Read Online The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) by Lauren Gilley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Gilley
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understand the way this right here made all the stress worthwhile. Nothing could compete with this.
~*~
The sky was lightening when Walsh parked in front of Briar Hall’s barn. The morning was a pearly gray, thick drifts of mist hugging the grass. There was a rider in the arena, and he sat on his bike a moment, watching.
He recognized Emmie, the way her posture in the saddle made her seem taller than she was, her little gloved hands held lightly above the horse’s withers. A big horse – her legs extended only halfway down its deep barrel. A heavy-bodied giant of a horse, black and shiny beneath the arena lights, his movements powerful rather than fleet.
At the top of the arena, the horse turned down the center line, and then began to track sideways and forward at once. What was that called again? A half-pass; yeah, that’s what it was. A dressage move, executed with no obvious cues from Emmie.
She sat the horse well, neither hampering, nor over-helping its movement. There was little tension in the reins – she and the horse had a good working bond; he was listening to his mistress.
Walsh scanned the front of the barn, searching for movement or a watchful presence. When he saw none, he dismounted and walked down to the arena, pushed a hand absently through his hair, tidying it by some impulse he didn’t understand. When he reached the fence, he braced his forearms on the top rail and waited.
She executed another smooth half-pass before she noticed him, and then it was only a flicker of head movement. She slowed the horse to a walk, patted its muscled neck, and took her time ambling over to the rail.
“You’re back,” she said without inflection, but there was a bright flare of interest in her eyes, their blue electric under the manmade light.
“Your boss is a busy man and an early riser,” he said, voice equally blank.
Her gaze moved over him. “Where’s your vest thing?”
“It’s called a cut, actually. And I left it at home.” Before she could ask anything else, he said, “How’s your father?”
She cringed. “Asleep still, I’m guessing.” Shame colored her face. “Thank you, again, for helping me with him.”
“Always happy to help a beautiful damsel in distress. Twice,” he added, grinning a little. “I think that’s two favors you owe me, counting the night the horse got out.”
She fixed him with an annoyed look, which he found more attractive than he would have thought. “I’m not loving the word ‘damsel.’”
“Damsels never do.”
“And even if I owed you ten times over, I’ve got nothing you want, trust me.”
“Hmm. Not sure about that, lovey.”
As hoped, her eyes popped wide and her lips pressed together. Something passed through her eyes, something that wasn’t shock, disgust, or rejection. Like maybe she was feeling the pull same as he was.
Yes, definitely. He’d been around enough women to know when one was put off…and when one was interested.
Even if this one didn’t want to be interested.
Emmie opened her mouth to reply –
And in a feat of bad timing, Davis Richards’ golf cart came whirring up behind him.
The horse flicked its ears and let out a deep breath of mixed curiosity and surprise, but didn’t spook.
“Good morning, Mr. Richards,” Emmie said, before turning her mount and walking off.
Walsh took a deep, bracing
~*~
The sky was lightening when Walsh parked in front of Briar Hall’s barn. The morning was a pearly gray, thick drifts of mist hugging the grass. There was a rider in the arena, and he sat on his bike a moment, watching.
He recognized Emmie, the way her posture in the saddle made her seem taller than she was, her little gloved hands held lightly above the horse’s withers. A big horse – her legs extended only halfway down its deep barrel. A heavy-bodied giant of a horse, black and shiny beneath the arena lights, his movements powerful rather than fleet.
At the top of the arena, the horse turned down the center line, and then began to track sideways and forward at once. What was that called again? A half-pass; yeah, that’s what it was. A dressage move, executed with no obvious cues from Emmie.
She sat the horse well, neither hampering, nor over-helping its movement. There was little tension in the reins – she and the horse had a good working bond; he was listening to his mistress.
Walsh scanned the front of the barn, searching for movement or a watchful presence. When he saw none, he dismounted and walked down to the arena, pushed a hand absently through his hair, tidying it by some impulse he didn’t understand. When he reached the fence, he braced his forearms on the top rail and waited.
She executed another smooth half-pass before she noticed him, and then it was only a flicker of head movement. She slowed the horse to a walk, patted its muscled neck, and took her time ambling over to the rail.
“You’re back,” she said without inflection, but there was a bright flare of interest in her eyes, their blue electric under the manmade light.
“Your boss is a busy man and an early riser,” he said, voice equally blank.
Her gaze moved over him. “Where’s your vest thing?”
“It’s called a cut, actually. And I left it at home.” Before she could ask anything else, he said, “How’s your father?”
She cringed. “Asleep still, I’m guessing.” Shame colored her face. “Thank you, again, for helping me with him.”
“Always happy to help a beautiful damsel in distress. Twice,” he added, grinning a little. “I think that’s two favors you owe me, counting the night the horse got out.”
She fixed him with an annoyed look, which he found more attractive than he would have thought. “I’m not loving the word ‘damsel.’”
“Damsels never do.”
“And even if I owed you ten times over, I’ve got nothing you want, trust me.”
“Hmm. Not sure about that, lovey.”
As hoped, her eyes popped wide and her lips pressed together. Something passed through her eyes, something that wasn’t shock, disgust, or rejection. Like maybe she was feeling the pull same as he was.
Yes, definitely. He’d been around enough women to know when one was put off…and when one was interested.
Even if this one didn’t want to be interested.
Emmie opened her mouth to reply –
And in a feat of bad timing, Davis Richards’ golf cart came whirring up behind him.
The horse flicked its ears and let out a deep breath of mixed curiosity and surprise, but didn’t spook.
“Good morning, Mr. Richards,” Emmie said, before turning her mount and walking off.
Walsh took a deep, bracing
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