Page 20 of Irish Rebel
“It’s a fine thing you’re doing. An admirable thing, and not a little one at all. I’d like to help you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to give you a hand with it when I can. Give you some of my time.”
Off balance, she shook her head. “I don’t need any help.”
“I don’t imagine you do. But it couldn’t hurt, could it?”
She studied him with equal parts suspicion and interest. “Why?”
“Why not. You’ll admit I know horses. I have a strong back. And I believe in what you’re doing.”
It was the last that cut through her defenses. No one outside of family had understood what she wanted to do as easily. She flexed her hand in his, and when he released her, stepped back. “Are you offering because you feel guilty?”
“I’m offering because I’m interested. Feeling guilty made me apologize.”
“You haven’t apologized yet.” But she smiled a little as she began to walk. “Never mind. I might be able to use a strong back from time to time.” She glanced over as he fell into step beside her. It looked like he had one, she mused, skimming her gaze over the rough jeans and plain white T-shirt he wore.
A strong, healthy body, good hands and an innate understanding of horses. She could do a great deal worse, she supposed. “Do you ride?”
“Well, of course I ride,” he began, then caught her smirky little smile. “Having me on again, are you?”
“That one was easy.” She turned to wander along a path that meandered through late-blooming shrubs and an arbor of gleaming moonflowers. “I won’t pay you.”
“I’ve a job, thanks.”
“The kids handle a lot of the chores,” she told him. “It’s part of the package. This isn’t just about teaching them to post and change leads at a canter. It’s about trust—in themselves, in their horse, in me. Making a connection with their horse. Shoveling manure makes quite a connection.”
He grinned. “I can’t argue with that.”
“Still they’re kids, so fun is a big part of the program. And they’re learning so they don’t always do the best job mucking out or grooming. And there isn’t always enough time to have them deal properly with the tack.”
“I started my illustrious career with a pitchfork in my hand and saddle soap in my pocket.”
Idly he tugged a white blossom from the vine, tucked it into her hair. The gesture flustered her—the easy charm of it—and made her remember they were walking in the moonlight, among the flowers.
Not, she reminded herself, a good idea.
“All right then. If and when you’ve time to spare, I’ve got an extra pitchfork.”
When she veered toward the house he took her hand again. “Don’t go in yet. It’s a pretty night and a shame to waste it with sleeping.”
His voice was lovely, with a soothing lilt. There was no reason she could think of why it made her want to shiver. “We both have to be up early.”
“True enough, but we’re young, aren’t we? I saw your medal.”
Distracted, she forgot to pull her hand away. “My medal?”
“Your Olympic medal. I went looking for you in your office.”
“The medal lures parents who can afford the tuition.”
“It’s something to be proud of.”
“I am proud of it.” With her free hand she brushed her hair as the breeze teased it. Her fingertips skimmed over the soft petals of the flower. “But it doesn’t define me.”
“Not like, what was it? A British tie?”
