Dark Witch (8 page)

Boyle McGrath. She said his name in her head, and thought: You could be trouble for me, and I’m so
interested
when it comes to trouble.

“Oh, he’s in a mood, our Boyle is. Well, you’d best get used to it if you come to work here, for God knows he has them.”

Meara stepped forward, raised her voice. “Giving you a run for it, is he then?”

“Tried to take a chunk out of me. Twice. The right bastard. Tries it again I may geld him myself with a bleeding butter knife.”

When Boyle pulled up, the horse shook, pranced, tried to rear.

Big hands, scarred at the knuckles like the eyebrow, the boots, fought the horse down. “I may murder Fin for this one.”

As if daring his rider, the horse tried to rear yet again. Instinctively Iona stepped up, gripped the bridle.

“Stay back there,” Boyle snapped. “He bites.”

“I’ve been bitten before.” She spoke directly to the horse, her eyes on his. “But I’d rather not be again, so just stop it. You’re gorgeous,” she crooned. “And so pissed off. But you might as well cut it out and see what happens next.”

She flicked a glance up at Boyle. He wouldn’t bite, she thought, but suspected he had other ways to take a chunk out of a foe.

“I bet you’d get testy, too, if somebody packed you up and took you away from home, then dumped you with a bunch of strangers.”

“Testy? He kicked a stable hand and bit a groom, and that was just this morning.”

“Stop it,” Iona repeated when the horse tried to jerk his head free. “Nobody likes a bully.” Using her free hand, she stroked his neck. “Even beautiful ones like you. He’s pissed off, that’s all, and making sure we all know it,” she said to Boyle.

“Oh, is that all? Well then, no harm done.” He dismounted, shortened the reins. “You’d be the American cousin then, the one Branna sent.”

“Iona Sheehan, and I’m probably as inconvenient to you as this stallion. But I know horses, and this one didn’t like being taken away from all he knew. Everything’s different here. I know what that’s like,” she said to the horse. “What’s his name?”

“Fin’s calling him Alastar.”

“Alastar. You’ll make your place here.” She released the bridal, and the horse flicked his ears. But if he considered trying for a nip, he changed his mind, looked carelessly away.

“I brought my resume,” Iona began. Business, business, business, she reminded herself. And stay out of trouble. And pulled out the flash drive she’d stuck in her pocket that morning.

“I’ve ridden since I was three, and worked with horses—grooming, mucking, trail and guided rides. I’ve given instruction, private and group. I know horses,” she repeated. “And I’m willing to do whatever you need for a chance to work here.”

“I’ve shown her around and about,” Meara began, then took the flash drive from Iona. “I’ll put this on your desk.”

Boyle kept the reins firm in his hand, and his eyes, a burnished gold with hints of green, direct on Iona. “Resumes are just words on paper, aren’t they? They’re not doing. I can give you work, mucking out. We’ll see if you know your way around a horse for grooming before I set you on that. But there’s always tack to clean.”

Riding boot in the door, she reminded herself. “Then I’ll muck and clean.”

“You’d make more walking over to the castle and seeing about work there. Waitresses, housekeeping, clerking.”

“It’s not about making more. It’s about doing what I love, and what I’m meant to do. That’s here. I’m fine with mucking out.”

“Then Meara can get you started on it.” He took the flash drive from Meara, stuck it in his own pocket. “I’ll see to the paperwork once I get this one settled.”

“You’re going to put him in a stall?”

“I’m not after checking him into the hotel.”

“He’d like . . . Couldn’t he use a little more exercise? He’s gotten warmed up.”

Boyle arched his brows, drawing her gaze to the scarred one—the sexy one. “He’s given me near an hour’s fight already this morning.”

“He’s used to being the alpha, aren’t you, Alastar? Now you come along and you’re . . . a challenge. You said a resume’s not doing. Let me do. I can take him around your paddock.”

“What are you? Seven stones soaking wet?”

He was giving her a job, she reminded herself. And compared to him—even compared to Meara—she probably did come off as small and weak. “I don’t know how much seven stones is, but I’m strong, and I’m experienced.”

“He’d rip your arms out, and that’s before he tossed you off his back like a bad mood.”

