Georgia's Gamble [A Historical Fiction Novel; The Pratt Chronicles Book 1]

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Benjamin Tucker

The sun was well above the horizon now, casting long shadows across the ranch. I stood just outside the stables, hands on my hips, trying to shake off the irritation that had clung to me since my encounter with that insolent stablehand.

How dare he question my authority? A kid like that, barely out of short pants, acting like he knew more about horses than I did. I'd trained thoroughbreds up and down this country, worked at stables far more prestigious than this one. Sure, Lone Star Ranch was impressive, but I'd dealt with owners and jockeys from New York to Kentucky. The only reason I was here was because they had a horse with real potential, and I had the expertise to bring it out. Yet, somehow, that kid thought he knew better.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I had more important things to worry about. Like ensuring that Frontier King was ready for the upcoming season. His form was good, but there was something about him, a stubbornness that made him difficult to manage. He needed a firm hand, not the soft, coddling touch of some kid who probably spent more time playing with the horses than training them.

Determined to put that encounter behind me, I stepped back into the stables. The familiar scent of hay and leather greeted me, along with the quiet sounds of horses shifting in their stalls. It was peaceful here, usually a place where I could find some focus, but today that peace was hard to come by. My thoughts kept drifting back to that stablehand. There was something about him that didn't sit right with me—something too confident, too sure of himself.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I approached Frontier King's stall. The sorrel stallion was watching me with those deep, knowing eyes, his ears flicking as I drew closer. "Alright, boy," I murmured, slipping into the stall. "Let's see what we can do today."

I reached out to stroke his neck, but the horse jerked his head away, snorting in defiance. I frowned. This wasn't like him. He was spirited, sure, but he was usually responsive. I tried again, this time more forcefully, gripping the halter and guiding him around the stall. He tossed his head, clearly agitated, and for a moment, I wondered if that stablehand had done something to unsettle him.

The thought made my blood boil. No one messed with my horses—especially not some cocky kid who didn't know his place.

I spent the next hour trying to work with Frontier King, but the stallion was uncooperative, his mood mirroring my own growing frustration. Every time I asked for a simple command, he reared, resisting me at every turn. By the time I finally got him to settle, I was sweating, my patience wearing thin. This wasn't like him at all. He was usually challenging, but not impossible. I couldn't shake the feeling that the horse was testing me, almost like he was siding with that damned stablehand.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't notice the kid had come back into the stable until he spoke. "Having some trouble there, Mr. Tucker?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin, whirling around to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, that same infuriating smirk on his face. He was holding a saddle under one arm, as if he'd been working in the stable the whole time.

I scowled. "Shouldn't you be mucking out stalls or something?"

He shrugged. "Already done. Thought I'd come see how you were getting on with Frontier King."

The way he said the horse's name, with that slight emphasis, made my hackles rise. "If you don't mind," I said through gritted teeth, "I've got it under control."

"Sure you do," he replied, his tone dripping with condescension. He walked into the stall without waiting for an invitation, moving with a familiarity that made me bristle. "But it looks like he's giving you a bit of trouble. Maybe you're being too hard on him."