Page 7 of Run for the Money

She frowns slightly, and I realize she’s looking over my shoulder to where Ophelia Jane is probably chewing on the top of her stall door. I love Ophelia fiercely, butshe’s no show pony. None of the horses in this stable are, since it’s the place where I keep the older, milder-mannered horses who are suitable for kiddie riding lessons.

“Okay,” Melanie says cautiously. “I’ll meet the infamous GT.”

“Right this way.”

To her credit, she only hesitates a second before following me further onto the property. The other two stables, where I keep my own horses and the horses I board for rich people like Melanie, are just behind the work horse stable—hidden from view if you’re on the road, but obvious to anyone headed to the corrals or the riding trails. I look over my shoulder so I can catch the moment Melanie sees them, and I’m not disappointed. From the way her lips part and her eyes widen, it’s clear she underestimated me again.

Good. I can use that to my advantage.

I lead her into the first stable. It’s roomier than the work stable with a larger tack room and fewer stalls. Melanie doesn’t bother hiding her surprise as she takes it all in—the extensive collection of English saddles, the excessive supply of blankets and fly masks, the fresh paint job, the sweet smell of clean hay, and the warm animal scent of expensive, spoiled horses.

I don’t need to point GT out. Even if he didn’t have a gold-plated name placard outside his stall, there’s no mistaking the proud chestnut stallion sticking his head over the stall door to sniff the air. Sometimes, I swear the horse knows he’s special. The way he stands has a certain awe-inspiring pride to it. Melanie can see it, too. She’s mesmerized, taking slow steps toward him like she’s being pulled into a whirlpool.

“Go ahead,” I tell her. “Like I told you last night, he’s more easy-going than your typical stallion.”

He proves me right, instantly. Melanie holds out her hand, palm flat, and he sniffs it loudly for a few seconds before determining she hasn’t brought him any food. Carefully, she strokes his muzzle, eyes glued to him. I know a woman in love when I see one, and she’s just fallen for GT, head over heels.

“He’s no racehorse,” she says reverently.

“Not nearly neurotic enough, no,” I agree.

She pets him a while longer, her slim fingers pale against the deep brown of his hair. I stay quiet, because it’s working. Little by little, the horse is winning her over. He was always my best chance, and I’m gratified to see how neatly he’s getting the job done.

“I’m out of shape,” she says, still looking at GT. “I don’t ride every day anymore. There’s no guarantee I’ll make it through a single qualifier, let alone five. I’m not making any Olympic promises.”

Bullshit. She rides a minimum of four times a week at a stable fifteen miles east of here where Edwin’s brother works. Even if I didn’t know that, she’s hardly out of shape. Her leggings don’t leave much to the imagination in terms of muscle tone. I’m not about to bring any of that up when she’s halfway to agreeing, though.

“I’m not under any illusions,” I say instead.

“I’ll train hard. I’m not in touch with a coach at the moment, but I could call in some favors.”

“No need. I’ll coach you.”

She arches an eyebrow so high it nearly hits her hairline. Her skepticism confirms all her research was focused on the horse, and not me. Works for me—it leaves me one last ace to play.

“My mom is Lisa Conway.”

Melanie’s other eyebrow joins the first. I know she recognizes the name; my mom was supposed to be Melanie’s coach when she moved up from the Children’s division into Juniors. Then Diana Walter’s parents offered Mom double her usual fee. We couldn’t afford to turn down that kind of money, and thus my family got pulled into a bitter rivalry between the Archers and the Walters.

Melanie steps back from GT slowly, like she’s reluctant to stop petting his muzzle. She eyes me up and down. I have the distinct impression she’s scanning me like an MRI machine, searching for weaknesses and flaws. It’s moderately terrifying, but I hold my ground.

“If I get even a whiff of nonsense, I’m walking away,” she says. “One sign that this is a joke to you or some kind of cruel prank, and I’m gone. Prize money—if there is any, because again, I don’t guarantee I’ll place, let alone win—gets split evenly. He’s your horse, but I’m doing the work. And I expect you to treat me with respect.”

I hold my hand out to her. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Miss Archer.”

She takes my hand and shakes it. Her grip is firm and the shake is decisive, but her expression is still dubious. I wonder what it’s going to take to get her to trust me.

“You asked for respect, Miss Manners. I’m doing my best,” I say.

She rolls her eyes, then glances down at our hands. I quickly let go and shove my hands in my back pockets.

“We start tomorrow. Eight in the morning,” she says.

“Can’t wait.”

She gives GT one last affectionate pat, then strides out of the stable, head held high. I give her a few minutes’ head start, then head back to the main stable to help Edwin finish morning chores. He’s got my feed pellet disaster cleaned up and has moved on to feeding the horses properly, so I start on mucking out stalls.

“How’d it go?” he asks eagerly.

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