Page 8 of Saddles & Suits

Seb

I’m staringat the stove and wondering if I should attempt a hot breakfast when Jack comes into the kitchen.

“It cooks things,” my boss says as he goes to the fridge and gets out the orange juice.

“What?” Did I hear him right?

“The stove. You’re staring at it like you don’t know what it’s for.” Grinning, Jack gets a glass and then shoots me an inquiring glance. “Want some juice?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks. It’s morning. Coffee time.” I raise the hand that grips my mug of life-giving elixir, courtesy of the top-of-the-line Nespresso machine Warwick insisted on buying me for my birthday one year.

Jack scoffs. “Coffee should be savored, not used to wake up.” He pours his juice and then opens the pantry and wanders in. “Do you still stock Pop-Tarts, or did you stop after Uncle Warwick…?”

The pang of grief is almost unnoticeable, overridden by memories of the fond arguments Warwick and I had over “suitable” breakfast food. “There should be some cinnamon ones there somewhere.” They’re the only ones I can bring myself to eat, but I like the connection it gives me with Warwick, even if it’s imaginary.

Jack emerges clutching the box and shoots me a condescending look. “Cinnamon? Really?”

Laughing, I push past him and go into the pantry to find the instant porridge. It isn’t as good as Grandma’s from-scratch stuff, but it’s still pretty decent. “Warwick wasn’t supposed to be eating Pop-Tarts at all that last year. The cinnamon ones, once a week, were our compromise.” I go back into the kitchen to see Jack looking vaguely guilty. “What?”

“No wonder he always ate like a glutton when he came up to town. Rich food, multiple courses… you were trying to keep him healthy, and I helped him cheat. I feel so used.”

I dump the contents of the sachet in a bowl, add milk, and stick it in the microwave. “He used to cheat here too. As long as he was mostly eating okay, the odd bit of cheating was okay, his doctor said.” Although really, was it? If I’d found a way to be stricter with Warwick’s food, would he have lived longer?

“Don’t,” Jack says softly, and I meet his gaze. “If you’re wondering if you should have policed his food more, then don’t. It wasn’t your responsibility, and anyway, he would never have allowed it. He once said he’d rather be dead than not be able to enjoy life’s pleasures, and we all know how much he loved good food.”

It’s true, and the validation lifts a weight from my chest I didn’t know I was carrying. I smile gratefully at Jack just as the toaster pops and the microwave dings.

We sit at the table and eat, mumbling inane comments about the weather and the contents of the newspaper. Finally, I clear the dishes and ask, “Did you want to have a look around at everything? Or look at the books? Or just vegetate for a while?” Why did he come? Is this supposed to be a relaxing country weekend, or does he want to check up on operations? Somehow, it didn’t come up last night, and I’m dying to know.

“Let’s go for a ride,” Jack says.

“A ride,” I repeat. “Sure.” Of all the things I expected, having fun with my boss wasn’t one of them. But why not? Warwick and I had a lot of fun. “Uh, there are classes and trail rides this morning, but I’m sure some of the boarded horses haven’t been exercised yet.”

“Trail rides?” Jack raises a brow. “When did you start doing those? Uncle Warwick hated the idea.”

I make a face. “I know, and to be honest, I don’t love it that much either. We decided to offer them during the summer only for tourists a few years back, with very limited group sizes and only on weekends. They’re really popular, but Warwick and I agreed to stick to small groups and weekends only. We did expand to make it year-round, though. We still get tourists in the winter, but we also get a lot of locals who like to ride but don’t have their own horses or can’t commit the time or money to regular classes. And we get a lot of beginners do a trail ride and then sign up for classes. Still…” I don’t like having unknown riders on “my” horses, and I know Warwick felt the same. Especially when those unknown riders are often beginners with an exaggerated idea of their own riding experience and horse knowledge.

“We make the best decisions we can,” Jack says prosaically. “Riding schools don’t do as well as they used to. Don’t worry about calling—let’s just go down. If there aren’t any horses that need to go out, you can show me around. It’s been a while since I’ve visited, and Uncle Warwick said you’d renovated a couple years ago.”

“Yeah, we did.” I feel the usual glow of pride about the renovation. It was my baby, and the stables operate more efficiently as a result. “Do you have boots, or do you want me to find you some?” We have plenty in a variety of sizes, left behind years ago by family members and friends. Some of them are probably even Jack’s.

“I’ll get them. Do you still keep them in the cupboard in the mudroom?” He’s already heading in that direction, so I just call an affirmative after him.

I didn’t know what to expect from Jack or the weekend, but so far, nothing is like I thought it would be.

The walkdown to the stables is a revelation. Jack’s a treasure trove of stories about the estate, almost as much as Warwick was. Even better, I can actually see the lines of stress in Jack’s face relaxing. He looks so much more carefree than he did when he arrived last night. I make a mental note to invent some “problems” that will bring him down here more often. It can’t be healthy for anyone to work so much, right?

I ignore the tiny voice in the back of my head that calls me a hypocrite.

The stable is a hive of activity. We arrive just as the first trail ride of the day is leaving, and the beginner and intermediate classes are underway in the arenas. Chris, the head instructor, is standing by the folding table beside the main door, talking to the dad of one of our intermediate students. That table is set up every weekend, rain or shine, as a check-in point. On weekdays, which are less busy, the onus is on the students to find Chris or me before and after class.

The dad, seemingly satisfied with whatever Chris tells him, walks back toward the parents’ area, a shadecloth-sheltered section with a view of both arenas. Warwick long ago instituted a policy that limits parents to that area, and only if they abide by certain rules of conduct. Instructors have the right to ask a parent to leave if they feel a student is being distracted or their behavior is affected by their parents watching. Horses are big animals, and concentration is key to keep them and their riders safe.

Chris sees us and grins. He pretty much grew up in these stables between the ages of five and twelve. He’s a dedicated horseman and a former Olympic athlete from a wealthy family. When he decided to give up competing but also refused to join the family business, his parents basically cut him off, but, as Chris cheerfully told me and Warwick when he turned up asking for a job, he has a trust fund from his grandparents that’s more than sufficient to live on. He just wants to work with horses without the pressure of competition or running his own business, and where better than the place that taught him to ride?

We didn’t actually need any help then, but Chris declared his willingness to work for free doing the worst jobs. Instead, we agreed to board his two horses in exchange for him taking an instructor role, and we added advanced dressage and competition prep classes to the roster. It would be stupid, Warwick said, to waste his talent and experience. Now Chris is an integral part of the stable—I can’t imagine running it without him.

“Morning, boss,” Chris says as we approach, and then he nods to Jack. “Mr. Tarrant.”

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