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It was a dance. A duet. A pas de deux of perfect harmony.
She loved watching her sister ride. Loved the sheer grace of her form, the beauty of her style, the composure she radiated whenever she was in the saddle.
It seemed impossible they were related. Seren was everything their English mother was: graceful, tall, slender, with raven black hair and mahogany brown eyes. Studious and serious. Growing up, she had been the ballerina, the fashion aficionado, the girl who’d turned the head of every boy in secondary school.
Dillon had taken after their Welsh father.
Lacking in height, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired and green-eyed, with skin that burned at just the hint of sunshine. She’d been born with their dad’s laid-back, jesting nature, and had built with him an ardent bond through their keen love of sport and competition. Where she lacked Seren’s willowylissomness, Dillon excelled at all things requiring strength and endurance.
They were two divergent seeds born of the same pod.
What they did share, however, was their parents’ driving ambition. Both had inherited the desire for a challenge. It had been no surprise that the two competitive children had grown into adults with Olympic aspirations. A dream that had been realized for Dillon almost a decade sooner than her older sister—but one she always knew Seren would eventually achieve.
It had been one of the proudest moments of Dillon’s life when, the year before in Melbourne, Seren was named as an alternate to Great Britain’s equestrian eventing team.
Those Summer Games had been a personal disappointment for Dillon—not only because of her second-place finish, but because her sister had never been called to ride. It had to kill Seren, she knew, to have gone all that way and worked that hard and never be given the chance to compete.
The mare Seren qualified with, a Dutch Warmblood named Epic Forces—lovingly called Épée—was the most talented horse she’d ever ridden. The owners had given her carte blanche to develop her as she saw fit. And watching them work this morning, Dillon had no doubt the pair would be headed to Los Angeles with a guaranteed spot on the Olympic Eventing squad for Team GB.
“Two golds for Team Sinclair in our future,” she grinned as Seren spotted her on the railing and brought Épée down to a walk.
“You and your gold medal obsession,” Seren laughed, her breath disappearing into the cloud of steam rising from the bay mare’s neck. “I’ll just be happy to make the team.”
“Bollocks.” Dillon hopped off the fence, falling into stride beside the long-legged mare. “I know you want that hardware.”
Seren drew Épée to a stop. “Hack out with me? She could use a long cool-off.”
Dillon rarely rode anymore, but when Seren asked her to, she never turned her down. She loved any stolen minutes she could spend with her sister. So seldom did the two of them have time together alone.
Quickly bridling one of the old school horses, she swung up bareback and joined Épée and Seren on a leisurely excursion along the cross-country course running through the rolling hills surrounding the farm. It was the day before New Year’s Eve, and the training center was quiet, leaving the two young women with the grounds to themselves.
“So what’s up, Dilly?” They’d wandered down to the rippling creek and picked their way along the bank, avoiding the dripping tree branches that warmed with the rising sun. “I know you’ve not turned up in Swansea to ask me for a cuppa and watch me work.”
Dilly. No one else called her that. No one else could get away with it. Dillon would throw hands before she allowed it. But somehow, coming from Seren, she’d always loved it.
Seren gave Épée her head to pick her way across a slippery patch of mud, with Dillon following closely behind. It had been a couple years since she’d ridden. When they were children, she’d tag along with Seren to the farm every Saturday. She’d help her tack up her horses and often end the afternoon with the two of them hacking out.
Then, she started training with Henrik. He convinced her if she wanted to make it as a professional, there was no time for extraneous pastimes. No time for school. And eventually, no time for family.
So the Saturday mornings at the barn had come to an end.
“Do you think I’m apathetic?”
She hadn’t really intended to ask the question, but it had been gnawing at her for the past couple days. Ever since Sam accused her of having no feelings.
“What?” Seren almost laughed as she drew Épée to a halt, turning to look back at her. “You?”
Dillon hiked a shoulder, trying to pull off indifferent, but Seren saw straight through her.
“Dillon.” She sounded exactly like their mother when she said it. It was herlisten to me, how can you be so dafttone. They were both stopped now, the horses taking advantage of their distraction to snag a few mouthfuls of tall ryegrass. “Who put that idea into your head? The new girl—?”
“No.” Dillon was quickly defensive. “Forget I asked—”
“Whoever told you that is a pillock. I don’t know if there’s a person who could belessapathetic than you. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my sister.” She swung a leg over her mare’s wither so she could turn and face her. “You feeleverything, Dillon. You always have. Sometimes too much.”
Dillon disliked the unfamiliar prick she could feel at the back of her eyes. The catch in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d feared the answer, or if it was because Seren so vehemently had her back—as steadfastly as she always had, ever since they were children. Even when Dillon least deserved it.
Sliding off the grey gelding, she dropped into the wet undergrowth, Seren following suit. They pulled the bridles off the horses and set them loose to graze. Above them, the sun had cleared the treetops and brought a warmth to the breeze.
