Page 5 of Captured By the Billionaire Cowboy
With a grateful thank you, she bid farewell and hung up the call. She may be a lot poorer, but twelve horses had a second chance because of her.
And that was worth everything.
The Irish sunset blazed in fiery glory, a natural masterpiece of reds, oranges and yellows over never-ending emerald lands. The air was sweet with wildflowers, their fragrant essence dancing on a gentle, cooling wind. Through the sky, a lapwing soared, displaying the distinctive feathery crest that signified it as the national bird of Ireland, above horses that roamed inwide corrals, of varying sizes, ages, and colors. Beautiful and magnificent, they possessed kind dispositions, endless grace and inherit strength.
He would never reveal how much he loved them.
“You’re going to be angry.”
Rowan stepped back from the corral, pushing up the smooth fabric of his organic cotton shirt. He stole a moment to don a neutral expression, arrange and adjust his mental mask. He should have known his escape would be short-lived.
The approaching man was tall and muscular, with blue eyes and blond hair. Tanned from the sun, and handsome enough to draw endless attention, he could have been Rowan’s reflection. Behind him, another man followed, also with the same build several inches above six feet, the same uncannily similar features. They could have been triplets, yet a handful of years separated each.
It seemed a generation.
“Quinn.” He nodded. “Spencer.”
“Hi guys!” Another man arrived, the final brother in their quartet. A few years younger, with tousled auburn hair and a far shorter stature, Davey wore a Special Olympics t-shirt and a smile that brightened the stormiest day.
Rowan relaxed. “Hey, buddy.” He reached out and pulled the younger man in for a hug. “You doing all right?”
Davey gave a big thumbs up, and the world turned a little less gray. Yet stark sobriety soon returned, as Rowan turned to Quinn. “What will make me angry?”
Quinn and Spencer exchanged dismal expressions, locked in a silent tug-of-war. Finally, Quinn spoke, “The horses from Darton aren’t exactly what he promised.”
“I told you buying from Darton was a bad idea.” Spencer gripped the railing tightly. “He treats his horses as bad as he treats his enemies, and he considers everyone an enemy.” Hepushed off the railing, speared Rowan with a penetrating gaze. “Judging by the number of horses, you nearly bought his entire stable.”
Hehadbought the entire stable. “I’ve already seen them. I’m keeping one.” He hadn’t been looking for another horse, but the mare had been as sweet as the sugar cubes he kept in his pocket, as she nibbled through the glittering delicacies and his resistance. He’d named her Sweetheart.
Another thing he would never admit.
“We can’t use them for stud or racing, at least not in their current form.” Quinn frowned. “What do you want to do with them?”
Rowan paused, as if considering the question. In truth he’d formulated his plan before he ever purchased them. “Do you remember that non-profit that asked if we could donate to their equine therapy program? The one for children with serious illnesses?” He tipped his vegan leather hat. “We’ll send them there.”
Spencer’s intelligent gaze sharpened, turning assessing, calculating, almostsuspicious. “Despite their condition, they’re young and should recover. You could sell them and recoup some of what you paid.”
“Too much work. We’ll take a tax write-off instead.” Rowan waved his hand, then paused. “It’s going to be expensive to care for this many unexpected horses. Send some funds to upkeep them.”
For a moment, his brothers remained silent. “Are you sure?” Quinn finally asked. At Rowan’s nod, he displayed no surprise. “And what about being swindled by Darton?”
“I’ll take care of it.” A few phone calls to influential people would share the extent of Darton’s cruelty to both equine and human creatures. The tycoon would soon find his business bridled by his own shameful deeds.
A strong voice sounded from the stables, “Mr. Byrne, are you there?”
If business was good for one thing, it was as a distraction from uncomfortable conversations. Rowan nodded to his brothers, as he stepped towards the stables, unwittingly slowing as he passed them. They stared at him, the air thick with the emotion of a thousand unsaid words. He strode swifter, away from the paddock, away from his family. Away from the sour taste of regret. While they could voice their every thought, he had to stay focused, detached. Too much depended on him.
The ranch. The business. The employees. The family.Everyone.
Rodrigo, his executive manager, emerged from the stables, carrying a sleek tablet. The middle-aged Hispanic man had worked for his family for a generation, and like almost everyone at the ranch, wore jeans, a cowboy shirt and a friendly expression. “There you are. About a hundred people have been looking for you. You have a conference call with the Hallowell breeders in an hour. Plus, you’re double-booked for most of next week and received forty-two messages. Frank O’Connor’s is at the top.”
A muscle ticked in Rowan’s jaw, even as he kept his expression neutral. He’d only taken a few hours off. The world had missed him, even if he hadn’t missed the world. Grasping the tablet, he opened Frank’s message, read it once, then again, not quite understanding, and then not quite believing. A dozen horses. A life-or-death situation.
Ciara.
He took a deep breath of something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Then, without conscious thought, he replied, “I’m taking a vacation.”
Rodrigo nearly stumbled. “You’re taking a what?”
