Page 11 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Olive slowed to a trot beside Freddie, who bowed his neck in excitement.

Stevie admired the flexion even as she was reminded why she preferred Olive’s round, solid build.

Freddie was beautiful, especially with Ivy in the saddle.

The woman could ride , and Stevie knew Ivy held him back whenever they galloped, holding him to a pace Olive could keep up with.

But she loved the way Olive stretched her neck, fully believing she was the fastest horse in the world as her stocky strides ate the ground at a pace that would make any self-respecting thoroughbred whinny with derision.

Ivy laughed, settling in the saddle with a new lightness, and Stevie grinned back. The thrill of speed and momentum was infectious. Rarely did she feel this lucky. Only time spent with Angie rivaled it.

“The only thing I miss about high school,” Ivy said, stroking Freddie’s neck, “is spending the entire summer horseback.”

“More like cleaning stalls.” Stevie thought of Morgan’s family’s farm.

“That goes without saying. Even little rich girls muck stalls now and then.”

“What, no groom?”

“My mom tried to give us one, but my trainer told her no. Best advice he ever gave us, honestly. I knew so many spoiled, bratty horse girls. I could have become one easily.”

“ You were never a bratty, spoiled horse girl?” Stevie teased.

“Oh, I absolutely was, but I could have been much worse. Now I’m only bratty for Lil.”

When Ivy had first come to Seal Cove, back when she and Lilian were at each other’s throats—in more ways than one—Stevie hadn’t quite known what to make of her.

She’d been impressed with her work ethic and animal handling, but was acutely aware that had they met when they were younger, Ivy would probably have ignored her entirely.

Those things shouldn’t matter now. And yet, she’d never quite forget the feeling of scrounging through secondhand clothing bins searching for the name brands some of her classmates could afford to wear.

Ivy had probably owned ten pairs of such jeans—or more.

She opened her mouth to ask about her teenage wardrobe just as Ivy spoke.

“I need a favor.”

“I’m your girl.” Stevie turned to catch a glimpse of Ivy’s expression, which was nervous.

Interesting. Ivy rarely projected anything other than confidence, although that was probably half projection of Stevie’s own latent insecurities as much as anything else.

She’d always been compared to Ivy’s brand of blond.

“It’s about Lil.”

“I’m . . . sort of your girl. Angie knows her better than I do, but that’s because they read the same romance novels.”

“Her taste is filthy,” Ivy agreed.

“That last one they swapped? Ange read me a little out loud and my Catholic grandmother reached out from the grave to smack me.”

“Are they really into that, though?”

“I think you’re the far better judge of what Lil’s into,” said Stevie.

“Not—not like that. Big romantic gestures.”

“Again, you’re the better judge.”

“She’s hard to read on some things.”

“Her desire for, as that last book put it, ‘the weight of his cock to—’”

“Please spare me the details,” Ivy groaned. “I mean things like does she like flowers.”

“Does Lilian, she of the greenhouse and obsessive house plant collection, like flowers? Ivy, you may need to see a professional about your cognition.”

“Ass. You know what I mean.”

Stevie inhaled another fragrant breath of summer air and choked on a small flying insect. After a moment’s coughing fit, and feeling a little less enamored with the beauty of her surroundings, she asked, “Are you planning something for your anniversary?”

“Something like that. And I’d believe you if you promised me you wouldn’t tell Lil.”

Whereas Stormy and Angie absolutely would tell Lilian, and Morgan might, too, out of a sense of duty.

Things made sense, now.

“As long as you don’t plan on kidnapping her or something, I can make that promise.”

“I want to surprise her with a gift.”

“What’s the gift?”

“Doesn’t matter. But it needs to be perfect.” Ivy fiddled with the reins, which was unlike her.

“What do you need to know?” As she finished asking the question, a possibility occurred to her. She reined Olive to a halt, suddenly, forcing Ivy to do the same. Olive immediately tried to sneak some grass. Stevie gently checked her, staring at Ivy in sudden elated understanding. “Oh my god.”

Ivy blushed the deepest shade of red Stevie had ever seen on her, or possibly any other human being.

“You cannot tell anyone. Even Angie. Actually, especially Angie.”

“This is the best day of my life. Are you serious?” She would have bounced in the saddle if that would not have been rude to Olive.

“Of course. If she finds—”

“Not about not telling anyone, duh.” Stevie waved away Ivy’s concern, as well as a few black flies. “About . . . you know.”

“More than I’ve been about anything in my life.” The quiet conviction in Ivy’s voice forced Stevie to suppress a squeal.

