Believe in Me: A Rosewood Novel (11 page)

Jordan had already practiced opening and shutting the gate with Turner, and he was used to it from the daily trips to the pasture as well, so she met no resistance when she opened the gate wide enough to lead him through it, turned him in a half circle, and then brought him back slowly to the gate, again using her voice as an aid to halt him before she closed it.

The big difference between Turner’s experience in the pastures and in the riding ring was that in the ring he was being taught to understand that he would be working with humans, and still under their control. As yearlings were
deeply inquisitive creatures, Jordan took her time walking him, letting him see the other two horses and the wooden jumps positioned at various angles and distances in the center of the ring. Both Margot and Andy had slowed their mounts to a walk, and would resume trotting and cantering once Turner was comfortable with the goings-on.

The colt held his head high, pricking his ears forward as he gazed around, his gait over the raked sand quick and lively. Walking on his left side, careful to stay in his line of vision, Jordan kept her stride deliberate and the tension on the lead rope light.

“That’s a boy. Nothing new here. You’ve seen this all before. Soon you’re going to be like Saxon here, getting ready for the show season, making sure those flying changes are as smooth as silk. The judges are going to love you, you’re such a clever, handsome fella. It’ll be nothing but blue ribbons for you.” She prattled on, her voice as confident as her steady stride, letting her body language communicate to the young horse that there was nothing to fear. After another tour of the ring she angled their path toward the center and again brought him to a halt. Casually she delved into her pocket, brought out a dried carrot treat, and let him swipe it from her open palm as she patted his neck.

“All set?” Margot asked, as she and Saxon passed near them.

“Yeah, he’s doing great.” She stroked his neck just beneath his halter’s leather strap.

“He’s always good for you,” Andy remarked. “He’s not nearly as happy when Felix takes him out.”

“Jordan, hon, I saw Jade as she was leaving for school. I’m so sorry—”

She shrugged and continued scratching Turner’s neck. “Don’t be. It’s Nonie’s loss. I had some good ideas, but she obviously preferred Owen Gage’s. That’s the name of the game.”

“I am sick to death of Nonie and her spiteful ways. What
is it with the women around here, behaving as if they’re still in junior high? I’d understand if she wanted to stab
me
in the back, but you didn’t have anything to do with getting Blair suspended. And now Jade’s upset, convinced she’s cost you your first job—”

Knowing Jade and Margot were blaming themselves made it all the worse. “Margot, this really doesn’t have anything to do with what happened between Jade and Blair at school—as I already told Jade. You two are far more upset about this than I am.”

“Because we love you.”

“Which I’d have to be dense not to know. But even so let’s keep a sense of proportion, okay? Nonie is not the only woman who has a house in need of redecorating in Warburg. I’ll get in touch with Marla Hamilton next week. Her youngest is going off to college in the fall, so I’m sure she’s got it in the back of her mind to do a major renovation project. And Marla would be fun to work with. So you see, all is not lost.”

“No thanks to Nonie,” Margot muttered.

“Again, this is not a big deal. I’ve got other things to focus on right now. Like this colt here. Ned won’t let me go near Turner again if I don’t do a good job with him.”

“As if you’d ever do a bad job with any of the youngsters or mares. They go all mellow when you handle them. You’re soothing.”

“Or so boring I put them to sleep.”

Andy, walking Mistral on the rail, shook his head. “Not so, Jordan. A bored horse isn’t a happy horse. Just look at Turner. He’s paying attention to everything that’s going on but he’s relaxed. A happy horse,” he added deliberately.

“Let’s see whether I can keep him this way while you guys are cantering. Oh, and did you know that Miriam’s a big fan of the band Airborne Toxic Event? They’re playing in D.C. next month. I think she mentioned that tickets go on sale this Saturday.”

He was such a sweet guy, trying to fight back the grin that spread over his face. Surrendering, he beamed. “Good to know. Thanks, Jordan. You’re all right.”

She smiled. “And don’t you forget it.”

Jordan hadn’t intended to ride Sava in this direction. It was doubtless because of the conversations she’d had with her sisters about Nonie Harrison and of being forced to extol Owen Gage’s skills and his firm’s excellence that she found it so difficult to get the dratted man out of her head or to squelch her curiosity about Hawk Hill.

