Page 47 of The Texan Duke
He must have just accidentally insulted the man, because Douglas got a prune face. “Of course we do, Your Grace. Bealadair’s stables are some of the finest in Scotland. I might even say the entire empire.”
He hadn’t considered that the stablemaster might be as pompous as his cousin’s husband, but maybe it was just pride that made the man look all puffed up.
It was most definitely pride, he decided, as he was led from one stall to another. He had the distinct impression that the stablemaster was introducing him to each of the horses and not the other way around.
He had to admit, though, that they were some of the most beautiful mounts he’d ever seen. But he doubted they could outmaneuver a good quarter horse or be as valuable as a horse that had learned to be around cattle, especially Longhorns.
He kept his opinions to himself, however, asking a few questions about bloodlines and breeding stock, enough that he didn’t look like an idiot to Douglas. The fact was, he didn’t care all that much for Bealadair’s stable. Unless, of course, the future owner wanted to keep everything intact. If not, Connor didn’t have an objection to selling the horses to the highest bidder. With the money he could buy some additional quarter horses, hopefully bred out of Shiloh, one of the great horses that helped define the breed.
A working horse was better than a show horse any day.
The stablemaster hadn’t lied. His saddle was mounted on a wooden block in the middle of the large tack room. The smell of leather thickened the air and vied with the odor of horse for dominance.
“Which of the horses would you like to ride, Your Grace? I’d recommend Samson, since he doesn’t have a problem with snow. Sir Guilliuame is a little less skilled, but I’d also recommend Nancy.”
He chose Samson, and when the stablemaster said that he’d have the horse saddled, Connor evidently shocked the man by insisting that he’d do it himself.
He picked up his saddle and walked back to Samson’s stall. Instead of entering right away, he stood at the door making sure the horse was acclimated to his smell.
Horses were a great deal smarter than most people gave them credit for. All you had to do was watch a cow pony work a herd of Longhorns and you figured that out pretty fast. They learned quickly, too. Plus, they had a sixth sense about people. Maybe they could smell fear or incompetence. They weren’t just dumb beasts of burden.
He knew the stablemaster was right behind him holding the tack and blanket. He was probably giving the man a tale to tell around the dinner table tonight, but he didn’t care.
He introduced himself to Samson again, told the horse a little about himself.
“I’ve been riding since I was about three,” he said. “At least that’s what I was told. My first horse was Charlie and he wasn’t anywhere near your size. I don’t think I’ve ever ridden anyone quite as magnificent as you, either.”
That wasn’t a lie. The stallion was black with a mane of hair so thick and rippling that it looked like a woman’s hair. The eyes that stared back at him were intelligent and measuring, almost as if Samson was saying,I’m not sure I trust you, but keep talking pretty to me.
He opened the stall door, approached the stallion, and stopped.
“How do you feel about a ride? There’s snow on the ground, but the sky is clear. It’s on the cold side, but we’ll soon get warm. What do you say?”
Samson turned his head, then gave a little shake. An agreement if he’d ever seen one.
Once he was mounted, he left the stable. An army of servants was already about, clearing the road at the rear of the house. Two were guiding plow horses along the lane, each dragging a set of boards behind them to smooth out the snow. He nodded to each man, was surprised and pleased when each of them met his eyes.
“They’re a rebellious bunch, the Scots,” his father had once said. “They’ll work for you for a decent wage, but never think they owe you loyalty or allegiance. That’s not for sale and can only be earned.”
Graham had earned the ranch hands’ loyalty and trust. A ranch the size of theirs needed a great number of loyal people to run it. Connor had known that all his life, and it was a lesson doubly reinforced after his father’s death.
They had a number of rules, some of which didn’t suit every man. There was no drinking alcohol unless it was an official celebration. No gambling was allowed at any time, including playing cards.
Yet for all the rules, men wanted to work at the XIV Ranch. The wages were good and the work, though hard, was equally shared. Every man worked as hard as the newest hired hand.
He couldn’t help but wonder how Joe was handling the problems that were sure to come up in his absence. His future brother-in-law was a competent manager and the experience would be good for him. Still, Connor wanted to be home more than he wanted to be here.
Samson was prancing along on the snow, sure-footed, his head tossing—a sign that he was enthused to be out and about. Connor felt the same; he’d rather be on horseback, even on an unfamiliar horse, than anywhere else.
He followed the directions the stablemaster had given him, wishing he’d felt comfortable enough to ask the man a few questions. He’d learned not to reveal himself too quickly to a stranger, even here at Bealadair. Perhaps especially here at Bealadair.
Except for Elsbeth. He’d never felt the same reserve with her that he experienced around other people. He’d told her things he’d never mentioned to anyone else, even Sam. He’d let her see how he felt, unable to hold back his emotions on first viewing the picture of Graham and Gavin.
She’d been as free with him, talking about his uncle with sadness in her eyes.
The air was crisp and clean, the sky a brilliant blue with not one cloud overhead. Evidently they were done with the snow for a while, a fact he welcomed.
The road he took, little wider than a lane, was lined on either side by trees boasting dripping icicles. The snow hadn’t been smoothed away from the lane here, and for a moment, he wondered about the advisability of going any farther. The tracks convinced him, and he followed a horse’s hoofprints, wondering if they were from the horse Elsbeth was riding.
