own. He was from Southern Pines, where he worked for a big Hunter/Jumper barn. He and Wynter had hit it off after he’d heard her swearing a blue streak at one of the horses she’d been braiding . He’d promised to teach her Spanish if she would teach him the swear words she knew. It had sounded like a good deal to her because, heaven only knew, she commanded a wide vocabulary of acceptable and unacceptable words.
“You leaving tonight?” he asked in heavily-accented English.
“Yeah. Thomas wants to get the horses back to their own stalls as fast as possible.”
“Too bad. We have a big party on the last night.”
Wynter shrugged. “I’m not much of a partier. I have classes tomorrow.”
“Oh. GED?”
Wynter shook her head. “College.”
It set her apart, and Rico’s manner cooled. “I see you next show then.”
He was off and already calling out to another girl groom. Wynter smiled. Dropped like a rock, but she didn’t care. She lit another cigarette and took a deep draw on it.
Wynter O’Reilly, Duke University Freshman. Nothing would get her down, not hands that hurt like hell, not even the persistent stiffness in her neck and shoulders. She rubbed the back of her neck. She would have loved nothing more than to massage it, but her fingers were too sore.
She watched the horses in the warm-up ring. As she continued to rub her neck, some of the tension dissipated. As usual, it was chaos. Trainers barked at their students while riders made turns and called “Heads up!” before the fence they wanted to jump. It was always amazing, she thought. There were seldom, if any, crashes.
“Smoking, Wynter?”
She dropped the cigarette and remained standing, still staring at the ring while her hand dropped to her side. She felt like a child caught doing something wrong. Why she wasn’t sure. Slowly, she turned to see Nelson Anderson, this time behind the wheel of the golf cart, and no one with him. His expression was unreadable.
“Hi, Mr. Anderson.” Wynter shifted from one foot to another. “How are you?”
She hadn’t spoken more than a passing greeting to him since the morning he’d dropped her off at the barn. He scooted over to the passenger side on the cart’s bench seat, using the cane to give him leverage.
“If you don’t mind, I could use your help. I need you to give me a ride out to my car, then turn the cart back in to the show office.”
“Sure.” She climbed in. How hard was it to drive a golf cart? What she didn’t count on was the interrogation that went along with it.
“What’s with the hat?” he asked. “You have lovely hair. It’s a shame to cover it.”
“I—thank you,” she said, flustered.
“So, why the hat?”
“I-I was just trying to keep my hair out of the way while I worked.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be the Wyn Riley everyone hired to braid their horses?” He paused, and she glanced sidelong to find him staring at her gloved hands and the loose grip she maintained on the steering wheel. After she stopped the cart at his car, he continued to sit. “Take off your gloves, Wynter.”
“No, that’s all right,” she responded, “I’ll keep them on.”
“Take off the gloves,” he ordered.
His tone put her back up, but God she needed this job. So she stripped off the gloves and let her hands drop back in her lap, hoping he wouldn’t see them since her fingers dangled between her thighs. Instead, he surprised her by reaching over and lifting one hand. He turned it over, rubbing her palm while he stared at the raw skin of the thumb and first two fingers. He turned her hand back over and set it down.
“How much money did you make?”
The quiet firmness in his tone told her it would do no good to lie or even tell him it was none of his business.
“Eight-hundred and fifty dollars.”
He arched one dark brow at the amount. “Was it worth ruining your hands?”
“I need the money,” she retorted, and feeling stung by the criticism, added, “not that you’d know anything about that. You’ve always gotten everything you wanted.”
Anderson’s mouth twisted with bitterness and his expression closed like the shutter on a camera. “Not everything. No. Some things money can never replace. All it buys you in the end is some satisfaction, and you should hope like hell you never have to learn that lesson.”
She assumed he had been referring to the leg and whatever happened to it. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me and childish.”
He sighed. “You start classes tomorrow, don’t you, at Duke?”
“Yes,” she replied in surprise. She had told no one about signing up, so she’d assumed he’d seen the papers the night she had fallen asleep in the tack room.
“How will you take notes in your classes, Wynter, if you keep butchering your hands trying to make money braiding at every horse show?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she began, an edge of anger and rebelliousness not far from the surface.
Anderson’s fingers grasped her chin. “I’ll pay you not to do it. A thousand dollars per show.”
Wynter pulled back in shock and suspicion. “I-I don’t understand.”
His smile lifted one corner of his mouth. In a man less handsome, it might have been called a sneer. “You heard me. I’ll pay you one thousand dollars above and beyond what you make if you will not do any braiding.”
“I couldn’t do that,” she stammered, gut twisting even as she refused the tempting offer. “I—it’s not right.”
He looked off in the distance, his blue eyes remote. “It’s the least I can do. I don’t know much about you, and I won’t pry, but you must be an outstanding student to have made it into Duke with your background. Furthermore, you must have incredible drive to pursue your education,” he turned and reached for her hand again, “if you’re willing to do this to your hands to help pay your own way. Accept the offer, Wynter. I won’t repeat it.”
With that he climbed from the golf cart and limped over to the Rolls. She watched while he started the engine and drove off. That was one of the strangest conversations she’d ever had. Someone willing to pay her not to do something? She shook her head. Not likely. Rich people always had some motive, something they wanted to hold over another person’s head. The Southards had taught her that lesson all too well.
Chapter 5
Irene O’Reilly stared out the kitchen window of the trailer, her gaze not even absorbing the bright foliage of the trees in the woods beyond. Did all mothers go through this? Had her own mother ever wondered after she had left?
“I can hire a detective, Irene.” Wythe Bradshear tried again to convince her to look for Wynter.
“She’s legally an adult, Wythe.” She shook her head. “I had hoped she would send me some news by now, but I won’t pressure her.”
“Wynter has always been hot-headed, but I never considered her thoughtless.” Wythe’s voice held irritation.
“Wythe…”
“Yes, thoughtless and cruel. She has no business putting you through this kind of hell.”
His chair scraped, and his big hands rested on her shoulders before he turned her from the window to face him.
“Please let me hire someone to look. You don’t have to make contact, but it would give you some peace of mind.”