Page 4 of The Past

“’Tis the finest land in all Ireland,” my da Seamus would often say.It was perfect for grazing cattle and even better for horses.That’s why the best breeding farms in the country—maybe even the world—were rooted here.Horses thrived in this valley, their coats gleaming, their strides strong, as if the land itself was woven into their DNA.The hills sheltered them from the worst of the wind and when the breeze was mild, it carried the heady scent of sweet clover, fresh hay and the occasional sharp tang of horse sweat and leather.They were the best smells in the world to me.

When you left your house in the morning, you had to wear layers because the weather was apt to change several times a day.Rain never lingered for long, just a passing shower or soft drizzle, leaving behind hedgerows dripping in intermittent sunlight and air so clean, you would inhale continually until you get dizzy from the influx of oxygen.

Summer evenings were the most beautiful in the Golden Vale.The light hung in the air long after supper and even at nine, the sky still glowed as a reminder that the day had not yet fully given way to darkness.On the rare evenings when the clouds stayed away, the setting sun bathed the hills in warm gold, turning the landscape into a fairy-tale land.Those were the nights I loved best, when I could steal a few extra moments on horseback, riding through fields that smelled of wildflowers, the evening chill invigorating to my senses.

“Loosen yer hands there, Fi—let her find her own rhythm.”I heard Uncle Rory’s instructions as I breezed past him.“Ye keep fightin’ her mouth, she’ll only fight ye back.Give her the head now, trust her legs to take ye through the turn.”

The wind rushed past my face, whipping my hair as I did exactly as he instructed.The rhythm of hooves thrummed through my body, a steady, powerful beat that drowned out the rest of the world.I crouched lower, urging the mare on, the adrenaline of thundering speed filling me with something close to freedom.

This was what I loved.

The horses and Uncle Rory and the power to be myself.

The stretch ahead was soft, the peat gallop giving beneath the impact of my horse’s stride.I trusted her, the way she read the ground beneath us, the way she listened to my slightest cue.My da wouldn’t approve—racing wasn’t for women, he said—but here, now, it didn’t matter.Rory knew how capable I was, and besides… breezing the horses was child’s play.Da would have me marching to confession if he knew I was riding steeplechase.

A sharp whistle from the rail called me back.I eased up, guiding the mare into a slow canter, then a walk as we reached the end of the track.My uncle stood watching, arms crossed over his broad chest, an approving grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“She’s a fine one, isn’t she?”I said, stroking her damp neck, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Rory shook his head with a chuckle.“Aye, she is.But it’s not the horse that impresses me—it’s the one in the saddle.”

A flush of pride warmed my chest, but I didn’t let it show.I’d never been allowed to help train the racehorses for real because my father didn’t think it was seemly.I swung my leg over and dropped lightly to the ground, giving the mare a well-earned pat before handing off the reins to one of the lads waiting nearby.

Climbing over the fence, I brushed off the back of my britches and joined Rory as we left the track.

Glenhaven Estates sprawled across five thousand acres, a patchwork of lush pastures, winding bridle paths and training facilities that had been meticulously developed decades ago by my grandfather, Patrick Conlan.The estate was divided into two distinct halves—one devoted to breeding thoroughbred racehorses and the other to training them.

The breeding side was Da’s domain and was comprised of multiple barns to hold the stallions, others for the broodmares and still others for the weanlings.Pastures were scattered in between it all, bordered by dark fencing.In the distance I could see the curving driveway that led to the Conlan family manor house where I lived with my parents and siblings.The imposing three-story stone structure was covered in lush ivy creeping up its gray limestone walls and a massive oak door that had welcomed generations of Conlans.Beyond it, the foaling barns sat nestled against the rise of a gentle hill, where mares and their wobbly legged babies grazed in paddocks enclosed by thick, black post-and-rail fencing with stone columns at the corners.

But this side of the farm was Rory’s domain.The setup was more utilitarian, the training barns more modern and functional, built with efficiency in mind rather than grandeur.Peat gallops wound through the fields, soft and forgiving under the pounding hooves of young racehorses in training.Several outdoor tracks surrounded the main yard, and a sprawling steeplechase course wove through a stretch of land that backed onto a dense forest.

That was my absolute favorite place to be but I had to be careful taking my gelding, Brannagh, there and only when my da was off the premises.While he begrudgingly looked the other way when Rory let me sometimes work the racehorses, I had been forbidden from setting foot or hoof on the steeplechase course.Lucky for me, Rory was good at keeping secrets too.

“Kathleen has somethin’ for ye,” Rory said as we meandered down a path to his cottage.It had none of the grandeur of the manor home that my family lived in, but truthfully, I loved it more.It was made of rough-cut stone and a slate roof, and it felt solid and comforting.

We entered through the wide wooden door painted a deep green, and I smiled at the flower boxes hanging from the rectangular sash windows.The minute we stepped inside, I smelled fresh-baked soda bread and we found Kathleen bustling at the well-used kitchen hearth and cast-iron stove.

Kathleen O’Rourke was Rory’s girlfriend and they’d been together for as long as I could remember.I always thought it was so progressive that they weren’t married and lived together—an utter sin said our priest—but I’d never seen two people more devoted to each other.

I noticed the small but thoughtful details Kathleen brought into this home—fresh herbs hanging to dry, a vase of wildflowers on the table, a knitted throw draped over the old leather chair by the fire.

Kathleen turned with a smile when she saw me.“Ah, there’s the wee fairy who rides the horses like lightning,” she cooed and opened her arms to me.I walked into the warm hug, something I didn’t get much of in my own home.

Kathleen pulled back, put her hands to my cheeks and studied me carefully.“I like that blush to yer cheeks and that wild sparkle in yer eyes.Ye’ve been riding the wind, haven’t ye?”

“Indeed,” I said as Rory leaned in to kiss Kathleen.

Not on the cheek as my father sometimes did with my mother, but a hard kiss with his hand to the back of her head.I sighed inside at how romantic it was.

When she pulled away, Rory swatted her on the bottom and Kathleen flicked a kitchen towel at him before turning to me.“I’ve made ye something.”

My heart pulsed with love because Kathleen was always doing thoughtful things for everyone, even my own mam, although Mam didn’t care for her too much.She thought it was a sin for Kathleen and Rory to be living together without marriage.

Rory sank into a chair and watched with a half-smile as Kathleen pulled a box out of a cupboard.It was white with a beautiful silver bow on it.

When she handed it to me, I looked at her in confusion.“It’s not my birthday, Aunt Kathleen.”

Her features softened at the endearment I bestowed upon her, even though she’s not married to Rory.I asked her once why they hadn’t wed and she said there was no need to.She loved Rory just fine the way he was, and besides, “I’m my own woman.”

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