Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(23)

“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.”