Biding Her Time. Wendy Warren
love you, you big goof, but it’s time for you to find a girl your own age. Preferably your own species.” When she straightened, he whined. “Come on, I’ll make breakfast and show you some of the travel brochures I’ve been collecting.”
As they walked to the kitchen, Audrey considered the past year of breakfasts shared only with her four-footed friend. Then she remembered the brief moment of excitement and anticipation in the bar last night.
“To tell you the truth, Seamus, I wouldn’t mind waking up next to someone my own species, too. It wouldn’t be anything serious, so don’t get your whiskers in a knot. But I’m thinking I could combine travel with a little romance. I hear Frenchmen are a lot of fun. And they know how to let go when the time comes.”
“Shove over, you big, beautiful nag.”
Leaning her shoulder heavily into a shining gray filly named Biding Her Time, Audrey waited for the horse to shift her weight. Biding leaned the opposite way, forcing Audrey to drop the filly’s hoof and stand up—or be squashed by several hundred pounds of Thoroughbred.
“Sheesh!” Pulling her gloves off her hands, she slapped them to the ground. “You are the most stubborn damn thing.”
Showing more initiative than he ordinarily did during daylight hours, Seamus bounded off a comfortable bed of hay in one of Quest’s many stables and came to Audrey’s defense, growling at the horse.
Biding gave him the evil eye, stamped her hoof and whinnied. Untied, she wouldn’t be above trying to knock the dog down.
“Better leave her alone, Seamus, you know how cranky she gets. Besides, this is my job.”
Audrey had played or worked around horses all her life, and truthfully she liked the crafty and opinionated beasts best. Biding Her Time was one of those. After several races in which she had yet to place, a number of people were prepared to write her off. Not Audrey. She knew, or sensed anyway, that the filly was testing the waters, not merely in races, but in her life. Biding paid attention to everything in the stable, in the paddock, on the track. She investigated her surroundings as if she were waiting for the click that would inspire her to think, I’m home, I’m safe, I’m ready to win.
Pushing back the locks of hair that had fallen loose from her braid and plucking at the T-shirt that glommed ickily to her damp skin, Audrey went forehead to forehead with the filly. “I certainly hope you’re ready to get new shoes, ’cause they’re coming, whether you like it or not.”
Repositioning herself, Audrey picked up the left front hoof, quickly shoving her shoulder under the horse. Biding relented, allowing her foot to be placed between Audrey’s bent knees and the pedicure to begin. It was a game they had played for the past year. They both enjoyed it.
“Atta girl.” Audrey began filing and soon was immersed in the sound of the hoof being grated down, the “Classic Strings” CD on the player perched atop a stool a few feet away, and the huff-huff-huff of Biding’s breathing.
This was the part of the job Audrey liked best—the soothing rhythm, the juxtaposition of quiet solitude and labor that was hard enough to soak her hairline, chest and back with perspiration. She’d have to finish her morning work in time for a shower before lunch. Which was a real waste of personal grooming, if you asked her, because she had two more ponies to shoe that afternoon.
The sad truth was that she’d rather plant herself on a chair outside Biding’s stall, chow down on a turkey-and-Swiss on rye and sneak the horse a few carrots, than join the Prestons at the big house. She knew today would present an ideal opportunity to tell the Prestons they needed to hire a new farrier, and she could feel her stomach churning at the prospect.
Turning toward the backpack she usually lugged with her to the stables, Audrey withdrew a roll of the antacids she’d been wolfing down lately. Peeling back the silver paper, she tilted her head, popped two tablets into her mouth and began to chew, quickly deciding this was going to be at least a three-antacid morning.
“Audrey Griffin, don’t you dare fill up on candy before lunch. We are having a veritable feast, and I expect you to arrive hungry!”
Startled by her employer’s voice, Audrey nearly choked on the tablets.
She whipped around. “Jenna!” Immediately upon seeing the woman’s genteel, humor-filled face, she felt tension wring her intestines like a wet towel. “I didn’t hear you come up. I…I guess I was busy thinking…I have to finish shoeing Biding, and it’s getting pretty close to noon already, so maybe…”
The lame attempt she was about to make to wriggle out of lunch died on her lips when she realized that Jenna had a companion.
“Audrey, dear, I’d like you to meet Shane Preston, our nephew. He’s here from Australia. We decided to take a quick tour of the stables before lunch.”
Audrey blinked, as if that could change the scene in front of her. Raising the back of her wrist to her forehead, she wiped away a sheen of perspiration that now was due to more than physical exertion.
“Shane, this lovely girl is Audrey Griffin. You’ll get to know each other better later, of course.”
His brows spiked over the word “lovely.” Audrey saw it and was torn between wanting to run home to change her clothes and the desire to chuck a horseshoe at his head.
“Good to meet you, Audrey.” Dressed in a pristine suit on a scorching Kentucky day, the man smiled with just a quirk of his lips. His smooth Australian accent underscored the sardonic expression.
So the stranger in the bar, the one who looked as if he belonged on Mt. Rushmore or some other wonder of the world, was a Preston. It figured.
Handsome and strong like the Thoroughbreds they raised, the Prestons possessed physical gifts in extra measure. Melanie, a jockey, was a tiny thing, but she sparkled like a diamond and seemed as durable. The Preston men were all life-size Ken dolls—rock solid, absurdly handsome and short on chatter.
Aussie Ken was no exception.
“Nice to meet you, too.” Audrey ducked her sweaty head, hoping he did not recognize her as the girl who had made goo-goo eyes at him last night. And then she realized he was holding out his hand.
She stuck hers out, too, a reflex reaction that she lamented when they touched callus to callus. His palm was much tougher than she had imagined.
Unfortunately, he looked surprised, too. He’d taken her hand gently; she’d automatically used her customary grip, practically squeezing the life out of him.
She meant to let go immediately, but for the briefest of moments, the stable that was the center of her life faded away; the snuffling of horses and mucking of stalls, the scents of hay and manure; horses and humans were replaced by a blanket-like silence.
She realized she was staring, her palm locked with his. Last night’s curiosity about his eyes was satisfied: they were the intense blue of marbles and morning skies.
As her heart beat painfully in her throat, Audrey remembered her comment to Seamus—that she was going to find someone of her own species.
Recalling his beautiful companion from the night before, she told herself the truth: This man is not your species. He looks better, he smells better, and he keeps better company.
When she noted the humor in his gaze, she let go of his hand as if it had burst into flame. Setting her jaw, Audrey gave him a tough, take-no-prisoners glare.
From the age of nine until well into her teens, she’d been sick and skinny and deathly pale beneath her freckles. In her experience, people reacted to sick children by coddling or pitying or pretending not to notice them. Most of the time, she’d felt out of step with her peers, so she’d trailed her dad around the stables and got to know horses better than people. She’d also learned to act a lot tougher than she was, turning into a real snot when she sensed disapproval or condescension.
So now she embraced the dirt and the calluses