“I don’t think so. But then, if he did, you’d be right.” She glanced back at the horse. “Think about that,” she told Alastar.

Boyle considered it. The pretty little faerie queen had something to prove, so he’d let her try. And she could nurse her sore arse—or head, depending on which hit the ground first.

“Once around the ring. Inside,” Boyle said, pointing. “If you manage to stay on him that long. Get her a helmet, will you, Meara. It might help her from breaking her head when she lands on it.”

“He’s not the only one who’s pissed off.” Confident now, Iona offered Boyle a smile. “I need to shorten the stirrups.”

“Inside,” he repeated, and led the horse in. “I hope you know how to fall.”

“I do. But I won’t.”

She shortened the stirrups quickly, competently. She knew Boyle watched her, and that was fine, that was good. She
would
settle, and gratefully, for a job doing no more than mucking out stalls and cleaning tack.

But God, she wanted to ride again. And she wanted, keenly, to ride this horse. To feel him under her, to share that power.

“Thanks.” She strapped on the helmet Meara brought her, and since Meara had carried one over, Iona used the mounting block.

Alastar quivered under her. She tightened her knees, held out a hand for the reins.

Now he reconsidered—she could see it in those tawny eyes.

“Branna won’t be pleased with me if you end up in the hospital.”

“You’re not afraid of Branna.”

She took the reins. Maybe she’d never been sure where she belonged, but she’d always, from the first moment, felt at home in the saddle.

Leaning forward, Iona whispered in Alastar’s ear. “Don’t make a fool out of me, okay? Let’s show off, and show him up.”

He walked cooperatively for four steps. Then kicked up his hind legs, dropped down, reared up.

Stop it. We can play that game another time.

She circled him, changed leads, circled back, changed again before nudging him into a trot.

When the horse danced to the side, tried another kick, she laughed.

“I may not weigh as much as the big guy, but I’m sticking.”

She took him up to a pretty canter—God, he had beautiful lines—back to a trot.

And felt alive.

“She’s more than words on paper,” Meara murmured.

“Maybe so. Good seat, good hands—and for some reason that devil seems to like her.”

He thought she looked as if she’d been born on a horse, as if she could ride through wind and wood and all but fly over the hills.

Then he shifted his feet, annoyed with his own fanciful thoughts.

“You can take her out with you—
not
on that devil—see how she does on a guide.”

“He’ll breed well, you know. Fin’s got the right of that.”

“Fin’s rarely wrong. But when he is, it’s massive. Still, she’ll do. Until she doesn’t. Have her put Alastar in the paddock. We’ll see if he stays there.”

“And you?”

“I’ll see to her paperwork.”

“When do you want her to start?”

Boyle watched her slide into a fluid lope. “I’m thinking she already has.”

* * *

SHE DIDN’T GET TO THE VILLAGE. HER PLANS CHANGED IN
the best possible way as she spent the rest of her morning mucking out, grooming, signing papers, learning the basics of the rules and rhythms from Meara.

And best of all, she tagged along on a guided ride. The pace might have been easy to the point of lazy, but it was still a ride on the cheerful Spud. She tried to remember landmarks as they rode placidly along the hard path, through the deep green woods, along the dark hum of the river.

An old shed, a scarred pine, a tumble of rocks.

She listened to the rise and fall of Meara’s voice as she entertained the clients—a German couple on a brief getaway—and enjoyed the mix of accents.

Here she was, Iona Sheehan, riding through the forests of Mayo (employed!), listening to German and Irish, feeling the cool, damp breeze on her cheeks and watching the fitful sunlight sprinkle through clouds and trees.

She was here. It was real. And she realized with a sudden, utter certainty she was never going back.

From this day forward, she thought, this was home. One she’d make herself, for herself. This was her life, one she’d live as she wanted.

If that wasn’t magick, what was?

She heard other voices, a quick rolling laugh so appealing it made her smile.

“That would be Connor,” Meara told her. “Out on a falcon walk.”

When they came around a curve she saw him down the path, standing with another couple. A hawk perched on the woman’s gloved arm while the man with her snapped pictures.

“Oh, that’s amazing!” Dazzling, Iona thought. And somehow out of time. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“Otto and I have booked for tomorrow,” the German woman told her. “I look forward, very much.”

