Dark Witch, Page 7

  her palm. “Your word on it, and I’ll know if you mean to keep it.”

  “All right. I promise. But you’ll take me.”

  “Not today,” Branna told her. “I have things I have to do, and Connor needs to go to work. And you need to go see Boyle.”

  “Now?”

  “After breakfast’s soon enough, and after you’ve washed up as payment for getting me out of my bed at this ungodly hour. Come back later. I should be done and ready by about three.”

  “I’ll be here.” Settled, confident again, Iona helped herself to another piece of toast.

  5

  AS SHE FOLLOWED THE PATH, IONA TRIED WORKING ON HER INTERVIEW SKILLS. What to say, how to say it. She hoped she’d dressed appropriately, as she hadn’t expected an immediate job interview when she’d left her hotel room that morning in jeans and her favorite red sweater. Still, she was aiming for a stable job, so she’d hardly need a business suit and a briefcase.

  Neither of which she had anyway, she mused, or had ever wanted.

  What she did have was the resume she’d put together, the recommendation by her previous employers, all the references from her students or their parents.

  She didn’t care what they paid her, not to start. She just needed a riding boot in the door. Then she could, and would, prove herself. And while she proved herself she’d not only have work, she’d have the work she loved.

  Her stomach knotted, as it did when she wanted something too much, so she ordered herself not to babble when she met the man who could hire her or just send her on her way.

  The minute she turned into the clearing, saw the building, the nerves dropped away. Here was the familiar, a kind of home. The shape of the stables and its weather-faded red paint, the two horses with their heads poking out of the half doors, the trucks, the trailers scattered around the graveled lot.

  The scents of hay, horses, manure, leather, oil, grain caught at her heart. It all flooded over her as her boots crunched on the gravel.

  She couldn’t help herself. She went straight to the horses.

  The chestnut held her gaze steadily, watching her approach. He snorted at her, shifted his weight. He bent his head when she stroked his cheek, then gave her an easy push with his nose.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too. Look how handsome you are.”

  Clear eyes, clean, glossy coat, well-brushed mane, and a look of the easygoer about him, she noted. Healthy, well-tended horses boosted the as-yet-unmet Boyle McGrath and Finbar Burke in her estimation.

  “I’m hoping we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. And who’s your friend?” She turned to the second horse, a sturdy-looking bay who rubbed his neck on the window frame as if he wasn’t the least bit interested in her.

  When she stepped toward him, he laid his ears back. Iona just angled her head, sent him soothing thoughts until they perked up again. “That’s better. No need to be nervous. I’m just here to say hello.”

  She gave him a quick rub.

  “That’s Caesar taking your measure there.”

  Iona turned, saw the Amazon in riding boots behind her. The woman’s curvy body filled out snug riding pants and a rough plaid jacket. Her hair, worn in a long, messy braid, reminded Iona of her grandmother’s prized mink coat—rich and luxurious brown. Though Ireland sang in her voice, her golden skin and deep brown eyes spoke of sunny climes and gypsy campfires.

  “He generally likes to act fierce on first acquaintance. And can be shy about being touched—usually,” she added when Iona continued to stroke him.

  “He’s just careful around strangers. Are they both trail horses?”

  “We save Caesar for experienced riders, but they both have a job here, yes.”

  “I’m hoping I will, too. I’m Iona Sheehan. I’ve come to talk to Boyle McGrath.”

  “Ah, you’d be the Yank, a cousin of Connor’s and Branna’s. I’m Meara Quinn.” She stepped forward, shook Iona’s hand firmly, gave her a quick, no-nonsense appraisal. “You’ve come early today.”

  “I’m still adjusting to the time change. I can come back if it’s not a good time.”

  “Oh, one time’s as good as another. Boyle’s not here, but will be soon enough. I can show you about if you’d like.”

  “I would, thanks.” Like Caesar’s, Iona’s nerves dropped away. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Oh, about eight years. Closer to nine, I’m thinking. Well, who’s counting, yeah?”

  She led the way in, long strides on long legs that had Iona quickening her pace to keep up. Iona saw a room off to the side, jumbled and crowded with riding hats, leg protectors, some boots. A lean tabby sidled out, gave Iona a look as measuring as Meara’s had been, then strolled outside.

  “That was Darby, who graces us with his presence. A fierce mouser is Darby, so we put up with his sullen moods. He earns his kibble, and comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  Meara grinned. “That’s the truth. And so, we take bookings for rides, guide the customers between the Lough Corrib and Mask. Usually an hour, but we’ll do longer if they ask and pay for it. And we have the training ring here.”

