Page 34 of It Happened Again

Outside, Maisy crouched down to Paris’ height and whispered something in her ear. The girl beamed, hat in hand, suited up to ride, proudly wearing her pink boots like she was ready to conquer the world.

“Hold up, I’m coming too,” I yelled, bounding down the steps.

Maisy swiveled, arching a brow. “Oh? Do you even know how to ride, city boy?”

“My roommate in Cambridge, Mac, was a famous U.K. polo player. I learned to ride for something to do and followed him around to practices and matches now and then. Even played a few amateur matches before I left.”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, like she was trying to decide if I was full of it. “Mac? ”

I laughed. “Real name Mac Donegal. He’s coming stateside soon for a visit. I’ll introduce you.”

“Sounds like your time in Cambridge had done you some good?”

“Not really, considering one of the main reasons I went there was to forget about you. Which didn’t work, in case you wondered.” I winked, enjoying the pink blush rising on her cheeks.

We walked toward the stable with Paris bouncing between us, chattering about her horse, the trail, and how baby Isabella spit up on Daddy’s shoes that morning, which she thought was hilarious. Maisy gave me a warm glance as Paris trotted ahead of us.

“She’s doing so well now. It’s kind of amazing to think about where she was just a couple of years ago—waiting in the hospitalfor her kidney transplant, with all the fear and uncertainty that brings. Now she’s out here being her bold, unstoppable self.” Maisy spoke wistfully, the sound light and familiar.

“If only the hospital she was in had your sensory room…” I teased, sort of.

She chortled. “I think she had something better—her father, Richard. From what I understand, he was tireless in his pursuit of keeping her happy and entertained.”

We reached the barn, where Paris proudly showed off her wall of ribbons from local dressage competitions, each one carefully pinned beside framed photos of her and her grandmother, Miriam Buchanan. The photos captured a legacy of love for the sport—Miriam holding the reins with confidence, Paris mimicking her posture with earnest determination. It was clear the two shared not just a hobby, but a deep bond built in the quiet, dusty corners of this barn and on the backs of their horses.

On the trail, aside from the occasional chirp of birds and the breeze rustling the trees, the clip of hooves kept time. Paris rode her plucky gray horse Winnie ahead of us, and I rode Richard’s Majesty, a tall, spirited horse with pitch black coloring. Maisy rode Vivian’s calm mare, Cheval, which Paris explained was the French word for horse.

In the saddle, Maisy rode gracefully, her posture straight, her hands relaxed on the reins. Her perfect derriere in the saddle was better than any view as we headed down the path that skirted around Rex and Richard’s properties.

“I miss riding. It’s been years.” Maisy peered into the distance.I half-expected her to ride off into the horizon like some horse-girl daydream and leave me behind.

“I didn’t know you were into horses.” Thought I knew almost everything about her, but she kept me guessing. Noted for the future, plenty of horses to ride on our property.

“When I was about ten, my dad bartered with someone who owed him on a medical bill. He was always doing that for people around here who couldn’t afford medical care. Anyway, we ended up with a horse and a pony. We had a small barn behind the house that had been part garage and part storage. We cleaned it out and made a home for those two. Jackie and Diane were their names. I rode the pony, Jackie. Often, when he’d come home from a hectic day at the clinic, we’d go riding after dinner and talk.”

“Relieving his stress, right? Bet he would have loved your research.”

“Yes.” She chuckled. “He would have talked with me for hours about it. Probably helped me analyzed data too. He wasn’t much for computers, though. Did you know he was fifteen years older than Flora?” She asked.

“Your father sounds like a good man. I wish I’d have met him.”

“He would have liked you. How about your father? You told me long ago how he’s a tough man to get along with?”

“Yep. Still an old curmudgeon.”

Paris twisted around in her saddle. “What a crumb dungeon?”

“Curmudgeon. A cranky old man.” I snickered. “Anyway, thankfully, I have my brothers, Archer and Tucker. They’re all the family I need. Until I marry one day.”

“Any prospects in that department?” she arched a brow and tilted her head.

“Maybe.” I gave her a smoldering smile back.

Paris twisted around again. “Are you two in love?”

Maisy nearly choked on her own breath. I held back a laugh.

“With this woman?” I said, thumbing at Maisy with a playful side-eye. “She can’t even knit a straight stitch.”

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