Winning Heart. Laura Browning
do need a stall mucker.” He eyed her again. “You seem a might skinny. It’s a lot of heavy work. We’re a training-and-show facility with twenty-five horses in active work.”
“I can do it,” Wynter assured him, hope rekindling.
The Scotsman’s eyes twinkled. “We could try it and see. Do you have a letter of reference?”
Hope crashed back to earth with a dull thud of despair.
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“How about a phone number, and I’ll give them a call.”
She shook her head and bit her lip. At this point, Wynter felt more than saw the other man stop what he was doing while he watched too. As always, when she drew attention, heat seeped into her cheeks.
“Do you not know the number?” the Scotsman asked. “That’s all right. Just give me your employer’s name, and I’ll ring them up.”
She looked back up at the older man and cleared her throat. “The Southards fired me, sir. They won’t give me a reference.” He shook his head, so she continued on, “Thanks anyway for your time.”
Wynter turned on her heel and hurried out the door. She’d almost made it back to the truck when she heard a younger, deeper voice.
“Wait!”
The other man stood on the porch. Her eyes widened when she saw him lean on a cane. His face was pale, as if it had taken him a great deal of effort to get outside. In the bright light outdoors, she saw brown hair streaked with gray and deep blue eyes shadowed with pain and something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it was the eyes that stopped her. So dark, so deep, she felt she was almost drowning in them.
“Please come back up here on the porch. I hate yelling at people.” His voice held a quiet command impossible to ignore.
He moved aside, so she could sit in one of the rocking chairs out front. When she moved past him, Wynter caught a faint scent of horses, leather and some spice she couldn’t quite pinpoint. For a moment, it reminded her of her friend, Wythe, but was different. His scent was familiar, comfortable. This man’s scent made her stomach flutter. She shook the thought away. The man remained standing, although he supported his weight against the porch railing behind him.
“I’m Nelson Anderson. You are?”
“Wynter O’Reilly,” she supplied with a challenging tilt of the chin, not sure why they were having this conversation but feeling compelled to answer him.
“I own Pheasant Run,” he supplied as though that would clear things up. So, not a techno-geek. Wynter watched him warily. He also seemed a little uncertain. “What did you say the family’s name was who fired you?”
Her eyes narrowed. Hypnotic blue eyes be damned! Wynter’s experience with blue-blooded horsey families was they stuck together in their own clique, and it was small enough most of them knew each other. For all she knew, Payton Southard might have decided to press charges against her.
“Southard,” she mumbled.
Nelson Anderson’s beautiful eyes narrowed, any trace of warmth vanished. “Where did they live?”
“Southside Virginia.”
There was a long pause. Anderson’s gaze moved from her face to work-roughened hands. She gripped her knees, shifting with nerves, but refused to hide her hands.
“If—if there’s nothing else, Mr. Anderson, I should leave.” Right, because she had so many appointments in her day planner. No, it was his eyes she needed to get away from. They saw far too much.
“Wait here, Wynter.” It wasn’t a request. Despite the quiet demeanor, it was obvious Nelson Anderson was a man accustomed to being in charge. Leaning on the cane, he limped back inside the office. The right leg was the one he favored. Wynter stared after him with a touch of resentment. Why should she wait if they weren’t hiring her? She still needed a job, and standing around waiting wasn’t getting her any closer to employment.
She was about to leave when the door opened again, but it wasn’t Anderson who came back through it. It was the Scotsman.
“Come with me, Miss O’Reilly. We’ll try you a week and see how things go.”
She jolted with surprise. “You will?” She jumped up and grabbed his hand and shook it. “You won’t be sorry. I’m a hard worker and a lot stronger than I look.”
He eyed her with one bushy brow raised. “I hope so. My name is Thomas Sinclair. You can call me Thomas like everyone else does. I don’t stand much on ceremony, but I do expect an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage.”
As he spoke he headed down the steps. For a short man, he walked briskly, and Wynter found herself hustling to keep up. When they entered the barn, he glanced at the sneakers she wore. “Do you have any other shoes?”
“Just my paddock boots.”
Thomas shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Manure’ll ruin your boots. Look in the wash stall there to your left. See if there’s a pair of Wellies to fit you.”
He waited while she checked a couple of pairs before finding a fit. When she’d slipped them on, he was off down the barn, talking over his shoulder while he explained the daily routine and what her duties would be. As they reached the end of the aisle, he handed her a pitchfork, pointed to the wheel barrow and said, “You can start right now.”
By day’s end, Wynter was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a soft bed. One out of two wasn’t bad. Earlier she’d noticed a shower off the tack room at the front of the barn. She’d given up the small boarding house room in Durham, so it looked as though she would be sleeping in the truck until she got paid and found someplace to live. She scrounged up enough change to grab a couple of packs of nabs and peeked out front. There was still a light in the office but no cars in sight. Wynter grabbed the small bag containing shampoo and other toiletries, snatched up clean underwear and a t-shirt and sprinted back to the barn.
She paused as she entered, savoring the noises of horses settling in for the night. The rhythmic chewing of hay and the rustle here and there when a horse moved around its stall were as soothing as any lullaby. It was good to be back among animals she understood. All they asked was for someone to look after them and treat them well. They had no ulterior motives.
The shower room wasn’t much, but it did offer a stack of clean towels on a shelf in the dressing area. In addition to the shower, the large tack room contained a washer, dryer and a toilet. Wynter grinned. She could almost live here, she thought as she stripped and turned on the shower. When the hot water washed over her, she sighed in relief. She would be sore tomorrow. Although cleaning stalls was nothing new, she’d never cleaned so many. But it felt good. She’d found a job. Things would be fine again.
* * * *
By Thursday afternoon, she wasn’t so sure. She didn’t get paid until the next day. Her whole body ached, and she hadn’t eaten. Wynter drank water to squelch the hunger pangs, but after a while, even that didn’t work. Her muscles ached even more than usual, and she couldn’t wait until the end of the day. She wanted a hot shower, and then she planned to wash and dry her clothes in the tack room.
She lingered over sweeping the aisle and hanging the hoses, waiting for everyone else to leave. It was a warm spring night, and some of the amateur owners still hung out, laughing and gossiping. There was a show coming up at the Hunt Horse Complex the next week, and everyone scrambled to get ready. She looked forward to it for another reason. She might be able to pick up extra cash at the show braiding manes and tails. At last everyone cleared out, and she walked to the front entrance of the barn.
As usual, the light in the office was on. She figured they had left it that way because she never saw anyone. She grabbed her duffel bag and the sheaf of financial aid papers she’d picked up from Duke. Her grades and test scores were good enough that they were going out of their