Read Online The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) by Lauren Gilley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Gilley
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place down? It’s not your barn. Not any of your business.”
“Considering I get paid to ensure the health and safety of all the horses in here – yeah, it’s very much my business. There’s over three-hundred-thousand dollars’ worth of horseflesh in this barn,” she reminded him. “That’s three-hundred-thousand dollars you’ll get sued for if you start a fire.”
He shrugged with one shoulder, putting the cigarette back to his lips. “They’ll sue my grandfather, not me.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it?” he sneered. “What’s that rich old fucker ever done for me?”
“Um, for starters? Posted your bail, got you sent to that rehab program instead of jail –”
“Shut up and get the fuck out of my business. You’re just the goddamn hired help.”
Inwardly seething, outwardly composed, Emmie turned away from him, and her now smoke-scented office. “Put the cig out, Brett,” she called over her shoulder in parting.
“Get fucking laid and loosen up,” he shot back.
Her face felt scarlet and hot to the touch as she flipped on the tack room lights and went for her brush box. Everything that ever came out of Brett’s mouth was poison. He was an uneducated, unmotivated, and mean little screwup with nothing but insolence and thievery to his name. Exposed to it since childhood, she was long used to his nastiness. Other girls came and went, part of the revolving door of boarders, mistakenly thinking he was some sort of tortured bad boy with a genuine soul hidden behind his harsh outer shell. Emmie knew better; with Brett, there was nothing but shell.
So why was her face on fire after his last comment?
Just the dream, she told herself. Just her inappropriate subconscious hunger that had nothing to do with an attractive stranger, and everything to do with her stress level.
Yeah, getting laid would be a godsend. Only, she didn’t do casual hookups, and she hadn’t been on anyone’s radar in a long time.
So saddle therapy it was.
Apollo whickered a deep greeting as she let herself into his stall. She had an apple wafer in her pocket and he nosed her hip impatiently, already smelling the treat.
“You brat,” she scolded, feeding it to him on a flat palm. “You only love me for the food.”
The big gelding snorted as if in agreement.
Grooming her horse went a long way toward relaxing her. The repetitive brush strokes down his sleek sides, the careful detangling of his tail, the struggle with a pebble lodged against his shoe – all of it slowed her heartrate, lowered her blood pressure. She was humming to herself by the time he was saddled, and her stomach gave a happy twirl as she led Apollo through the darkness down toward the arena, and its glowing flood lights.
The second her butt hit the saddle, every extraneous, nagging thought flew out of her head. “Alright, ‘Pollo,” she said, gathering the reins in a light warmup contact. “Let’s see how rusty you are.”
On horseback, she was distracted by nothing. Her mind was totally clear, occupied only by the loose swing of Apollo’s walk, and then trot. Without thinking, her body adjusted, compensated, steered and corrected. It was like dancing, the perfect harmony of working together with the horse.
Her father had asked her, in one of this rare sober moments, if Briar Hall selling was a sign: She was too stressed and tired, and long overdue for a career change. But Dad didn’t
“Considering I get paid to ensure the health and safety of all the horses in here – yeah, it’s very much my business. There’s over three-hundred-thousand dollars’ worth of horseflesh in this barn,” she reminded him. “That’s three-hundred-thousand dollars you’ll get sued for if you start a fire.”
He shrugged with one shoulder, putting the cigarette back to his lips. “They’ll sue my grandfather, not me.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it?” he sneered. “What’s that rich old fucker ever done for me?”
“Um, for starters? Posted your bail, got you sent to that rehab program instead of jail –”
“Shut up and get the fuck out of my business. You’re just the goddamn hired help.”
Inwardly seething, outwardly composed, Emmie turned away from him, and her now smoke-scented office. “Put the cig out, Brett,” she called over her shoulder in parting.
“Get fucking laid and loosen up,” he shot back.
Her face felt scarlet and hot to the touch as she flipped on the tack room lights and went for her brush box. Everything that ever came out of Brett’s mouth was poison. He was an uneducated, unmotivated, and mean little screwup with nothing but insolence and thievery to his name. Exposed to it since childhood, she was long used to his nastiness. Other girls came and went, part of the revolving door of boarders, mistakenly thinking he was some sort of tortured bad boy with a genuine soul hidden behind his harsh outer shell. Emmie knew better; with Brett, there was nothing but shell.
So why was her face on fire after his last comment?
Just the dream, she told herself. Just her inappropriate subconscious hunger that had nothing to do with an attractive stranger, and everything to do with her stress level.
Yeah, getting laid would be a godsend. Only, she didn’t do casual hookups, and she hadn’t been on anyone’s radar in a long time.
So saddle therapy it was.
Apollo whickered a deep greeting as she let herself into his stall. She had an apple wafer in her pocket and he nosed her hip impatiently, already smelling the treat.
“You brat,” she scolded, feeding it to him on a flat palm. “You only love me for the food.”
The big gelding snorted as if in agreement.
Grooming her horse went a long way toward relaxing her. The repetitive brush strokes down his sleek sides, the careful detangling of his tail, the struggle with a pebble lodged against his shoe – all of it slowed her heartrate, lowered her blood pressure. She was humming to herself by the time he was saddled, and her stomach gave a happy twirl as she led Apollo through the darkness down toward the arena, and its glowing flood lights.
The second her butt hit the saddle, every extraneous, nagging thought flew out of her head. “Alright, ‘Pollo,” she said, gathering the reins in a light warmup contact. “Let’s see how rusty you are.”
On horseback, she was distracted by nothing. Her mind was totally clear, occupied only by the loose swing of Apollo’s walk, and then trot. Without thinking, her body adjusted, compensated, steered and corrected. It was like dancing, the perfect harmony of working together with the horse.
Her father had asked her, in one of this rare sober moments, if Briar Hall selling was a sign: She was too stressed and tired, and long overdue for a career change. But Dad didn’t
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