“And you want my help in pulling off something epic?”

Ivy shot her a shy smile. “Yes.”

“Well, Holden.” She drew herself up in an impression of self-importance. “In that case, we have work to do.”

Her exuberance buoyed her for the rest of their ride and back into the barnyard, where they came up against the hard wall of a stranger’s face.

“Hi.” Ivy dismounted and extended her hand to the young woman waiting for them in the parking lot.

Stevie hoped this wasn’t becoming a pattern.

First Jaq, now—she paused. The girl was older than Jaq by several years, late teens maybe, but shared Jaq’s liquid brown eyes.

The differences lay in the shadows beneath and the pinched lines around her mouth.

Kids shouldn’t look like that. The girl wore a rumpled fast food service uniform to match her tired face.

“Hi,” the teenager replied, taking Ivy’s hand with a quiet confidence Stevie admired, but which also bore the grace of the exhausted. “I’m Sarah, Jaq’s older sister. She said you needed someone to give permission for her to ride?”

“So nice to meet you, Sarah. We’re thrilled to have Jaq on the farm.” Ivy smiled with a brilliance that made Sarah wince. “Any chance you’re over eighteen?”

“I will be in September.”

“Virgo,” said Stevie, a Virgo herself. “Nice.”

“We really need a parent’s permission . . .”

“But,” said Stevie, interrupting. She’d seen the way Sarah had tensed at the word “ parent. ” Ivy raised a questioning brow, and Stevie continued. “Can we give you a form for a parent to sign?”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed for just a second, suspicious, before relaxing in relief. “Sure.”

“You can put down your contact info, however, if you’re the one we should reach out to if Jaq gets hurt,” said Ivy.

Good. She’d picked up on Stevie’s thoughts.

“Yeah, actually. My dad works nights, so, he’s not around much. I usually take care of Jaq.”

Which explained the exhaustion in the kid’s face.

“Which Big Jim’s do you work at?” Stevie nodded at Sarah’s uniform. “The one on Elm, or the one where the mall used to be?”

“Elm.”

“That’s not too far,” she said to Ivy. “They have pretty good sandwiches. Ever been?”

“Maybe? Hang on, I know I left a permission form in my car. I’ll be right back.”

Ivy had asked her sister, a lawyer, to write one up, Stevie remembered as Ivy walked over to her truck and left Sarah and Stevie to stare at each other.

“Do you like horses?” Stevie asked, unsure how to engage the tired teen in front of her.

“Yeah. Never had time to ride, though.”

“Did you just finish your senior year?”

“Finally.”

“I hear you there.” Stevie did not ask what Sarah planned to do next. Maybe she was tired from partying late with her friends, but there was an edge to the exhaustion that suggested it was chronic. “Long shift?”

“Yeah.”

“Jaq’s a good worker. Must run in the family.”

“In our generation.”

Her suspicions about Jaq’s parents, and the reason the sister had shown up instead, intensified.

“Got it.” Ivy returned with a folded paper in her hand. “Just fill this out and have a parent or guardian over eighteen sign; then Jaq is all set to ride. She’ll need a helmet, and—”

“She can borrow mine,” said Stevie, seeing the panic blossom anew in Sarah’s eyes. “It’s adjustable, and I have a small head. Small ego, too.”

They ended the conversation shortly after that, and Sarah trudged back to a beat-up Corolla that might have once been gray or white or silver, but was now a sickly shade of matte brown, save for the driver’s side door, which had been replaced with a green one.

“We know that she’s going to forge a parent’s signature, right?” Stevie said when the car door had shut.

“One hundred percent. You okay with that?”

“Ask your sister. Or maybe don’t. Plausible deniability and all.”

“Client confidentiality. She won’t say anything.”

The legality was worrisome, but, then again, there was no way to prove the signature was forged without confronting Jaq’s parents—parent?

Sarah had only mentioned a father, and Stevie suspected Sarah was here because he didn’t give two shits.

That would also explain the state of Jaq’s clothes.

Stevie had grown up with plenty of kids like that, and was related to a few more.

“Then ask your sister if we’re covered by insurance. Otherwise, I’m not worried about it.” She waved at the receding car as it lurched unsteadily onto the road. “I’m beginning to think we’re one of the only good things the kid has going for her.”

Angie sat on the back deck, sketchbook resting idly in her lap, half-smoked bowl of weed long since cooled on the table while the sun set over the orchard in a spray of pink and orange.

Her body relaxed into the deck chair. She was thinking, for no particular reason, of the day she’d first met Stevie.