Read Online No One's Hero (Chadwell Hearts) by Kelly Walker - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Walker
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spins, then cocks his head questioningly at me. His eyes don’t linger on me long, though; he scans the nearby area, constantly alert.
“Do you think you could wait here for me? You’re supposed to have an equine center ID to pass this point anyway, and if you wait here you’ll be able to see everyone coming and going. I just really don’t want an audience for my first class; I’m nervous enough.”
He’s visibly torn between agreeing and arguing, but at last he nods, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed across his broad chest, momentarily distracting me from any and all nerves. Kevin has the type of body that makes good girls do bad things. It doesn’t help that I’m not exactly determined to be good.
“Try to play nice; if I hear any screaming I’ll have to come in guns blazing.”
My eyes snap to the waistband of his jeans, and the snuggly fitting T-shirt that shows off every contour of his muscles—but no obvious outline of a gun. I can’t help wondering if that was a joke, or if he’s actually got one. And if he does, where’s he hiding it? My gaze dips even lower, and the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement.
Chapter Ten
—-♥—-
L exi
My cheeks are warm with embarrassment as I enter the equestrian center, admiring the gleaming oak support beams above immaculate roomy box stalls. I’m hit with the familiar aroma of sawdust and hay, and I instantly feel at home. Beneath the arches in front of me waits the indoor arena, the entrance tucked between a pair of stairwells that lead up to an observation deck, professors’ offices, and the tack and locker rooms, if I remember correctly from the program pamphlets. To either side of me, stalls line both sides of the aisle, except for the various doorways and wash stalls sprinkled throughout. It’s a lot to take in, but I don’t have the luxury of time to explore right now. Class will be starting any minute.
I hurry up the steps and slip into the upstairs lounge where my syllabus said we’d meet just as the instructor stands up in front. She waits for me to take a seat before addressing the assembled class. There are only five of us, a few less than I expected, and I wonder if that’s good or bad. Each year, the equine program only accepts thirty students, meaning there are only just under a hundred of us in the program at any one time, allowing for about half of the students who opt for a two-year degree instead of a bachelor’s. Riding classes are divided by skill level rather than grade level, and I wonder if the small class means we’re behind or above the average.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Denise Blessing and I’ll be your riding instructor this semester. This is my third year here at Chancellorsville College as an instructor, and before that I was a student here myself. If there are no questions, you can all go drop your stuff off at your lockers if you haven’t already, then meet me downstairs where I’ll introduce each of you to the horse you’ll be responsible for.”
This is one of the parts of the program I’ve been looking forward to the most. Each student is assigned a horse for the semester, becoming responsible for every aspect of their care—from holding them for the vet and farrier, to developing an optimal feed regimen, exercise, grooming and any specialized care. Barn staff handles feeding, turnout, and the mucking of the stalls, but that’s it. For one whole semester, whatever horse is assigned to me will essentially be mine. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to my dream of owning my own horse coming true.
The five of us start out the door, with me bringing up the rear. “Ms. Feron?” the instructor calls me back.
I turn. “That’s me.”
Professor Blessing smiles warmly. “Yes, I know. You’re the only freshman in my upper intermediate class.”
Oh. Inside I’m doing a small happy dance worthy of being the next YouTube sensation. At least, I’d like to think so.
“Do you think you could wait here for me? You’re supposed to have an equine center ID to pass this point anyway, and if you wait here you’ll be able to see everyone coming and going. I just really don’t want an audience for my first class; I’m nervous enough.”
He’s visibly torn between agreeing and arguing, but at last he nods, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed across his broad chest, momentarily distracting me from any and all nerves. Kevin has the type of body that makes good girls do bad things. It doesn’t help that I’m not exactly determined to be good.
“Try to play nice; if I hear any screaming I’ll have to come in guns blazing.”
My eyes snap to the waistband of his jeans, and the snuggly fitting T-shirt that shows off every contour of his muscles—but no obvious outline of a gun. I can’t help wondering if that was a joke, or if he’s actually got one. And if he does, where’s he hiding it? My gaze dips even lower, and the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement.
Chapter Ten
—-♥—-
L exi
My cheeks are warm with embarrassment as I enter the equestrian center, admiring the gleaming oak support beams above immaculate roomy box stalls. I’m hit with the familiar aroma of sawdust and hay, and I instantly feel at home. Beneath the arches in front of me waits the indoor arena, the entrance tucked between a pair of stairwells that lead up to an observation deck, professors’ offices, and the tack and locker rooms, if I remember correctly from the program pamphlets. To either side of me, stalls line both sides of the aisle, except for the various doorways and wash stalls sprinkled throughout. It’s a lot to take in, but I don’t have the luxury of time to explore right now. Class will be starting any minute.
I hurry up the steps and slip into the upstairs lounge where my syllabus said we’d meet just as the instructor stands up in front. She waits for me to take a seat before addressing the assembled class. There are only five of us, a few less than I expected, and I wonder if that’s good or bad. Each year, the equine program only accepts thirty students, meaning there are only just under a hundred of us in the program at any one time, allowing for about half of the students who opt for a two-year degree instead of a bachelor’s. Riding classes are divided by skill level rather than grade level, and I wonder if the small class means we’re behind or above the average.
“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Denise Blessing and I’ll be your riding instructor this semester. This is my third year here at Chancellorsville College as an instructor, and before that I was a student here myself. If there are no questions, you can all go drop your stuff off at your lockers if you haven’t already, then meet me downstairs where I’ll introduce each of you to the horse you’ll be responsible for.”
This is one of the parts of the program I’ve been looking forward to the most. Each student is assigned a horse for the semester, becoming responsible for every aspect of their care—from holding them for the vet and farrier, to developing an optimal feed regimen, exercise, grooming and any specialized care. Barn staff handles feeding, turnout, and the mucking of the stalls, but that’s it. For one whole semester, whatever horse is assigned to me will essentially be mine. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to my dream of owning my own horse coming true.
The five of us start out the door, with me bringing up the rear. “Ms. Feron?” the instructor calls me back.
I turn. “That’s me.”
Professor Blessing smiles warmly. “Yes, I know. You’re the only freshman in my upper intermediate class.”
Oh. Inside I’m doing a small happy dance worthy of being the next YouTube sensation. At least, I’d like to think so.
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