Winning Heart. Laura Browning

her birthday, pass without some word. She shook her head again.

      “I have to give her a chance. I have to have faith.”

      Wythe snorted in frustration.

      “I know you like things black and white. You like to take action,” she said. “They are the very qualities that make you so successful with the corporate acquisition stuff you do. But Wythe, parenting isn’t like that, not single parenting. There are a lot of gray areas.”

      He raked a hand through his wavy, brown hair. Like always, it was just a bit too long, as though he couldn’t be bothered to take time for a haircut when there were so many other things to do.

      “If you’d like to stay for dinner,” she offered, “I can give you a haircut.”

      He grinned, his face boyish with amusement. “Your hints are getting less subtle.”

      “If not, I can let you borrow some of the ponytail holders Wynter left behind.”

      This time Wythe laughed. “Ah, Irene O’Reilly, if people knew what a smart-ass you are.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t stay tonight.”

      “Hot date?” she inquired, hoping instead to hear it was some business matter as it almost always was.

      “Not really.”

      Her heart sank. Maybe not a hot date, but a date all the same. She watched Wythe turn and grab his suit jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. “I stopped by on my way home from the office to change clothes. I’m meeting an old college friend in South Boston tonight.”

      She smiled, hope springing up. “He or she?”

      “Nosy tonight, aren’t we?” Wythe grinned back. “She, if you must know. Trish Staunton. Her family’s from around here, and we hung out some.”

      “Good luck.”

      She watched him go out the door, her smile in place until the door shut behind him. Irene blinked and bit her lip. She would not feel sorry for herself. Even if he never became anything else, Wythe was her best friend. It would be enough. It must be.

      She remembered the first day they’d seen him. Ten years ago. He was home from college for the Christmas holidays. Irene and Wynter had just arrived in Danville, where she’d tried to get hired at Dan River Mills, but she didn’t have a job yet. Money was tight. Everything went to renting a cheap room not far from the mill. Wynter’s birthday was Christmas Eve, and Irene had nothing to give her. Not an easy thing to tell an eight-year-old. It would have been even tougher to explain she’d had no money for dinner either.

      Somehow Irene convinced Wynter they were eating out. She didn’t have to know it was a church soup kitchen where they served meals to the hungry and homeless. Irene smiled when she remembered how excited Wynter had been. They never ate out. Anywhere. Not even a hot dog from the convenience store. They couldn’t afford it. Wynter had thought it was a wonderful treat. As they went through the serving line, her eyes had landed on Wythe. When her daughter had smiled at him, he’d smiled back. It was the most beautiful sight Irene had ever seen.

      “Guess what?” Wynter had told the young man as he served them turkey, while Irene had snuck glances at his handsome face. “My name’s Wynter, and me and my ma are eating out tonight because it’s my birthday!” Wythe had glanced at Irene, and she’d wanted to fall through the floor. What must he be thinking?

      But without even missing a beat, he had laughed at Wynter. “Is it really your birthday?” At her vigorous nod he had asked, “How old are you? Sixteen?”

      Wynter had giggled and twirled one braid around her finger. “No, silly. I’m eight years old. Ma says I’m the best Christmas present she ever got.”

      Wythe’s eyes had darted to Irene and he had smiled again, genuine respect lighting their brown depths. “Well,” he’d said, turning back to Wynter, “we’ll have to see what we can do for your birthday celebration.”

      They had almost finished eating when Wythe had come back into the room carrying a sheet cake with eight candles stuck haphazardly in the top. Irene had noted with chagrin they looked like candles from the advent wreaths scattered around the church. He had lit the candles, and the entire kitchen staff had sung Happy Birthday. Wynter had laughed in delight, and Wythe had laughed right along with her.

      God knows, Irene thought, whether he had ever realized he had been more of a father to Wynter than any man they had known. He had made her give him their address before they’d left. The next morning when they had awoken, there had been a package out front with a note saying, “To Winter, from Santa.” It was the same teddy bear Wynter had left behind when she’d run from home in the spring.

       Chapter 6

      “Wynter!” Thomas Sinclair shouted down the length of the barn. “Come on out here, lass, and put on your paddock boots before you do.”

      Wynter wrinkled her brow while she stowed the pitchfork and wheelbarrow in the shed. She had hoped to grab a little down time before she left for campus. It was one of those bright fall days she loved. The sky was crisp and clear blue, and the trees blazed in an array of colors from palest yellow to a deep, rich red. At home, Wythe would be hunting or hacking out in the afternoons. She missed those rides with him. He was the first person to put her on a horse.

      While she worked, she took off the sweater Mama had knitted. It was too warm for mucking stalls, and she didn’t want to get it dirty. After grabbing her paddock boots from the back of the truck, she slipped them on, zipped them up and sprinted out to the ring while she pulled her sweater back on to hide her threadbare shirt.

      Thomas stood holding the reins of one of their show jumpers, a big bay mare named Rosie, but her attitude on life was anything but. In his other hand, Thomas held a hard hat.

      “I need your help. Rosie’s rider just quit on me. Put on the helmet and hop up, so I can see what you can do. The mare’s already entered this weekend in Raleigh.”

      Wynter looked at Thomas dubiously but strapped on the helmet and adjusted it to fit. “I haven’t ridden in six months, Thomas,” she warned when she put her foot in the stirrup and swung up. She settled in the saddle, making Thomas smile as he handed her the reins. “And I’m self-taught.”

      “You’ll be fine. Take as long as you like getting your legs under you. Rosie likes a long warm-up.”

      “Okay.” She started the mare like she had most of the field hunters she’d exercised, working at a walk on a long rein until she picked up on the mare’s rhythm. Rosie moved big, even at the walk. Slowly, Wynter collected her, getting her to step under herself more and engage the hind end. There was a lot of power back there. She’d seen the mare jump, and she’d known Rosie was talented, but also temperamental. While Wynter rode, one of the mare’s ears flicked back and forth before rotating forward again. It was as though she asked who was on board.

      “Push her up to a trot,” Thomas called.

      Just a light squeeze of the leg, and the mare responded with a smooth transition into the higher gait, still maintaining her rounded profile, hind end engaged and front on the bit. The mare floated across the ring. Wynter tested her responsiveness with a couple of leg yields down the outside length of the arena, then at the corner asked for the canter transition. Once again, it was smooth.

      “Take the oxer on the diagonal whenever you’re ready,” he instructed.

      It was the smallest fence out there, a shade over four feet. Wynter circled and looked for the line to the fence, Rosie smooth and collected beneath her. When she turned to line up, the mare’s ears flicked backward and forward, and Wynter felt her back off the fence, so she squeezed her forward. It was to reassure the nervous horse she knew what they were doing, and the mare should trust her. Rosie’s stride equaled out, but Wynter felt her picking a big spot. Rather than ask the mare to insert another stride, the girl pushed her forward even more. Rosie sailed the oxer with plenty of room to