She realized that it had been ages since she’d ridden out this way, what with her pregnancy with Olivia, and then with the turmoil of the divorce and settling into a new life at Rosewood. And from what she could see as she slowed Sava down to a walk and emerged from the wooded trail into the clearing around Hawk Hill’s open fields, it had been an equally long time since anyone had done the most basic maintenance on the Barrons’ old house.

Drawing the mare to a halt, she loosened her grip on the reins, letting Sava rub the side of her head against her foreleg. While the mare stood docilely, Jordan took in the sorry state of the Federal-style home. Its wood shutters hung askew, some torn off their hinges entirely, giving the façade a dilapidated look. The twin chimneys were in dire need of attention. From her perch on Sava, she could see daylight streaming through large chinks where the bricks were missing. That either chimney was still standing was a miracle, and Jordan had a sudden vision of Olivia’s red sneakered toe shooting out, connecting, and sending the remaining weathered bricks flying through the air as easily as one of her cardboard towers.

The roof was hardly in better shape, with shingles missing or warped, curled like the dried leaves that spilled out of the damaged gutters that, wrenched by winds and dislodged by ice, listed drunkenly. The elements had taken their toll on
the paint and siding, too. Near the damaged gutters she saw ugly black patches, the discoloration a telltale sign of rot. Many of the clapboards were badly split or warped. They, too, would have to be replaced.

Nudging the mare forward with her boot heels, she said, “Come on, Sava, let’s take a closer peek at the old lady.”

She knew she was being fanciful to anthropomorphize the house, but she couldn’t help it, any more than talking to horses. Sava had listened to her thoughts these past twenty minutes, twitching her chestnut ears in silent, sisterly sympathy, and she seemed more than willing to listen to Jordan discuss the house as they approached it.

And the house did resemble an old lady’s careworn face, a sad and lonely old lady with no one to love her. Those shutters hanging crookedly looked like mascara streaked by tears. Jordan felt a shiver of sympathy course through her. If the interior was in as sorry shape as the outside, it was going to take a lot of money and even more hard work to restore the house to its former beauty. However much she resented Owen Gage right now, as someone who loved architecture she had to be grateful that he was making the effort.

As they approached the broad lawn ringing Hawk Hill, her eyes roamed over the façade’s details, taking in the double-hung windows with six-over-six muntins. The front of the house had an elliptical fanlight and sidelights bracketing the center door. On the second floor was a large Palladian window. Despite its neglected condition, it had a lovely symmetry, with graceful proportions. “Like Mama used to say about Rosewood, Sava, this house has really good bones.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. Hawk Hill’s going to take a lot of work, but I’m optimistic we can give the old house new life.”

Jordan started in surprise, her abrupt movement causing Sava to sidestep and toss her head.

She concentrated on her horse first, settling her weight more solidly in the saddle and gathering the braided reins that had slipped through her fingers. “Easy, Sava, atta girl,” she said, giving her horse a quick pat just below the neck strap of the martingale before acknowledging the man who’d approached them. “I didn’t notice you were here. There’s no car.” Oh, God, she couldn’t believe she’d been caught talking to her horse by
him
.

No, Owen thought, she’d been too busy studying the dilapidated house he’d bought. He had noted that about Jordan yesterday: how still and intense she got when she looked at something, focusing on it as if she were absorbing its essence. “I parked my car over by the barn,” he said by way of explanation. He hadn’t been especially visible, crouched behind one of the evergreen shrubs, inspecting one of the corner pilasters for rot. Hearing the snap of twigs and then the snort of an animal, he’d risen slowly so as not to startle the animal.

Even with her hunt cap strapped on, he’d recognized Jordan. It was something about her posture. Some part of his brain had already committed to memory the way she held herself. She possessed the same graceful posture in the saddle as she did standing. While he probably could have continued his scrutiny undetected for another few minutes, he’d stepped out from behind the bushes in order to look at the horse she was riding. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d also been happy to take a closer look at those long legs of hers, encased in rust-colored breeches and knee-high black riding boots. He’d be a fool to pass up such a fine sight.

