Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Before leaving the barn today, I worked out a feasible schedule to compress my training lessons and hand off some to the other instructors. I then opened up my afternoons to be able to work on all the administrative stuff, including the medical management. I vowed I would do that here in my apartment so I wouldn’t get distracted by the horses or the slew of people who are in and out of the barns each day. When it’s all said and done, I’m proud of myself for figuring this out. It’s vital that I’m able to help Ethan. Even if I have to put in twenty-hour days and sleep only four, I’ll do my part to take the burden off his shoulders.
And it’s with utter resolve and determination to include the unpleasant necessity of having to deal with Gabriel Mardraggon.
I’m already soured to our upcoming meeting this evening because his unwillingness to meet during the day means I’m missing Miranda’s meatloaf. I’ve been trying for three days to force a meeting, but it seems he’s as reluctant to work with me as I am with him.
Can’t say I blame either one of us, given our history.
After my shower, I work at breakneck speed to dry my hair enough that I can put it in a messy topknot. I don’t bother with makeup because I’m not trying to impress anyone and I slip into my favorite jeans before tugging on a Blackburn Farms T-shirt and a worn pair of Adidas. I glance at myself in the closet’s full-length mirror, smirking as I think of the contrast between my casual comfort and someone like Gabe Mardraggon who dresses in only the finest designer clothing. I suppose if I made an effort to dress nicer, he might see me as more professional, but I really don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks of me. I’ll never care about that.
Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ve got enough time that I can probably swing through a drive-through for a hamburger on my way to see the Mardraggon. Nowhere near on par with Miranda’s cooking but at least my stomach won’t be threatening to eat itself.
I snag my keys, phone and purse before heading to the door. I switch off a tasseled lamp as I move past it, crossing the entire space in about ten steps.
My abode is small but full of charm and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Yes, I live above the main tack room next to one of the training barns but this place is wholly mine, not only in possession but in character. I’ve spent time over the years upgrading and decorating the place, mostly by myself, but sometimes with Trey and Wade helping out with the heavier lifting. The walls are beadboard, painted a soft cream that contrasts beautifully with the natural wood beams that stretch across the ceiling. A squishy, deep-blue sofa adorned with throw pillows featuring horse motifs is the focal point of the living area which is only big enough to hold said couch. There’s a small, antique coffee table overloaded with The Saddle Horse Report and National Horseman that I really need to clean out.
Adjacent to the living room is the kitchen, separated by a breakfast bar made from reclaimed barn wood that Trey and Wade helped me install. The kitchen is practical yet charming, with open shelving that holds mismatched plates and cooking pots above the compact, four-burner stove.
My bedroom sits on the other side of a sliding barn door, reclaimed from one of our yearling barns that we renovated a few years ago. The space is so small it only fits my queen-size wrought-iron frame and one tiny wooden nightstand with a vintage coin glass lamp with a beaded shade.
It’s cozy but perfect for me.
When I throw open the front door, pausing to pat my back pocket to make sure I do indeed have my phone, even though I know in my head I picked it up just seconds ago, I’m brought up short by Sylvie standing on my stoop at the top of the wooden staircase. Her right hand is raised as if poised to knock.
She gives a startled yelp and then a sheepish grin. “You scared me.”
Laughing, I press my hand to my own beating heart. “Ditto. What’s up, kiddo?”
Her smile falters a tiny bit. “Can we talk?”
I don’t glance at my watch or try to calculate how this will cause me to miss a swing through a fast-food joint or even possibly be late to my meeting. I only see my niece, who I’ve known for just a handful of weeks but for whom I would lay down my life.
Brave, sweet Sylvie who has the weight of the world evident in her eyes but is still trying to keep my worry at bay by projecting a shining smile.