Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
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Born and raised a Texas cowgirl, Hallie Oakley is the most skilled showjumper on Team USA. She has just one goal in mind - Olympic gold. To achieve this, she must train with the most prestigious facility in the world, Golden Oaks in the Cotsworlds.
There she meets Chester Knighton, the oldest son in a showjumping dynasty, who has recently inherited Golden Oaks.
Their attraction is instant and mutal but when something devasting happens, it threatens to tear both Golden Oaks and Hallie apart.
Something Chester will not allow to happen
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Hallie
Age 12
Ocala, Florida
The humidity felt different here in Florida. It stuck to my skin like glue, wrapping its wet hands around each strand of my long dark hair, making it curl into ringlets around my face.
My heart fluttered as fast as a hummingbird’s wings as I gaped at the humongous equestrian center spread out before me. I knew horses. I’d been raised in the saddle with reins in my hand. I knew how to ride and rope cattle from a mustang’s back. I knew how to navigate rough pastures and herd cows into pens with perfect precision. But as a large bay mare passed by me, coat glistening, mane brushed out, hooves oiled and free of dust and mud from a hard day’s ride, I may well have been as unfamiliar with these animals as I was with the country clubs and fancy houses I’d seen on the ride from the airport.
The main door in a huge white barn to my left opened, and a woman around my daddy’s age came walking out. She looked as pristine as the bay mare that had just passed us by. Her bright-red hair was swept off her freckled face and tied in a bun at the back of her scalp. She wore cream breeches, a polo shirt to match, and polished tall black riding boots. As if feeling my stare, she lifted her head and saw me standing beside the social worker who had brought me here. Her face was as beautiful and put together as her clothes.
And she looked just like Daddy.
A lump sprouted in my throat as she approached, and her hazel eyes glistened with tears as she tracked her wide gaze over me. I glanced down at my well-worn cowboy boots, Wranglers, and favorite pink, long-sleeve button-up. My trusty Stetson was on my head—I had my daddy’s packed in a protective box in my luggage.
“Hallie,” the lady rasped, throat hoarse, and a tear fell from her eye. Her hands were shaking as she quickly wiped it away. She moved until she was just before me. She smelled like rose petals. Her cheeks matched their red shade too. She crouched until she was eye level with me. Without thinking, I reached out and touched her face. I felt my bottom lip tremble.
“You look just like my daddy,” I said. My chest felt tight. I was trying real hard not to cry. I’d cried a ton over the past few days. Ever since my daddy . . .
I sniffed and wiped away a few extra tears.
“You look like him too,” the lady said softly.
Aunt Jeanie, I reminded myself. Her name is Aunt Jeanie. She was my daddy’s younger sister. Daddy never spoke of her much. The only thing he’d ever said was that he’d been real sorry he’d stopped speaking to her when she decided to leave the family ranch before I was born. Said he hadn’t understood her choice to move away at the time. And that breaking all ties with her was the biggest mistake of his life.
One he never got to make right.
“You can cry, darlin’,” she said, her accent sounding a little like mine.
“Cowgirls don’t cry,” I said, echoing what Daddy and the cowboys back at the ranch used to tell me if I was hurt or upset.
A flash of what looked like sadness took over her face, like she’d heard that saying before too. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“Aunt Jeanie,” I said, and pointed at Sally, the social worker. She’d explained where I was going. Aunt Jeanie stood up and shook Sally’s hand. They began to talk about me, but movement from my right caught my eye, pulling me away from the conversation. In an outdoor arena across the yard, someone was cantering on a horse—a large gray horse that must have been at least seventeen hands high and then some. The horse was beautiful, all platinum glossy mane, its body thick with muscle.
Before I knew it, my feet began moving, and the next thing I knew, I was watching the rider and horse through the slats in the pretty white fence. Watching as the man steered the horse over huge, brightly colored jumps. My pulse raced and my breath held as, with each one, they seemed to take flight.
I wondered what that would feel like, to ride on horseback over those huge fences.
I watched, transfixed, as the man jumped all the fences, not touching a single pole. He patted the horse’s neck as he brought the horse to a slow and steady trot. The man unclipped the chin strap of his fancy helmet and placed it in his lap, tipping his head back toward the sun. His dark hair was sweaty, one thick strand falling over his forehead. It still looked perfect.
Before I knew it, he’d moved closer to where I stood.