Dark Witch by Nora Roberts Page B

sturdy-looking bay who rubbed his neck on the window frame as if he wasn’t the least bit interested in her.
    When she stepped toward him, he laid his ears back. Iona just angled her head, sent him soothing thoughts until they perked up again. “That’s better. No need to be nervous. I’m just here to say hello.”
    She gave him a quick rub.
    “That’s Caesar taking your measure there.”
    Iona turned, saw the Amazon in riding boots behind her. The woman’s curvy body filled out snug riding pants and a rough plaid jacket. Her hair, worn in a long, messy braid, reminded Iona of her grandmother’s prized mink coat—rich and luxurious brown. Though Ireland sang in her voice, her golden skin and deep brown eyes spoke of sunny climes and gypsy campfires.
    “He generally likes to act fierce on first acquaintance. And can be shy about being touched—usually,” she added when Iona continued to stroke him.
    “He’s just careful around strangers. Are they both trail horses?”
    “We save Caesar for experienced riders, but they both have a job here, yes.”
    “I’m hoping I will, too. I’m Iona Sheehan. I’ve come to talk to Boyle McGrath.”
    “Ah, you’d be the Yank, a cousin of Connor’s and Branna’s. I’m Meara Quinn.” She stepped forward, shook Iona’s hand firmly, gave her a quick, no-nonsense appraisal. “You’ve come early today.”
    “I’m still adjusting to the time change. I can come back if it’s not a good time.”
    “Oh, one time’s as good as another. Boyle’s not here, but will be soon enough. I can show you about if you’d like.”
    “I would, thanks.” Like Caesar’s, Iona’s nerves dropped away. “Have you worked here long?”
    “Oh, about eight years. Closer to nine, I’m thinking. Well, who’s counting, yeah?”
    She led the way in, long strides on long legs that had Iona quickening her pace to keep up. Iona saw a room off to the side, jumbled and crowded with riding hats, leg protectors, some boots. A lean tabby sidled out, gave Iona a look as measuring as Meara’s had been, then strolled outside.
    “That was Darby, who graces us with his presence. A fierce mouser is Darby, so we put up with his sullen moods. He earns his kibble, and comes and goes as he pleases.”
    “Nice work if you can get it.”
    Meara grinned. “That’s the truth. And so, we take bookings for rides, guide the customers between the Lough Corrib and Mask. Usually an hour, but we’ll do longer if they ask and pay for it. And we have the training ring here.”
    Iona walked in to watch a woman in her thirties on the back of a compact chestnut, and the fireplug of a man in work jeans putting horse and rider through the paces.
    “That’s our Mick. A jockey he was in his youth, and has unlimited stories to tell about those days.”
    “I’d like to hear them.”
    “Be sure you will if you’re here above five minutes.” Meara set her hands on her hips, watched Mick a moment, letting Iona do the same. “Took a bad fall, Mick did, in a race at Roscommon, and so ended that portion of his career. Now he teaches and trains, and his students collect blue ribbons.”
    “Sounds like you’re lucky to have him.”
    “That we are. We’ve another area at the big stables, not far from here, for jumping practice and instruction. We cater to locals as well for lessons, and the occasional guided ride. We tend to run a bit slow this time of year, but there’s plenty needs doing. We’ve twenty-two horses between what we keep here and what’s at the other stable. The tack room’s this way.”
    She glanced over at Iona. “We ride English, so if you’re used to a Western saddle, you’d have to adjust.”
    “I ride both.”
    “That’s handy for you. Boyle’s fierce about keeping the tack in good order,” she continued as she gestured Iona into the room. “Those of us who work here do whatever comes to hand. Deal with the tack, take bookings, muck out, groom, feed—there’s a board with each