“I came out here every summer from when I was a little kid until I was sixteen.” I smile wistfully, the memories filling me with a mix of longing and warmth.
“Is your grandfather still…?”
I shake my head. “He passed last year.”
“I’m sorry.” I glance over to find Jackson looking at me, his expression a little softer.
“Thank you. Anyway, where I’m going with this is that I’m not delusional. I remember what this place used to be like, and I’d like to restore it to its former glory. Maybe even make it better. I can see it’s been mismanaged and has been going downhill for years. I’m going to fix that.”
He exhales loudly through his nose. “I’m actually not trying to be rude, but I’ve heard this all before. Not from the Wellingtons because they really were rich assholes.”
“They’re actually my half cousins, you know?”
“Really?”
I grin. “I’m fucking with you. Not all rich assholes know each other or are related. Don’t be richist.”
“Richist?”
“Yeah. Like racist, but about rich people.”
He groans, dragging his fingers across the top of his head, letting his hair fall loosely over his forehead. The sound shoots straight to my cock, my mind immediately conjuring other ways I could draw sounds like that out of him.
“You’re so messed up.”
I chuckle darkly. “You have no idea.”
“Seriously, though. This isn’t the first time a new owner has come in promising the world about how they’ll buy state-of-the-art therapeutic equipment. Run public workshops. Expand the foster program. Collaborate with vets. Partner with local businesses. You name it, I’ve heard it. And do you know how many of these wonderful ideas have come to fruition?” He lifts his hand, fingers curling into a perfect circle, and smiles defeatedly. “Zero.”
I open my mouth to respond but manage to stop myself from blurting out something trite like, “But this time, it’ll be different.”
I suspect that won’t go down well.
Besides, what if it won’t be different? What if, despite my best efforts, I’m unable to turn this place around? So many others have failed before me; why should I be any different? Sure, I’ve got some money and a business degree behind me, but I don’t know the first thing about running a horse sanctuary. My intentions for buying this place were more about honoring my grandfather and having something productive to do with my time. What if I’ve just made a colossal mistake?
“I don’t know if I can do it again,” Jackson says, folding his hands in his lap and dropping his gaze to them.
“Why not?”
His shoulders sag. “Because I’m sick of being disappointed, of watching helplessly as this place falls apart and these horses suffer even more than they already have. I have other things I should be doing.”
“Like what?”
The question rushes out of me so quickly my brain doesn’t have time to run interference and warn me that it’s none of my damn business.
His shoulders stay drooped, but his head tilts in my direction. There’s something so defeated about the way he says, “Just stuff,” that makes my chest ache.
I don’t know why I care. Why I’m desperate to find out what the cause of his sadness is. Why I want him to stay and help me run the center.
Actually, that last one isn’t entirely true.
I did some googling last night. He’s set all his socials to private, which is annoying, but I still managed to find two articles about him.
The first one was about the future of horse training in an equestrian publication so fancy it was hidden behind a paywall. He was quoted about the advanced behavioral science and positive reinforcement techniques he uses that allow horses to respond more naturally to human commands. That’s a fancy way of explaining how he was able to settle Riven so quickly when he got out the other night.
The other article was from the local paper aboutSilverstone’s Stars Under 30, featuring promising young local talent. A painter who had scored their first national showing. An NHL draft pick, which is big news since there are no ice rinks within a hundred-mile radius of Silverstone. A high school student who scored an internship at NASA. And one black-haired, horse-mad local, described as “an example of quiet excellence” whose “innovative approaches were catching the attention of the equestrian community.”
Turns out the hothead who messed up Ridge Duporth’s pretty face is a sensitive horse whisperer. And a damn good one at that.
