horse.”

She stops and her head falls forward, chin to her chest. I hold my breath until she turns around.

“I’m not making any promises,” she warns.

“I’m not asking for any,” I say, hands held up in surrender. “You dragged yourself out here at the crack of dawn to apologize for something that was mostly my fault. The least I can do is introduce you to the most incredible stallion I’ve ever known.”

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