“Good morning,” he said with an easy nod. “Now I really know I’m in horse country. Do you visit all your neighbors on horseback?”

“No … no, this isn’t a visit. I had no idea you’d be here.” Her cheeks coloring, she continued hurriedly, “I was just out for a ride and happened to pass this way. We had an understanding with John and Nancy Barron. They allowed
us to ride on their fields and through their half of the woods. In return we maintain the trails, clearing the brush and undergrowth, and mow and hay their fields free of charge. You don’t mind if we continue—”

“Ride over any time you want, though it won’t be quite as tranquil around here starting tomorrow when my crew arrives. So this is one of the famed Rosewood Farm horses,” he said as he reached out his hand, smiling at the blast of moist warm air on his skin as the mare sniffed him. “She’s a beauty.”

The delicate line of Jordan’s neck extended as her chin lifted proudly. “Yes, this is Sava, one of our broodmares. She’s given us five great foals.”

Abruptly he remembered Nonie telling him that Jordan was the mother of three. Incredible. He still couldn’t believe it. Three kids
and
a messy divorce … he definitely should not be checking out the way her slender thighs gripped the saddle so securely.

“She looks really fit.” He hoped to God that Jordan hadn’t noticed he’d been eyeing her shape and not the horse’s. Deliberately he focused on the chestnut mare standing quietly before him. Solidly built, she looked strong enough to travel over the Virginia countryside for hours at a time. He touched his palm to the mare’s velvety muzzle and smiled at the sound of her teeth grinding against the steel bit. “What is she, a warmblood?”

“Yes, she’s a Hanoverian, a German warmblood.”

There’d been surprise in Jordan’s voice when she answered him. She clearly hadn’t expected him to know anything about horses. He could have told her that his father had been posted in Vienna for four years. On days when school was out, his mother, busy with her writing or engaged in one of the endless rounds of Foreign Service socializing, would arrange for his nanny to take him to watch the Lipizzaners perform at the Spanish Riding School. Then there were the holidays when, invited by his parents’
wealthy friends, he would be buttoned into a blazer and pressed flannels, his hair slicked and combed so that he could pass muster sitting in a box at Longchamps or Ascot. His father would reward an afternoon’s good behavior by letting Owen pick a horse in each race. So, yes, he could distinguish between the high-energy, hot-blooded legginess of a Thoroughbred and the characteristics of other breeds. But he didn’t enjoy recounting tales of his childhood years with his capital-hopping, peripatetic parents. He’d rather store up whatever bits of knowledge he possessed and use them to keep Jordan slightly off balance.

“Do you breed warmbloods exclusively?”

“No, about fifty percent of our breeding stock are warmbloods, the remaining broodmares are Thoroughbreds. But following the tradition established by my ancestor, Francis Radcliffe, we stand only Thoroughbred studs. He started Rosewood Farm with his first stallion, Tallis.”

“This is the Francis Radcliffe who oversaw the construction of the house for his bride, Georgiana? A talented man.”

“Yes, he was.”

“And there are riding trails connecting the two properties? I’m going to have to take a walk through the woods one day soon and return this neighborly visit—”

He’d brought up his wish to see Rosewood yesterday, too, Jordan remembered. Then he’d waited until she’d left to convince Nonie to have his firm decorate the cottage. Boy, he was really a smooth operator.

It irked her, too, to realize that those dark, rugged looks had succeeded in distracting her again. While they’d been talking she’d kept stealing peeks at him, noting how well he looked in olive green trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose the solid strength of his forearms and the liberal sprinkling of dark hair—why she was so obsessed with this man’s body hair was beyond her. He’d snuck past her defenses, too, with his questions about
Sava and Rosewood Farm, making her forget about the cottage and the reasons for her dislike.

“I’m sure you’ll be far too busy for any rambles through the woods. I spoke to Nonie this morning by the way. Congratulations.”

Her abruptly cool tone alerted Owen to the fact that he’d made some gross misstep. “Thank you. May I ask what you’re congratulating me for?”

“Why, the commission, of course. Nonie told me she’s decided to have you do the interior for the cottage. She said you made a very compelling argument for choosing your firm.”