  Iona walked in to watch a woman in her thirties on the back of a compact chestnut, and the fireplug of a man in work jeans putting horse and rider through the paces.

  “That’s our Mick. A jockey he was in his youth, and has unlimited stories to tell about those days.”

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  “Be sure you will if you’re here above five minutes.” Meara set her hands on her hips, watched Mick a moment, letting Iona do the same. “Took a bad fall, Mick did, in a race at Roscommon, and so ended that portion of his career. Now he teaches and trains, and his students collect blue ribbons.”

  “Sounds like you’re lucky to have him.”

  “That we are. We’ve another area at the big stables, not far from here, for jumping practice and instruction. We cater to locals as well for lessons, and the occasional guided ride. We tend to run a bit slow this time of year, but there’s plenty needs doing. We’ve twenty-two horses between what we keep here and what’s at the other stable. The tack room’s this way.”

  She glanced over at Iona. “We ride English, so if you’re used to a Western saddle, you’d have to adjust.”

  “I ride both.”

  “That’s handy for you. Boyle’s fierce about keeping the tack in good order,” she continued as she gestured Iona into the room. “Those of us who work here do whatever comes to hand. Deal with the tack, take bookings, muck out, groom, feed—there’s a board with each horse’s feed schedule and diet hung outside their stalls. Have you done any guided rides?”

  “Back home, sure.”

  “Then you know it’s more than plodding along with the clients. You need to judge how they handle the ride, the mount, and most who book here want some color, if you understand me, some talk of the area, the history, even flora and fauna.”

  “I’ll study up. Actually, I’ve already done some. I like knowing where I am.”

  “Hard to know where you’re going unless you do.”

  “I’m open to surprises there.”

  Familiar scents surrounded her—leather and saddle soap. To most eyes, she imagined, the tack room would strike as cluttered and disorganized, but she saw the basic pattern, the day-to-day use, repair, maintain.

  Bridles hung on one wall, the saddles on their racks on another. Harness racks on the third, with hooks and racks for bits and saddle pads, shelves for this and that, rags and brushes and saddle soaps and oils. And a kind of alcove for brooms, pitchforks, the curry combs, hoof picks, hooks again for buckets. She spotted an old refrigerator.

  “Medicine’s in there,” Meara told her. “Close and handy when there’s need. We do what we can to keep it all reasonably tidy, and a time or two a year when we’re slow, we put some elbow grease into it. Would you have your own gear?”

  “I sold it.” That had been painful. “Except
for my riding boots, my muck boots, riding helmet. I didn’t know if I’d have any place to keep it, or even if I’d be able to use it, at least for a while. Do I need my own?”

  “You don’t, no. Well then, you’ll want to see the horses we have here. We board as well, but at the big stable. Here we keep the riding hacks, and switch them out between here and there as needed.”

  Meara walked and talked, more long strides in battered boots as she led Iona through to the stalls.

  “We’ve a booking for four later this morning, and two more this afternoon, a party of two and another of six. Lessons booked through the day so we’ve a full house here.”

  She stopped to rub the head of a sturdy chestnut with a white blaze. “This is Maggie, as sweet as they come. She’s good with children or the skittish. She’s patient, is Maggie, and likes the quiet life. Don’t you, darling?”

  The mare nuzzled at Meara’s shoulder, then dipped her head at Iona.

  “Such a pretty face.” After a rub and a scratch, Maggie bumped at Iona’s pocket, made her laugh. “I don’t have any with me today. I’ll be sure to bring along an apple next time. She’s . . .” Iona trailed off as she caught Meara’s questioning look. “What?”

  “Odd, is all. Maggie has a particular fondness for apples.” Leaving it at that, Meara gestured. “And that’s our Jack. He’s a big boy, and likes his naps, and will try to graze his way through the ride if he’s able. Needs a firm hand.”

  “Like to eat and sleep, do you? Who doesn’t? I bet a big, strong boy like you can carry three hundred without blinking an eye.”

  “He will that. And here we have Spud. He’s young and feisty but goes well.”

  “A dark horse.” Iona moved over to run a hand down his black mane. “With a weakness for potatoes.” She caught the look again, used a smile. “His name. Spud.”

  “We’ll use that one if you like. And here’s Queen Bee, as she thinks she is. She bosses the others every opportunity, but she likes a good ride.”

  “I wouldn’t mind one myself. She’s had some trouble with her right foreleg?”

  “A bit of a strain a week or so back. Healed up nicely. If she told you different, she’s just looking for sympathy.”

