Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I sat at my usual place, absentmindedly picking at my toast slathered in jam, lost in my own world. Tomorrow, I’d be at Kildare, riding Brannagh on a real steeplechase course, and the thought filled me with a rare and secret excitement. I could already feel the rush of wind against my face, the thunder of hooves beneath me, the exhilarating freedom of soaring over fences and most importantly, the competition against other riders. I tried to run our own steeplechase course at Glenhaven as much as I could without Da knowing, but to actually train against others was beyond my wildest dreams.
My da’s voice cut through my thoughts like a blade. “What time is Brian picking ye up this evening?”
I blinked, looked up to find him glaring at me over the top of his newspaper, his dark gaze expectant. For a second, I struggled to pull myself from my daydream and into the cold reality of my situation.
“Seven,” I muttered, dropping my toast onto my plate. I reached for my tea, hoping it would settle my stomach.
“Make a good impression,” he said, his voice flat, as if it was a formality and not a command. He returned to reading his paper without waiting for me to acknowledge my obedience.
Siobhan kicked me under the table, her expression rife with mischief. “She doesn’t need to lift a finger, Da. Sure, Brian already reckons she’s the finest girl in all of Tipperary.”
My father ignored us and I shot her a withering look while Paddy snickered. Mam, who had finally taken her seat to join us, leveled us with a sharp glance. “Eat yer breakfast, the lot of ye.”
I swallowed my irritation along with the rest of my tea, then stood and began clearing the table. “I’m finished so I’ll start on the dishes.”
Anything to get away from the potential for my father to put more pressure on me. I felt the crushing weight of his expectations and knew I was one step closer toward the future my da had chosen for me.
It was almost too depressing to ponder so I let my mind drift back to horses and riding the wind, which was about the only thing I had to look forward to in my immediate future.
I breezed through cleaning the kitchen while everyone else stayed at the table, and as soon as I was done, I jetted for the door. “I’m off to give Uncle Rory a hand today.”
“Take yer mac with ye,” my mother called out. “They’re sayin’ there’ll be rain before the day’s out.”
That was good to know so I grabbed my raincoat, jammed my feet into my wellies and headed out into the chilly morning. The sky was a sullen gray, thick with low clouds that pressed down over the valley. The breeze carried the scent of damp earth and distant precipitation, and though it wasn’t raining yet, I could feel the promise of it in the air.
I’d dressed in my usual riding attire—a thick wool sweater in deep green tucked into a pair of snug beige jodhpurs. I carried my well-worn riding boots, scuffed but sturdy under my arm as my wellies crunched against the gravel path to Rory’s side of the farm.
My father didn’t care what Siobhan and I did with our Saturdays. As girls, we were of no consequence to him as far as the business went. He was happy to have us both accomplished horsewomen, because we were Conlans, but he couldn’t care less if we stayed inside sewing or sat in a mud puddle. Paddy would be expected to stay by Da’s side today as he made his rounds. My father had managers who oversaw every aspect of the breeding portion of the farm and he received updates from them a few times a week.
This morning he’d probably start at the stallion barn, checking on the sires, making sure they were in peak condition for their covering duties. Then he’d move on to the broodmare pastures, consulting with the vet or breeding manager about the mares ready to be cycled back in. If a mare was due to be covered, he’d sometimes supervise, ensuring the pairing was handled efficiently.
By midday, he’d be reviewing mating records, yearling development, and sales plans, deciding which foals would stay and which might be sold off. There was always a business meeting to be had—whether with trainers, investors or buyers interested in securing a Glenhaven-bred horse. And if he wasn’t talking business, he was checking on fencing, pasture rotations or the general upkeep of the barns. Breeding was a game of patience, precision and prestige, and my father ran it all with an iron will, ensuring Glenhaven remained the finest in Ireland.
For that, he had my utmost respect and his legacy made me proud to be a Conlan.
Not that I would ever have any piece of it.