Page 13 of The Past

“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.

I could have tagged along with my father, standing in the background and watching him do what he does best but ten out of ten days, I’d rather hang with Rory at the training center.

Mornings for my uncle started early, before any potential sun had fully burned through the mist, with him out on the gallops, watching the young horses go through their paces.He had keen eyes and a nose for sniffing out promise.He called instructions to the riders and made sharp assessments of which ones had a shot and which needed more time.He worked alongside the head trainer, discussing conditioning plans, adjusting feed regimens, and deciding which horses were ready to move from basic fitness work to more serious race prep.

By mid-morning, he’d be in the steeplechase fields, setting up courses or watching a handful of jumpers test their form over fences, barking out encouragement or muttering under his breath when something wasn’t quite right.

Afternoons were spent overseeing the schooling barn, checking in on horses recovering from injury or being retrained after poor starts to their careers.He’d take meetings with owners who had sent their horse stock to Glenhaven, giving them updates with his usual blunt but fair assessments.If a horse needed a stronger hand, he’d be the one to get in the saddle, working them until they got it right.And in between all that, he’d somehow find time to pull me aside for a stolen moment of training, sneaking me onto the steeplechase course when no one was looking.No matter how busy he was, Rory always made time for me—because he knew I wanted more than just a life of standing politely beside some man my father chose for me.

As I neared the main training barn, I heard voices—Rory’s amused laughter and another voice that had a low rumble to it.

I stepped inside and stopped short.

Standing beside Rory was a man I didn’t recognize.

He was young—maybe a little older than me and boy, was he tall.And, well… built.Broad shoulders, wide chest and black-as-midnight hair that curled just slightly at the ends.His face was all sharp angles and arrogance, his mouth full, and his blue eyes—Christ, his blue eyes—were full of mischief as they landed on me.

For a moment, I just stood there, taking him in.

And he stared right back at me.

I’d seen plenty of handsome men before.Brian was one such fella, in that polished, well-bred way.Some of the trainers had a roguish charm.But this one… this one was different.

There was something about him, something unrefined and restless, maybe even a bit dangerous.You put it all together and God help me, it was simply too compelling.

Rory smirked, clearly catching the way I was staring, and decided to take pity on me.“Fiona, this is Tommy Blackburn from America.Tommy, this is my niece, Fiona Conlan.”

It hit me.

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