  Unsure, Iona took a step back, slid her hands into her pockets.

  “I’m not likely to get the jitters if someone shares a communion with horses,” Meara commented. “Especially someone blood kin to the O’Dwyers.”

  “I’m good with them. Horses,” Iona qualified as she stroked the regal-eyed Queen Bee. “I’m hoping to work on getting good with the O’Dwyers.”

  “Connor’s an easygoer, with a weakness for a pretty face. You’ve got one. Branna’s fair, and that’s enough.”

  “You’re friends.”

  “We are, and have been since we were in nappies, so I know Branna, being fair, wouldn’t have sent you to us if you weren’t suited.”

  “I’m good at this. It’s what I’m good at.” All, she thought, she was certain she was good at.

  “You’ll need to be. All my life,” Meara said at Iona’s questioning look. “So I know it’s the one who communes with horses who makes the three.”

  Iona thought of the looks from the waitstaff over dinner the night before. “Does everyone know?”

  “What people know, what they believe, what they accept? Those are all different matters, aren’t they? Well then, since Boyle’s running behind, we can—” She broke off, pulled out her phone when it jingled in her pocket, checked the text. “Ah, good, he’s on his way. We’ll just go out, if that’s good for you, and meet him.”

  Her potential new boss, Iona thought. “Any tips?”

  “You could remember Boyle’s fair as well, though he’s often short on words and temper.”

  Meara gestured Iona along as she shoved her phone away again. “He’s riding Fin’s latest acquisition over. Fin’s Boyle’s partner, and travels about when he’s a mind to buying horses and hawks or whatever strikes his fancy.”

  “But Boyle—Mr. McGrath—runs the stables.”

  “He does—or they both do, but it’s Boyle who deals more with the day-to-day. Fin found this stallion in Donegal, and had him sent, as Fin himself’s still rambling. He plans to stud him out later in the year, and Boyle’s just as determined to teach him manners.”

  “Fin or the stallion?”

  Meara let out a big, brassy laugh as they stepped back outside. “That’s a question, and it may be both, though I’d wager he’ll have better luck with the horse than Finbar Burke.”

  She nodded toward the end of the road. “He’s a fine-looking bastard for all that, with a devil’s temper.”

  Iona turned. She couldn’t say if Meara spoke of the horse or the man astride him. Her first impression was of magnificence and hotheads on both counts.

  The horse, big and beautiful at easily sixteen hands, tested his rider with the occasional buck and dance, and even with the distance, she could see the fierce gleam in his eyes. His smoke gray coat showed some sweat, though the morning stayed cool—and his ears stayed stubbornly back.

  But the man, big and beautiful as well, had his measure. Iona heard his voice, the challenge in it if not the words, as he kept the horse at a trot.

  And something in her, just at the sound of his voice, stirred. Nerves, excitement, she told herself, because the man held her happiness in his hands.

  But as they drew closer, the stir grew to a flutter. Attraction struck her double blows—heart and belly as, oh, he really was as magnificent as the horse. And every single bit as appealing to her.

  His hair, a kind of rich caramel that wasn’t altogether brown, wasn’t quite red, blew everywhere in the breeze. He wore a rough jacket, faded jeans, scarred boots, all suiting the tough, rawboned face. The strong jaw and a mouth that struck her as stubborn as the horse he rode just echoed the hard lines of temper barely leashed when the horse bucked again.

  A thin scar, like a lightning bolt, cut through his left eyebrow. For reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend, it stirred up a delicious little storm of lust inside her.

  Cowboy, pirate, wild tribal horseman. How could he be three of her biggest fantasy weaknesses all rolled into one big, bold package?

  Boyle McGrath. She said his name in her head, and thought: You could be trouble for me, and I’m so interested when it comes to trouble.

  “Oh, he’s in a mood, our Boyle is. Well, you’d best get used to it if you come to work here, for God knows he has them.”

  Meara stepped forward, raised her voice. “Giving you a run for it, is he then?”

  “Tried to take a chunk out of me. Twice. The right bastard. Tries it again I may geld him myself with a bleeding butter knife.”

  When Boyle pulled up, the horse shook, pranced, tried to rear.

  Big hands, scarred at the knuckles like the eyebrow, the boots, fought the horse down. “I may murder Fin for this one.”

  As if daring his rider, the horse tried to rear yet again. Instinctively Iona stepped up, gripped the bridle.

  “Stay back there,” Boyle snapped. “He bites.”

