Reclaimed By The Powerful Sheikh. Pippa Roscoe

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Danyl cast a look to his father, silently watching the conversation as if intuiting undercurrents that Danyl was missing.

      ‘But tradition dictates that you wait until I am married,’ he said, fury giving way to frustration as a series of efficiently arranged dates with poised princesses and highly capable CEOs filtered through the last few months of his memory. Anything to prevent the full impact of his mother’s words from raining down upon him. That he was finally going to ascend to the throne. That he would finally inherit the weight of responsibility for hundreds of centuries of culture and nearly three million people.

      ‘Well, as you are failing so spectacularly to produce such a fiancée,’ she said, gently mocking him, ‘we can’t wait for ever, can we? We’re not getting any younger, and it’s about time that I had my husband to myself for a change. Either way, that’s what I want. Mason at the party. And I want you to do whatever it takes to make that happen.’

      * * *

      The morning heat was already fierce and Mason was conscious of time running out. She needed to get a move on if she was to get to the outer fencing of their Australian farmland. She hitched up the saddle strap one hole tighter, threading it back through the buckle as Fool’s Fate shifted on his hooves. She gave the horse’s flank a reassuring pat and turned to find her father standing behind the saddlebags in the stable’s courtyard.

      He looked as if he had aged ten years, rather than the eighteen months she’d been away. The grey at his temples now firmly white. The hollows beneath his eyes a darker shade of blue. She toned down the flare of frustration, the painful ache of sadness, knowing Fool’s Fate would pick up on her feelings if she vented them. Her father picked up one of the bags and held it out to her. She took it from him, turned back to the horse, strapping it to the saddle, and took the moment she needed.

      Beyond the stables, the rolling emerald-coloured fields stretched out towards the mountains in the distance. Mountains that had always brought her a sense of peace, yet now seemed to loom as some kind of dark prophecy. Taking a deep breath, she felt the warm air fill her lungs, heavy and hot.

      Joe McAulty had something on his mind. Not that he’d open his mouth to speak until he was ready. There was no rushing the man, never had been and never would be. So she just carried on packing the saddle bags until he said his piece.

      Tent, phone, food, she mentally ticked off, coffee...

      ‘I didn’t think he’d call it in so soon.’

      ‘Pops, it can’t be helped.’ It was the same response she’d made when he’d first told her about the debt collection.

      ‘But after everything you did, the purses you won from the Hanley Cup...’

      ‘Pops, Mick died.’ She threw the words over her shoulder, shrugging off the swell of grief she felt for the neighbour who’d seemed an old coot even when she was a child. But her dad was a plain speaker, and emotions were an unknown language over which he stuttered and stumbled. ‘Who could have known that his son would call in the debt so soon? And yeah, if he hadn’t, the money from the wins might have kept us going for a couple of years, but something else might have come up.’

      She finally allowed herself to turn around. Her father was kicking the dirt floor, keeping his focus on the spray of dust caught in the sun’s early rays.

      ‘The farm isn’t lost yet, Pops.’ Mason knew he felt responsible, but she couldn’t blame him. Not at all. ‘Our work, the work we do with the kids here, it’s as important to me as it is to you. And it’s expensive. Keeping all the horses, the counsellors, the physios, the staff... Mick’s son calling in the loan, it’s just something we have to deal with.’ Another something, she said to herself, to add to the many others. ‘Joe,’ she said, calling him by the same name all the other farmhands and staff used, finally getting his attention. ‘I’m not going to let this go without a fight. Especially to that trumped-up wannabe ranch owner.’

      A sad smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. Defiance was something that ran through them both in spades. She turned back to the horse behind her, faking the need to check the bags one more time. ‘Perhaps I can find another syndicate to race for. There’ll be plenty of options after the Hanley Cup.’

      ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do that.’ Her father’s voice had lowered, full of the same gravel and grit he’d just kicked up off the floor.

      ‘It wasn’t that bad, Dad,’ she said, unable to turn to face him. He’d know. He’d raised her singlehandedly from the age of two. There wasn’t a secret she could keep, a lie she could tell, without him knowing. Racing again... No, it hadn’t been as bad as she’d thought. Riding Veranchetti had made her feel...alive. Complete in a way she hadn’t felt for years. But it had been hard. Had thrown up a lot of feelings. Ones that she needed to sort through. Which was why she had decided to go and fix the outposts herself.

      Yes, riding had been tough, but Danyl? No. Her feelings about him hadn’t been hard to discern at all. She needed to stay away from him at all costs.

      * * *

      Mason swept up the tendrils of her long, dark hair into a band, allowing the cool breeze to nip at her hot neck, and watched the sun set between the giant clefts of the mountains bordering the Hunter River Valley, breathing in the first calm lungful of air she’d tasted in almost eighteen months. The ride out here had been incredible, the familiar dips and rises of the stunning horse farm she’d been lucky enough to grow up on as familiar as the wooden knots on the farmstead’s dining-room table.

      Whenever she came out here, whenever she saw the sweeping stretches of the green valley, bordered by mountains that seemed like immoveable watchtowers guarding the land, she found herself wondering how her mother could have left. Her father had tried to explain over the years, the yearning for something more that her mother had felt. And perhaps, if Mason was honest with herself, she had felt a thread of that too when she’d gone to America to train as a jockey ten years ago. But home and wanting wasn’t at the end of a rainbow. It was at the start of it. She’d learned that lesson hard. Mason wouldn’t regret leaving, but she’d not be doing it again.

      She brought the steaming hot mug to her lips and inhaled the scent of roasted coffee beans, wet earth and the wood near by. If she discerned the aroma of sweat, hay, manure, grief and something male she refused to acknowledge it—just her memory playing tricks again.

      Before her, the night sky crept over the valley’s emerald patchwork quilt and it wouldn’t take long for it to reach behind her and the farm that she had tried so very hard to save. The money from the purses of the three races she’d won for the Winners’ Circle should have been enough. She stamped down the little voice in her heart that pleaded to know why it wasn’t. She had never been one for self-pity, and if she had? She would have been done for, long before now.

      She’d have spoken to Mick’s son if she didn’t already know he was a bottom feeder, wanting to turn the farm next to theirs into prime real estate, wanting to sell off land that had been in his family for nearly seven generations to the highest bidder. Money. Why did it always come down to money?

      What she and her father did on their farm, the way they helped troubled kids—kids with learning difficulties, kids that just needed something positive in their lives—interact with horses, learn to ride, to care for another living thing and be cared for in return...there was no price to put on that. When Pops had been forced to stay at the farm, to give up his training career to raise her after her mother had left, he’d seen a way to carry on what he loved most. His love for the horses was now spread СКАЧАТЬ