Page 63 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“Margot, are we flying?”
—Elijah Greenbrier
“I’ve got all breeds and colors here, Mrs. Dravenhearst. Chestnuts and sorrels. Arabians and Friesians. Fine stallions all, would make excellent riding companions. Or perhaps you’re after a broodmare, for that exceptional racehorse of yours?” The breeder opened the gate to the paddock.
Margot smiled lightly. A broodmare for Omaha? She flicked her eyes to Merrick in amusement. “No, I don’t think so. Not a broodmare.”
“But you do plan to breed him, don’t you? With that bloodline?” The man whistled. “Two Triple Crowns? One by his father and one by him? Priceless stock, you’ve got.”
“There are things far more important than bloodlines,” Margot murmured, holding her palm out to a curious inky-black colt.
“Show us your best and brightest,” Merrick said, gesturing ahead. “She’s an excellent rider, needs a horse who can keep pace with her.”
“Merrick.” She shushed him, his sly undertones not lost on her. It was something incorrigible Julian might say. They’d been spending far too much time together since Julian moved into the manor a year ago.
Brothers, Margot mused. Smiling, because she remembered all too well what it was like to have one.
They wandered through the paddock for nearly thirty minutes, meeting different horses. Margot grew attached to a friendly sorrel the breeder called Scotch.
“Short for Butterscotch, you know,” he said, rubbing down the horse’s side. “Because of his color.”
“Hmm, yes.” She looked into the horse’s soft brown eyes before turning away.
“What’s wrong, love?” Merrick asked.
“Nothing, nothing…he’s an excellent horse, I’m sure.” She tapped her fingers against her bottom lip, still scanning the field.
“But perhaps not for you?” Merrick finished.
“Perhaps not.”
Her eyes alighted on a lone horse across the paddock, a beautiful dapple gray, tied to a fence post. Margot changed course, her stride lengthening. “What about that one?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Dravenhearst.” The breeder shook his head.
“You don’t want her. She’s a mare and not built for riding, poor disposition.
She won’t mate or breed either.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“In fact, she’s likely headed for the chop the day after the morrow.
I’ve no use for a mare who won’t breed.”
“Oh, surely not!” Margot quickened her pace. “I want to meet her.”
“Mrs. Dravenhearst—”
“I really must insist.” She silenced him before turning to Merrick and muttering, “What is it with men and your obsession with fertility?”
He barked out a laugh and followed.
She approached the horse with care, not wanting to spook her. When the mare consented to let her rub her nose and neck, she turned to the breeder. “Will she take a saddle?”
“A…a saddle?”
“Yes, a saddle. For a rider.”
“Well…I’m…I’m not sure. We’ve never tried. She’s easily distressed, this one.”
Distressed.
Is she now?
Margot bit her tongue to keep from sniping but couldn’t keep her voice entirely free of sarcasm. She pulled herself to her full height, commanding. “Well, perhaps we should try, since she’s otherwise headed to the slaughterhouse.”
Every now and then, she noticed bits of Babette slipping through.
She never minded when it happened. She’d purged Dravenhearst Manor of so much of her predecessor’s influence, beginning with the stained-glass window in the foyer, where magnolia blossoms now glinted in the afternoon sun.
But a few things were worth holding on to.
The man scampered away to find a saddle, sufficiently chastised.
“Really, Margot?” Merrick looked at the dapple horse with a critical eye. “This is the one?”
“Do you have a problem with her?” She turned to him, her tone still sharp.
He threw his hands up. “No, no problem.”
“She’s sweet.” Margot continued rubbing her snout. The mare lazily closed her eyes, enjoying the attention.
And it turned out, she took a saddle just fine. Margot mounted with ease. It took a moment to settle, but the horse responded with proper encouragement. Together, they looped around the paddock. The wind in Margot’s hair felt heavenly.
Flying…
Yes. It had taken years, but Margaret Greenbrier was flying again.
Dismounting beside Merrick, she handed the reins to the breeder.
“She’s mine,” she told him. “And since she’s so worthless she was headed for the chop, I expect her price to be more than reasonable.”
She winked at Merrick. We Dravenhearsts do love to pinch a penny wherever we can.
“Yes, ma’am.” The man winced, leading the horse away.
“Wow,” Merrick said, chuckling. “I’m impressed. I created a monster.”
“Just you wait.” She looked at him and smiled, her hand ghosting absentmindedly over her belly.
She hadn’t told Merrick the news yet, but she would soon. Maybe tonight. She imagined the scene—handing him a glass of bourbon, sitting in his lap…
She knew, for certain, what his smile would look like. Full dimples. No reservations.
Because there was nothing to be afraid of this time around. Margot had slept soundly for over a year. The halls of the manor were quiet. The rickhouses too.
This time, the only monsters they had to fear were the ones they created themselves. Little ones.
Together.