  “I’ve been bitten before.” She spoke directly to the horse, her eyes on his. “But I’d rather not be again, so just stop it. You’re gorgeous,” she crooned. “And so pissed off. But you might as well cut it out and see what happens next.”

  She flicked a glance up at Boyle. He wouldn’t bite, she thought, but suspected he had other ways to take a chunk out of a foe.

  “I bet you’d get testy, too, if somebody packed you up and took you away from home, then dumped you with a bunch of strangers.”

  “Testy? He kicked a stable hand and bit a groom, and that was just this morning.”

  “Stop it,” Iona repeated when the horse tried to jerk his head free. “Nobody likes a bully.” Using her free hand, she stroked his neck. “Even beautiful ones like you. He’s pissed off, that’s all, and making sure we all know it,” she said to Boyle.

  “Oh, is that all? Well then, n
o harm done.” He dismounted, shortened the reins. “You’d be the American cousin then, the one Branna sent.”

  “Iona Sheehan, and I’m probably as inconvenient to you as this stallion. But I know horses, and this one didn’t like being taken away from all he knew. Everything’s different here. I know what that’s like,” she said to the horse. “What’s his name?”

  “Fin’s calling him Alastar.”

  “Alastar. You’ll make your place here.” She released the bridal, and the horse flicked his ears. But if he considered trying for a nip, he changed his mind, looked carelessly away.

  “I brought my resume,” Iona began. Business, business, business, she reminded herself. And stay out of trouble. And pulled out the flash drive she’d stuck in her pocket that morning.

  “I’ve ridden since I was three, and worked with horses—grooming, mucking, trail and guided rides. I’ve given instruction, private and group. I know horses,” she repeated. “And I’m willing to do whatever you need for a chance to work here.”

  “I’ve shown her around and about,” Meara began, then took the flash drive from Iona. “I’ll put this on your desk.”

  Boyle kept the reins firm in his hand, and his eyes, a burnished gold with hints of green, direct on Iona. “Resumes are just words on paper, aren’t they? They’re not doing. I can give you work, mucking out. We’ll see if you know your way around a horse for grooming before I set you on that. But there’s always tack to clean.”

  Riding boot in the door, she reminded herself. “Then I’ll muck and clean.”

  “You’d make more walking over to the castle and seeing about work there. Waitresses, housekeeping, clerking.”

  “It’s not about making more. It’s about doing what I love, and what I’m meant to do. That’s here. I’m fine with mucking out.”

  “Then Meara can get you started on it.” He took the flash drive from Meara, stuck it in his own pocket. “I’ll see to the paperwork once I get this one settled.”

  “You’re going to put him in a stall?”

  “I’m not after checking him into the hotel.”

  “He’d like . . . Couldn’t he use a little more exercise? He’s gotten warmed up.”

  Boyle arched his brows, drawing her gaze to the scarred one—the sexy one. “He’s given me near an hour’s fight already this morning.”

  “He’s used to being the alpha, aren’t you, Alastar? Now you come along and you’re . . . a challenge. You said a resume’s not doing. Let me do. I can take him around your paddock.”

  “What are you? Seven stones soaking wet?”

  He was giving her a job, she reminded herself. And compared to him—even compared to Meara—she probably did come off as small and weak. “I don’t know how much seven stones is, but I’m strong, and I’m experienced.”

  “He’d rip your arms out, and that’s before he tossed you off his back like a bad mood.”

  “I don’t think so. But then, if he did, you’d be right.” She glanced back at the horse. “Think about that,” she told Alastar.

  Boyle considered it. The pretty little faerie queen had something to prove, so he’d let her try. And she could nurse her sore arse—or head, depending on which hit the ground first.

  “Once around the ring. Inside,” Boyle said, pointing. “If you manage to stay on him that long. Get her a helmet, will you, Meara. It might help her from breaking her head when she lands on it.”

  “He’s not the only one who’s pissed off.” Confident now, Iona offered Boyle a smile. “I need to shorten the stirrups.”

  “Inside,” he repeated, and led the horse in. “I hope you know how to fall.”

  “I do. But I won’t.”

  She shortened the stirrups quickly, competently. She knew Boyle watched her, and that was fine, that was good. She would settle, and gratefully, for a job doing no more than mucking out stalls and cleaning tack.

  But God, she wanted to ride again. And she wanted, keenly, to ride this horse. To feel him under her, to share that power.

  “Thanks.” She strapped on the helmet Meara brought her, and since Meara had carried one over, Iona used the mounting block.

  Alastar quivered under her. She tightened her knees, held out a hand for the