Change Rein (Willow Bay Stables #1)(13)
“And you must be London,” Charlotte says in my direction. While the statement hardly comes across as harsh, there’s an underlying context there.
I’m not sure why I didn’t consider the possibility that all of these people coming today might know who I am, might have seen the shot I blew or the tabloid articles that ripped me apart because of it.
I let my eyes wander over her from behind the safety of my black lenses. She’s around my height and slender—although, if I had to guess from the constant rigid position of her breasts, which stretch her white polo tight across her chest, they’re likely fake. Everything about her is posh, just like the vehicle she arrived in. Not a hair on her white breeches, not a scuff on her black riding boots, and not a strand of hair in the braid that runs down her back out of place. She’s the Equestrian Barbie, and as I slip my hand into hers, my confidence gets knocked down a peg or two.
“That’s me.” I attempt not to scoff as I say it, but whether it worked or not, I don’t know.
She eyes me a second longer before turning her attention to my father as he approaches. I’m quickly distracted when I see movement in the back of the first trailer. The spacing between the panels doesn’t allow me to see much, and without realizing it, my boots are moving of their own free will towards it.
The wheel wells are too far forward, and despite not being short, I can’t see inside. When I check over my shoulder, it seems everyone’s still thoroughly engrossed in dialogue, so I opt to begin unloading the horses, if not at least to satisfy my curiosity.
After unhooking the latches on both sides, I carefully let the gate swing open. Luckily for me, it’s not the same as our trailer, so I refrain from having a repeat performance of my unloading Chil over a week ago in this same spot.
As soon as the gate is down, my eyes catch the swish of a black tail, and I smile when a matching black head turns to the right and eyes me over his shoulder.
“Hey, guy,” I coo, smoothing my voice out as I step up into the trailer, running my hand over his backside. “You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you?” I whisper, running my hand down his side as I walk the length of his powerful body.
“You always have to talk to a horse when you walk around them or you’ll scare them. Are you listening, London?” My Momma’s voice plays in my head. “You have to speak before you touch them or they’ll be startled.”
I skim his dark coat, allowing him to know where I am, even when he can’t see me. Horses have blind spots, so talking to them and keeping continuous contact relaxes them.
When I finally reach his neck, I pat him softly. “Wall Street Warrior,” I hum out loud, reading the gold nameplate on his tan leather halter.
He snorts in response, and a small laugh escapes me, echoing inside the trailer. Some of the other horses start to get restless, but I’m completely captivated by the harnessed power under the palm of my hand.
I’ve never seen a horse this dark before. Although I’ve not moved all the way around him, I have yet to see any white markings on his entire body. He’s jet black and stunning.
Scooping my arm under his head, I rub his muzzle. “Should we get you out of here, guy?”
After loosening the lead rope, I pull it out of the hook and cluck twice with my tongue. Then I push a finger into his chest. In response, he moves backwards.
People would assume that, because horses are so large, they’d require harsh, strong touches to get them to respond, but they actually need very small, light cues to understand what you want from them. Especially if they’re well trained. If I were to lean all of my body weight into a horse, they would, in turn, lean back against me. Whereas, by pushing him with my fingers and making signals with my voice, he will move where I ask him to, with very little effort on my part.
The black beauty backs out of the trailer with ease, but the look on Charlotte’s face as I walk towards them is hardly one I’d like to see again.
“What are you doing?” she snaps, worry clouding her pretty features.
Stopping abruptly, I purse my lips at the somewhat absurdity of her question, as she can quite clearly see what I am doing. “Unloading the horses,” I answer, looking over her head to my family.
They seem equally as dumbfounded by her sudden change in demeanor.
“That’s Bran—” She shakes her head as if to correct herself. “That’s Street, Mr. Tucker’s horse. He’s not to be handled by anyone other than myself or Mr. Tucker.”
Well, okay, then.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t let it happen again,” she announces curtly, walking towards me.
Wonderful. Now I’m being reprimanded by a woman my own age for more or less petting a horse.
Something behind me pulls Charlotte’s focus and she halts in her steps. The transformation that happens on her face would be comical if it weren’t so confusing.
I’m so perplexed by the woman that it takes me a few seconds to recognize the sound of an engine approaching, and by the time I’ve turned around, the bright-red Corvette causing the composed woman in front of me to act stupid rolls to a stop, the engine still purring.
I immediately regret judging her when my eyes lock on the man behind the wheel. My hands fist into Street’s mane, and the heady sensation at the sight of him makes me dizzy. I instantly curse the way my body starts to shake, unsure if it’s from the dehydration brought on by last night’s drinking or simply an ridiculous physical reaction to a complete stranger.