“You’ll have so much fun. I have to try it. That’s my cousin,” she added, unabashedly proud. “The falconer.”

“He’s very handsome. You have your cousin, but you have not done a falcon walk?”

“I just got here yesterday.” She beamed as Connor lifted a hand, sent her or Meara, probably both, a cheeky wink.

“’Tis a Harris’s hawk you see there,” Meara said. “As you’ve booked a walk for tomorrow, you should be sure to take the time to tour the school. I’m wagering the falcon walk will be one of the highlights of your visit to Ashford, and it’s more complete if you see the other hawks and falcons, and learn a bit about them.”

The hawk took wing, glided up to a branch. The two groups gave room to each other.

“Good day to you, Connor,” Meara said as they passed.

“And to you. Out for a ride, cousin?”

“I’m working.”

“Well, that’s brilliant, and you can buy me a pint to celebrate later.”

“You’re on.”

And now, Iona thought, she’d have a beer with her cousin after work. It really
was
magick.

“I’m sorry. My English is sometimes not good.”

“It’s excellent,” Iona disagreed as she shifted to look at the woman rider.

“This is your cousin. But you’re not Irish.”

“American, Irish descent. I’ve just moved here. Literally.”

“You came only yesterday? Not before?”

“No, never before. I’m actually staying at the castle for a few days.”

“Ah, so you are visiting.”

“No, I live here now. I came yesterday, got this job today, and I’m moving in with my cousins next week. It’s all kind of wonderful.”

“You just came, from America to live here? I think you’re very brave.”

“I think I’m more lucky. It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

“Very beautiful. We live in Berlin, and work there. It’s very busy. This is quiet and . . . not busy. A good holiday.”

“Yes.” And an even better home, Iona thought. Her home.

* * *

BY THE TIME SHE’D RUBBED DOWN SPUD, PUT AWAY HER TACK,
met the other staff on duty that day—Mick with his ready grin, whose oldest daughter turned out to be the waitress who’d served her dinner the night before—and helped feed and water the horses, Iona deemed it too late to visit Cong or the falconry school.

She approached Meara.

“I’m not really sure what my hours are.”

“Oh well.” Meara took a long drink from a bottle of orange Fanta. “I expect you didn’t plan to be working a full day, which you nearly have. Are you up for working tomorrow?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

“I’d say eight’s good enough, but you’d best be checking with Boyle to be certain, as he may have put a schedule together. I’d think you could go on now, as Mick and Patty have things handled here, and I’ve got a private over at the big stables.”

“I’ll find him and see. Thanks, Meara, for everything.”

Going with the joy of the day, she wrapped her arms around Meara in a hug.

“I’m sure you’re welcome but I didn’t do anything, less than usual as it happens, as you did most of my sweaty work.”

“It felt good. It feels good here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have a good one, and my best to Branna and Connor when you see them.”

Iona checked the ring, then what Boyle called his office, backtracked, circled, and found him outside in the paddock having a stare-down with Alastar.

“He doesn’t think you like him.”

Boyle glanced back. “Then he’s an intuitive bastard.”

“But you do.” She boosted herself up to sit on the fence. “You like his looks and his spirit, and wonder how you can smooth his temper without breaking that spirit.”

She smiled when Boyle walked toward her. “You’re a horseman. There’s not a horseman alive who wouldn’t look at that magnificent animal and think just what I said. You irritate each other, but that’s because you’re both big and gorgeous and strong-willed.”

Feet planted, Boyle hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “And that’s your conclusion after this brief acquaintance, is it?”

“Yeah.” The sheer joy of her day sat on her like sunlight. She thought she could sit there for hours, in the cool, damp air, with the man and the horse. “You challenge each other, so there’s respect—and strategies brewing on both sides to work out how to come out on top.”

“As I’ll be riding him rather than the other way around, that’s already a conclusion.”

“Not altogether.” She sighed as she studied Alastar. “When I was little, I used to dream about having a horse like that—a big, bold stallion all of my own, one only I could ride. I guess most girls go through that equine fantasy stage. I never grew out of mine.”

“You ride well.”

“Thanks.” She glanced down at him, and realized it was a good thing she sat on the fence or she might have given him a hug as she had Meara. “It got me a job.”