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“The boys all know you’re here. Under my care. Why not show your face?”
She glances down at the tea I’ve brought her. Just a splash of milk like she likes. “Does this mean I can go back to the lodge now?”
“No. I trust the Baynes, but I don’t fully trust the Burneses.” Despite our decade-long truce. “I don’t want you out of my sight just yet.”
I wait for disappointment to flood her face at not being able to go back to her friends. It doesn’t. She looks up at me. “Horses. That sounds fun.”
“Get dressed,” I say. “And wear your heavy coat. It’s going to be cold. I’ll take you out to the pub after, get a proper meal in you.”
I leave her alone with her thoughts. She’s like that sometimes, quiet, needing a bit of space. Funny how well I’m coming to know her habits, sharing a house with her.
We reach the Castle and her face lights up at the sight of the ivy-covered church. “It’s beautiful.” she says.
“It’s not done.”
She tosses me a look. “Still. It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see the inside.”
“You won’t be going inside,” I say. “No womenfolk allowed.”
Her brows knit. “Are you being serious? Is there a no-girls-allowed sign on the door or something? Is this a boys-only club?”
“Pretty much.” I pull the truck around the back of the house. The men are all gathered along the road, excited for the race.
A young Bayne and Burnes boy sit on their respective gigs, the two big wheels on both carts recently aired by Crank. They’ve each got a friend in tow beside them in their two-seater. Their horses paw at the ground, eager to go.
“This is nothing like what I expected! There’re so many horses in your fields. And they’re all so beautiful.” She stares out over the land.
My stables, my fields, my champion-breed horses. The Traditional Romani Cob, first brought over from the British Isles, their coats covered in large brown and white spots, long brown and white manes, and pretty, long white hair hanging down their legs over their hooves.
“The sight is something from a different era, isn’t it?”
“When you said a horse race, I was thinking men riding on saddles. Those carts—I’ve never seen anything like them. Are they from your family?”
“Aye. My great-grandfather was a Romani. His heritage was horses and we’ve carried it on through the generations. Eamon and I always rode and raced, but the Burnes boys had nothing to do with horses. Now, all the Kings are obsessed.”
“Looks like you’ve started a trend.”
“Looks that way, don’t it.” It’s a point of pride with me, the way I’ve used a pastime from my bloodline to bring our clans together for the greater good of the island.
She gets a little shy, fiddling with her fingers. “Do you think they’ll like me okay? They won’t be too mad about DI Collins and all that…”
“Eamon’s been talking you up. And you’re a girl, after all. Of course the men will take to you.”
“Do I look okay? Did I wear the right thing?” Her brown eyes look up at me with more trust than I probably deserve. I can tell it’s an important question to her and she needs me to say the right thing to reassure her.
I reach over, smoothing her dark hair. “You look. Beautiful.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a shy smile then turns her attention to the window.
“Come on. We can’t be late. The race has to start right at eleven.”
“Why?” She unbuckles her seat belt.
“Eleven on Sunday morning. The whole island will be at church. The perfect time for illegal street racing,” I explain.
“You just keep getting me in deeper trouble with the law, don’t you? You are corrupting me.” But she climbs out of the truck with ease, eager to see the horses.
As we make our way to meet the others I grab her hand in mine. A clear message to all the men who now turn their heads watching us arrive.
