and took the time to drink in the vision that had materialised before his eyes. She wasn’t at all how he’d expected her from the sketchy descriptions Rory had laced into their conversations. For one, he’d translated the ‘plenty to grab hold of’ as fat, whereas Charlotte was as shapely as she was toned.
‘Are they in?’
‘They are indeed. Last I heard, Rory was trying to blame Pip for not entering his horse in some event, and she was giving him a bollocking back. She threw his phone at him, along with a few other things from the sound of it. I’m Mick by the way.’
He held out a hand and she stared at it with suspicion. Then regretted it when he placed it back on his hip. And then decided that the safest place to be was as far away from him as possible. Contact might be a mistake.
‘Great, thanks, so you are.’ Feeling mildly stupid, which was nothing new, Lottie made a dash for the safety of the kitchen and Rory, only to find a battlefield. The small kitchen table was normally piled high with entry forms, schedules, directions, vets bills and every other conceivable bit of information that an eventer might ever need. Today they’d been scattered in all directions. She teased one out of the corner of a terrier’s mouth and then gave it back to the dog when she realised it was only a phone bill. A second terrier lay forlornly in her small basket, sheets of paper still slowly floating down, her chin on her paws and her eyes darting anxiously between her master and the arm-flailing Pip.
‘I pay you to send in the fucking entries on time.’
‘You don’t bloody pay me, and even if you did, what am I supposed to be? A bloody mind reader?’
‘I do pay you.’
‘Not to be your bloody cleaner, housemaid or secretary. I,’ she waved her arms towards the still open door, ‘work out there, you moron. You said you wanted a bloody groom, not a nanny.’
Rory, who was sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, dumped his muddy boots on the chair opposite and crossed his arms rebelliously. Which Lottie was sure was because he just knew his attitude would wind Pip up even more.
‘What are you two arguing about now?’ She pulled out a spare chair and sank back onto it, a dog landing on her lap for reassurance almost before her bum was settled on the seat. When Lottie had suggested Pip come and work for Rory, it had never occurred to her how the sparks might fly. Lottie and Rory thought along the same lines, they were both slightly disorganised, both more interested in play than work and neither of them took much seriously, apart from, of course, horses. Pip was different. Pip took everything seriously and ran her life with military precision when she was on duty. And when she was at the yard, it was business not pleasure. And Rory drove her round the bend. Neither of them would give an inch, one because of his male pride, the other because she was never, ever wrong and wasn’t prepared to pretend she was. The fact that she was quite happy to throw things if it got her point across made life interesting. She’d only been here a matter of months, but already Rory had found out that if he was wrong he was damned well going to be told. Repeatedly. Until he admitted it. The only problem was, Rory was never, in his eyes, wrong.
‘He’s lost his entry for next weekend.’ Pip glanced at her briefly, then fixed an accusing glare back on Rory.
‘I’ve lost?’ He ran his hand through his curls, eyes wide with the injustice of it all.
‘You’ve lost. You did not ask me to send that entry in, Rory Steel, and we both know it.’
‘It’s not the one in the wagon is it? For Rio?’ Lottie tried to sound casual and hide the note of guilt in her voice. She distinctly remembered Rory picking up his post on the way out last weekend, and reading it in the cab as they took Flash to the dressage. And when he’d left it on the seat, she’d glanced briefly then stuffed it all in the glove compartment to stop the terriers chewing it to shreds. Then forgotten all about it. Until now. She kept her gaze fixed on the terrier and rubbed the silky ear between thumb and finger.
‘You are kidding?’ Pip had reached the hands-on-hips stage.
The terrier yelped as she rubbed a bit too hard. Rory frowned. ‘Oh, yeah I remember now. I did enter, that was the confirmation.’ He grinned. ‘Brilliant. Glad we got that sorted.’
‘Sorted? You call that sorted? You bastard, I just knew it was nothing to do with me.’ Pip was almost stamping her foot.
‘So,’ Lottie coughed to get their attention as they were back to a stand-off, ‘who is that guy on the yard?’
‘Oh, shit, I was supposed to be helping him, he said he’d sort Kis for me.’
Rory laughed as Pip shot out of the kitchen. ‘Come here gorgeous, I need some TLC after that battering.’
‘It’s your own fault.’ Lottie stood up, tipping the terrier onto the floor, and moved over to sit on his knee, shivering as his fingers rubbed exactly the right spot between her shoulder blades. ‘You know she’s not going to take it lying down if you blame her for things that aren’t her fault.’
‘Will you take it lying down?’
‘You’re being rude again aren’t you? Anyway, who is he?’
‘Why, do you fancy him?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and unceremoniously dumped her off his knee. ‘Come on, I thought you knew him. Or maybe he arrived when you were off on your world tour.’
For a moment Lottie thought she heard a note of censure in his voice, then dismissed it. He didn’t care that she’d gone off in search of freedom and wide open spaces, he hadn’t even seemed that pleased when she’d got back. After a brief period of awkward side-stepping and enquiries about each other’s health and welfare, they’d just fallen back into step and carried on where they’d left off.
Mick was holding a hoof between his firm, denim-clad thighs and pointing at bits to Pippa, their heads close together, her blonde shiny bob and his unruly dark hair a stark contrast. To Lottie it just looked like a hoof, how could anyone be that interested?
‘He’s into this barefoot trimming crap.’ Rory lit up a cigarette and leaned against the stable door to watch him. ‘Aren’t you, mate?’
Mick ignored him and flicked a large bit of hoof off with his trimming knife, which the smallest and nippiest of the terriers leapt on and carried off like a trophy. When he looked up, his dark gaze met Lottie’s and she didn’t know whether to squirm or melt. Or just feel guilty. ‘You’re a farrier?’ And state the obvious.
‘I am. And for my sins I’m staying here, with that heathen.’ He dropped the hoof, straightened up and waved the knife in Rory’s direction. ‘I had to go back to Ireland for a bit to sort some business, so I missed the homecoming,’ he smiled straight at her, ‘I got back last night.’
Mick had been brought up by a traditional Irish farrier, and was trimming feet by the time he could hold a knife. The fact that it wasn’t safe or probably legal was by the by. He only hit a problem when he started experimenting with something other than traditional shoeing and his father termed him an ‘eejit who should know better’. But it had left one of his terminally lame horses sound enough to compete again, which was good enough to make him consider that maybe his father didn’t know everything. Mick was wise enough though to keep the fact to himself, continue to shoe in the way he’d been taught and to spread the word only to the few that sought him out. He rubbed out the kinks in his spine and watched as Pip
