Brant's Return

Gus was right. She was gentle, following my commands easily and swiftly, and within a few minutes, it all came back to me as though it were a simple matter of muscle memory, as if the last time I’d ridden a horse had been only yesterday. The wind whipped at my face, a wild rushing thrill cascading through me as the strong, beautiful creature picked up her pace, her hoofs pounding the earth as I let out a crazy whoop of delight. This was the feel of life, of freedom. There was nothing on earth like this. Nothing. It wrapped around your heart, breathed spirit into your lungs, and was such a simple but profound joy.

How had I forgotten?

And was there any point in remembering?

It wasn’t as if I could ride a horse through the streets of New York City. This life . . . this was my past, not my present. Still, it had been nice to remember the good that had shaped me. To remember that my entire past didn’t boil down to that one miserable day. Shouldn’t . . .

I rode until Buttons was obviously tired and breathing heavily, stopping at the stream that ran through this land, eight hundred acres of wild Bluegrass beauty. I let the horse drink and graze for a while as I sat on the grass, staring at that wide blue sky. The sky I’d believed began and ended in Kentucky once upon a time . . .

After a while, I got back in the saddle and rode toward the stable, moving at a slow canter. When I was almost there, I swung my leg over, hopping off Buttons and giving her a pat on the neck. “Thanks, girl. I needed that.” Gus must have spotted me returning because a stableman ran out and took Buttons’ reins, leading her into the stable. I acknowledged him with a nod.

I spotted Isabelle walking toward the training yards and jogged to meet her. She shot me a glance and kept walking. “Isabelle, wait.”

“Why?”

“I want to apologize.”

She stopped, turning and folding her arms over her chest. She tilted her head, her gaze trained on me. For a few beats we stared at each other. “Well, where is it?”

I looked around. “Where’s what?”

“Your apology.”

“That was it.”

One of the men who worked at Graystone Hill walked past us, leading a chocolate-brown horse. Just as the horse passed, he released a giant pile of horse dung. It hit the ground, splashing on my loafers and the cuff of my pants.

Isabelle pressed her lips together briefly, obviously attempting to contain a laugh. She looked at my shoes then back at me. “That’s gonna stain.”

I shook my shoe, clenching my jaw. “Anyway, I meant what I said. I owe you an apology.”

She stared at me again, apparently waiting for something, but I had no clue what. “I sincerely hope you’re better at bartending than apologizing.”

“What? I’m not a bar—” I shook my head. “Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. I said some things I shouldn’t have, and, well, you did call me a buttoned-up blowhard.”

“I’m sure you’re used to it.”

I almost let out a surprised laugh but managed to hold it back, squinting at her instead. “No one else has ever called me a buttoned-up blowhard.”

“Hey Isabelle, you coming?”

Isabelle looked over her shoulder at the man in the training pen, holding the reins of a massive stallion. She looked back at me. “They probably wait to say it behind your back.”

Despite myself, the laugh I’d held back a moment before burst forth. I thought I saw a tiny lip quirk as she walked backward, but I couldn’t be sure. “I have to go,” she said. Then she turned and jogged the rest of the way to the training pen. Well, fuck. That hadn’t exactly gone the way I’d hoped. And yet . . . even if she hadn’t accepted the entire olive branch I’d offered, maybe she’d taken a leaf. Hell, the truth was, I was out of practice. Most people apologized to me these days—even if not necessarily warranted. I sighed, walking to the fence rail, my eyes locked on Isabelle as she led the massive, majestic animal around the pen while he shook his head, chuffed and whinnied angrily, and put up an all-around horse fit. She was the picture of patience though, unruffled, serene as she ignored his antics, stepping deftly out of the way when he attempted to assert his dominance.

She was beautiful—not only her looks, but the glow she carried from the obvious fact that she was in her element. I couldn’t look away.

Her long auburn hair was braided loosely; wisps that had slipped free of the frayed blue ribbon she’d used to secure it framed her face. Jeans encased her slim legs and the white T-shirt she wore was baggy, oversized, as if she’d tumbled out of bed and grabbed her man’s shirt from the bedroom floor. Simple. Messy. Sexy as all hell.

“You still here?” I glanced to my right to where my father stood, leaned against the same fence. He didn’t look my way, his eyes locked on Isabelle in the pen with the wild black stallion.

“I guess I am.” I moved my gaze to her as well, taking in the horse. So damn strong. He could kill or maim her with one swift kick. I gripped the fencepost in my hands, the wood warm and rough beneath my palms.

“Figured you’d be halfway to New York by now.”

“I will be. I had an apology to make to Isabelle before I left.” I wasn’t sure why I said it. Maybe I’d been caught up in watching Isabelle, or maybe I wanted the old guy to know that despite our own differences, despite the fact that there was too much water under the bridge where we were concerned, I wasn’t a total jerk. I acknowledged when an apology needed to be made and sucked up my pride enough to deliver one. Would he care?

Probably not.