thoughts these past twenty minutes, twitching her chestnut ears in silent, sisterly sympathy, and she seemed more than willing to listen to Jordan discuss the house as they approached it.
And the house did resemble an old lady’s careworn face, a sad and lonely old lady with no one to love her. Those shutters hanging crookedly looked like mascara streaked by tears. Jordan felt a shiver of sympathy course through her. If the interior was in as sorry shape as the outside, it was going to take a lot of money and even more hard work to restore the house to its former beauty. However much she resented Owen Gage right now, as someone who loved architecture she had to be grateful that he was making the effort.
As they approached the broad lawn ringing Hawk Hill, her eyes roamed over the façade’s details, taking in the double-hung windows with six-over-six muntins. The front of the house had an elliptical fanlight and sidelights bracketing the center door. On the second floor was a large Palladian window. Despite its neglected condition, it had a lovely symmetry, with graceful proportions. “Like Mama used to say about Rosewood, Sava, this house has really good bones.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Hawk Hill’s going to take a lot of work, but I’m optimistic we can give the old house new life.”
Jordan started in surprise, her abrupt movement causing Sava to sidestep and toss her head.
She concentrated on her horse first, settling her weight more solidly in the saddle and gathering the braided reins that had slipped through her fingers. “Easy, Sava, atta girl,” she said, giving her horse a quick pat just below the neck strap of the martingale before acknowledging the man who’d approached them. “I didn’t notice you were here. There’s no car.” Oh, God, she couldn’t believe she’d been caught talking to her horse by
him
.
No, Owen thought, she’d been too busy studying the dilapidated house he’d bought. He had noted that about Jordan yesterday: how still and intense she got when she looked at something, focusing on it as if she were absorbing its essence. “I parked my car over by the barn,” he said by way of explanation. He hadn’t been especially visible, crouched behind one of the evergreen shrubs, inspecting one of the corner pilasters for rot. Hearing the snap of twigs and then the snort of an animal, he’d risen slowly so as not to startle the animal.
Even with her hunt cap strapped on, he’d recognized Jordan. It was something about her posture. Some part of his brain had already committed to memory the way she held herself. She possessed the same graceful posture in the saddle as she did standing. While he probably could have continued his scrutiny undetected for another few minutes, he’d stepped out from behind the bushes in order to look at the horse she was riding. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d also been happy to take a closer look at those long legs of hers, encased in rust-colored breeches and knee-high black riding boots. He’d be a fool to pass up such a fine sight.
“Good morning,” he said with an easy nod. “Now I really know I’m in horse country. Do you visit all your neighbors on horseback?”
“No … no, this isn’t a visit. I had no idea you’d be here.” Her cheeks coloring, she continued hurriedly, “I was just out for a ride and happened to pass this way. We had an understanding with John and Nancy Barron. They allowedus to ride on their fields and through their half of the woods. In return we maintain the trails, clearing the brush and undergrowth, and mow and hay their fields free of charge. You don’t mind if we continue—”
“Ride over any time you want, though it won’t be quite as tranquil around here starting tomorrow when my crew arrives. So this is one of the famed Rosewood Farm horses,” he said as he reached out his hand, smiling at the blast of moist warm air on his skin as the mare sniffed him. “She’s a
And the house did resemble an old lady’s careworn face, a sad and lonely old lady with no one to love her. Those shutters hanging crookedly looked like mascara streaked by tears. Jordan felt a shiver of sympathy course through her. If the interior was in as sorry shape as the outside, it was going to take a lot of money and even more hard work to restore the house to its former beauty. However much she resented Owen Gage right now, as someone who loved architecture she had to be grateful that he was making the effort.
As they approached the broad lawn ringing Hawk Hill, her eyes roamed over the façade’s details, taking in the double-hung windows with six-over-six muntins. The front of the house had an elliptical fanlight and sidelights bracketing the center door. On the second floor was a large Palladian window. Despite its neglected condition, it had a lovely symmetry, with graceful proportions. “Like Mama used to say about Rosewood, Sava, this house has really good bones.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Hawk Hill’s going to take a lot of work, but I’m optimistic we can give the old house new life.”
Jordan started in surprise, her abrupt movement causing Sava to sidestep and toss her head.
She concentrated on her horse first, settling her weight more solidly in the saddle and gathering the braided reins that had slipped through her fingers. “Easy, Sava, atta girl,” she said, giving her horse a quick pat just below the neck strap of the martingale before acknowledging the man who’d approached them. “I didn’t notice you were here. There’s no car.” Oh, God, she couldn’t believe she’d been caught talking to her horse by
him
.
No, Owen thought, she’d been too busy studying the dilapidated house he’d bought. He had noted that about Jordan yesterday: how still and intense she got when she looked at something, focusing on it as if she were absorbing its essence. “I parked my car over by the barn,” he said by way of explanation. He hadn’t been especially visible, crouched behind one of the evergreen shrubs, inspecting one of the corner pilasters for rot. Hearing the snap of twigs and then the snort of an animal, he’d risen slowly so as not to startle the animal.
Even with her hunt cap strapped on, he’d recognized Jordan. It was something about her posture. Some part of his brain had already committed to memory the way she held herself. She possessed the same graceful posture in the saddle as she did standing. While he probably could have continued his scrutiny undetected for another few minutes, he’d stepped out from behind the bushes in order to look at the horse she was riding. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d also been happy to take a closer look at those long legs of hers, encased in rust-colored breeches and knee-high black riding boots. He’d be a fool to pass up such a fine sight.
“Good morning,” he said with an easy nod. “Now I really know I’m in horse country. Do you visit all your neighbors on horseback?”
“No … no, this isn’t a visit. I had no idea you’d be here.” Her cheeks coloring, she continued hurriedly, “I was just out for a ride and happened to pass this way. We had an understanding with John and Nancy Barron. They allowedus to ride on their fields and through their half of the woods. In return we maintain the trails, clearing the brush and undergrowth, and mow and hay their fields free of charge. You don’t mind if we continue—”
“Ride over any time you want, though it won’t be quite as tranquil around here starting tomorrow when my crew arrives. So this is one of the famed Rosewood Farm horses,” he said as he reached out his hand, smiling at the blast of moist warm air on his skin as the mare sniffed him. “She’s a
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