Winning Heart. Laura Browning

classes had finished the previous week, so the campus was almost deserted, but she still felt an air of challenge. Before heading inside, Wynter washed her face and hands with the water left over in the bottle and changed her soiled t-shirt for a fresh one. The papers were in her hand, and the money was in her pocket.

      It was almost an hour later before she left. She was registered. They would let her start on a part-time basis over their summer session. Plus, the financial aid people said they had discovered another scholarship for which they felt sure she qualified. It would cover tuition, come fall. Now she just had to buy books. The other things she needed she didn’t even want to think of at the moment. She had managed advanced math classes and her other high school courses without either a computer or a calculator. She would make do with using the library until she saved enough money for a computer.

      She knew she should head back, but she still had time, so she took a few minutes to walk around campus. Over the past year, she’d looked at so many brochures and pictures she felt she knew her way around already. It was quiet now, but next week it would reawaken with students and faculty. The fall would be even more exciting. Wynter grinned when she headed back to her truck.

      She should tell her mother where she was, what was going on. The thought struck her as she turned the key in the ignition. No. Not yet. Not until she was truly settled. The sting of what happened at home was still too fresh. Wynter found that out last night when she had jerked away from Nelson Anderson and almost sent him sprawling. She wasn’t ready yet to talk to her mom—or Wythe. She thought about the letter she’d left her mother.

       Ma—I’m sorry. I got in trouble today. It was just supposed to be a prank to get even with Pay, but it got out of hand. Anyway, Mr. Southard fired me—and he’s taking away my scholarship.

       I can’t take it around here anymore. I’m leaving to see if I can find a way to get into college somewhere, even if it’s not Duke. I promise I’ll take care of myself and get in touch with you once I’m back on my feet. Please don’t worry.

      But she knew Irene O’Reilly would worry. Wynter tamped down her guilt with the knowledge Wythe Bradshear would be there to comfort her. Wythe was always there. And maybe with her gone, he’d do something about the way he’d always watched Mama.

       Just a little longer. When I’ve got summer school under my belt, I’ll let her know then.

      She headed out along the tree-lined road bordering campus and back to the highway. Pheasant Run. What a great name. So much classier than Southard Farms.

      And Nelson Anderson was different than anyone she’d ever encountered. He seemed much older than what he was. Wynter wondered what had aged him. Then there was the whole thing with the leg. Whatever happened had been bad enough to make permanent changes around his home. The hand controls on the car. The ramp to the front door of the house. Plus, she’d heard what sounded like the hum of an elevator after he’d said good night. Those weren’t things a man with a temporary injury needed or even wanted. In fact, he acted like a man waiting for things to get even worse.

       Chapter 4

      As summer wore on, Nelson made a point to catch glimpses of Wynter whenever he could between work and business trips that drained what energy he had recouped. He looked forward to those glimpses. They were a tonic, especially when he saw her gaining weight and looking healthy and happy. He couldn’t help feeling a bit like she was one of the young show horses they trained. When the time was right, she’d be ready for the show ring too.

      God knew she had the lines of a Thoroughbred. One evening, he had passed her while she ran along the main road in shorts, a sports bra and beat-up sneakers. Her strides had been easy and ground-covering as though she was accustomed to running long distances. He had watched her slim, graceful form in the rearview mirror until another driver honked, and he realized he’d almost crossed the center line. Yes, her body would make men sit up and take notice, but that was just part of the package. The girl possessed a brain.

      On another occasion, she’d been curled up in a rocking chair on the front porch of the office, engrossed in an advanced mathematics textbook. One hand had balanced the book and the other had twirled the braid she wore. Nelson had found himself wondering how long her hair was, and how it would feel to run his fingers through her thick tresses. Did it feel as silky as it looked? He had imagined the strands lying in contrast against her milky skin.

      God! She was way too young for him. He turned away in disgust. What on earth was he thinking?

      He’d found her another time, after a long day of caring for horses at a show, curled up on a horse blanket on top of the hay bales in the feed stall of a show barn. Thomas had started bringing Wynter along to groom and braid horses, although he was under strict instructions from Nelson not to overwork her. If the older man had thought anything of it, he had hid his feelings well.

      As Nelson had watched her sleep, he had felt heat stir in the pit of his stomach. She had lain on her side. His gaze had traveled her long legs to the curve of a hip and the dip of her waist. Her t-shirt had ridden up to reveal the pale, creamy skin of her flat stomach. When his gaze had moved to the swell of her breasts, he’d swallowed. He had pivoted away, the move almost making him lose balance.

      She was a means to an end, he reminded himself, just a means to an end. He took a guess at her size and ordered clothing the next day. It was time he started playing Pygmalion.

      * * * *

      Wynter saw Anderson rarely, but when she had mentioned something to Thomas, he had said the younger man was away on business. Then she’d see him at some of the shows at the Hunt Horse Complex in Raleigh. Sometimes she had caught him watching her. It made her nervous, because her whole body heated up every time. It was as if his dark blue eyes were some kind of laser that set her on fire.

      “Wynter,” Thomas called. “Quit daydreaming, lass. I want you ready to go with us this afternoon. You squared away with your classes?”

      She set down her book, stood and stretched. “Yes. Is there anything left to pack?”

      “Take your braiding gear with you. You can pick up some extra money.”

      Wynter blinked. “You’ll let me take on customers outside our horses?”

      “If it doesn’t cut into what you must do for me, I have no problem with you pickin’ up extra cash. Figure you must need it, what with your schoolin’.”

      She wanted to hug him but was afraid it would embarrass the crotchety Scotsman. Instead, she smiled. “Thanks, Thomas.”

      This show was bigger than the last one she’d attended. More riders from outside the state. After she recognized a couple of riders from Southside Virginia, Wynter tucked her giveaway hair up under a baseball cap and introduced herself to everyone outside of Pheasant Run as Win Riley, short for Winifred she told them with a wicked grin as she explained her mother’s awful sense of humor.

      After she had landed the first braiding jobs, more followed over the next three days. As fast as she’d finish one horse, someone else would head her way.

      Wynter resorted to wearing leather gloves when she worked around the barn. Her fingers were raw and numb from sewing in so many tiny braids. Every time she grimaced with the pain, though, she’d pat the growing wad of cash in her pocket. By the last day of the show, she had pocketed more than eight hundred dollars.

      Though she knew he was around, she had hardly seen Nelson Anderson during the entire show. While she stood in the warm-up area near the indoor arena that last day, he rode past in a covered golf cart. A thin, blond-headed woman with more gold on her fingers than sense in her head drove the cart, gesturing and talking as she went. Nelson looked bored and distracted, as though he wasn’t listening at all.

      “Hey, Wyn,” a Mexican teenager about two years younger than her yelled from the middle of the ring. “You got any smokes on you?”

      She caught Nelson’s head turning out of the corner of her eye, but then he was past