Change Rein: Willow Bay Stables, #1

By Anne Jolin

London Daniels is returning home to Willow Bay, Alberta, on the heels of a televised loss. She blew her shot at the Summer Olympics and cost Canada the gold medal in dressage.

During her years of training abroad, her family's stable has fallen on hard times, and thus, they’ve accepted an offer to board the racehorses of Branson Tucker, the infamous tycoon, for the winter.

London lacks conviction after her ill-fated fall. And as if returning to her hometown to watch her epic failure replay on everyone's big screen isn't torture enough, she’s expected to cater to a man with an ego bigger than her hundred-acre farm just to earn a dime.

Is London saddling up for another ride that will leave both her heart and her ass in the dirt? Or could the handsome, unwanted guest at Willow Bay Stables be her second chance to go for gold?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Jolin
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513063744

Book preview

Change Rein

Copyright © 2015 Anne Jolin

Cover Design: Sara Eirew

Cover Photo: Diego Durden

Cover Model: Carmen Delgado

Editors: Mickey Reed, Kayla Robichaux

Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Quote

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Playlist

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Other Books

Eight Second Ride

Athens, Greece, August 2012—Equestrian Day Eight—Olympic Grand Prix Dressage

Pre-Competition Interview—The Equestrian Journal

MISS DANIELS, THIS IS YOUR first appearance at the Olympic Summer Games, and rumor has it you’re favorited to win gold. What do you have to say to that?

Looping my arm underneath Achilles’ reins, I rub his muzzle with my gloved hand. I’d say they’re right. I wink, flashing my award-winning smile.

What’s your secret to success?

Persistence, I say firmly before edging back into my media-darling persona, and him. I nudge the nineteen-hands Dutch Warmblood flanking my left side.

Scribbling down on his notepad, the man looks over the rim of his glasses. That seems like a lot of credit to give to just a horse.

Clenching my jaw, I smile through clenched teeth, but speak with grit. I give credit where credit’s due. Then I purse my lips. And he’s hardly just a horse, sir. He’s Achilles War, I correct, and he’s as much the Greek hero his lure alludes to.

Shuffling off my defensive tone, the journalist continues, Some say the bond you share as rider and horse is remarkable. What would you attribute that to?

He’s as much a part of my soul as I am his, I praise effortlessly. I trust him with my life.

Hmm, he hums before pointing at the roof of the indoor arena with his pen. Will the weather be an issue for you in today’s competition?

The sound of raindrops hitting the tin roof echoes around my answer. I’m from Canada. I smirk. I can handle getting a little wet.

You’ve chosen an incredibly unique performance for your final round. Some might even call it risky. Can you tell us why?

Leaning into Achilles’ neck, I breathe in his smell, drawing strength from the way his powerful body complements mine. You’ve got to bet big to win big, and that’s a risk we’re willing to take. Aren’t we, Chil? I ask, moving to rest my forehead on his much larger one.

He neighs, playfully shoving me with his head in response. My laugher floods the waiting arena.

It’s time, my trainer, Harlow Kent, instructs, officially ending the interview.

As I shed the outer layer of my Team Canada warm-up jacket, he hands me my black blazer, and I pull it snugly around my upper body. Pressing the fabric down, Harlow checks me over for anything out of place before helping me tuck my white-blond hair into my helmet.

You good?

Stretching out the tightness in my neck, I nod. I’m good.

Holding his hands out by his knee, Harlow gives me a leg up into the saddle, waiting as I slip the toe of my Ariat boots into the stirrups. Then, he taps me once on the thigh. Good luck.

Feeling Chil’s muscles dance between my legs, I squeeze back in reassurance and lean forward to rub his neck. Just you and me, Chil. Forget the rest.

Sitting up straight, I drop my shoulders back and position myself for entry to the ring.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Canadian favorite’s up next! the announcer shouts, battling against the cheering crowd. London Daniels riding Achilles War!

Three Days Later

General Hospital—Athens, Greece

Post-Competition Interview—The Equestrian Journal

Can you tell us what happened? the journalist asks, settling into the chair across from my bed.

Sitting up, I wince and fight back tears.

I refuse to cry.

It was my fault.

The man’s eyes widen in shock at my confession. One would argue it was your horse’s fault, Miss Daniels. Achilles, your Greek hero, seemed to spook mid-routine. In fact, rumors are spreading that he may, indeed, have been your Achilles’ heel.

Gripping the side rails of my bed so hard that my knuckles turn white, I withhold the urge to pummel the opinionated asshat in the face. Being cordial goes against the basic fiber of my being, but Harlow was insistent I would never progress if the media didn’t adorn me with attention.

To suggest Achilles War is anything less than a champion would be both ignorant and stupid on your part.

In the corner of my room, Harlow chokes on his coffee. Holding my palm out towards him, I interrupt his attempts to ‘put a spin’ on my outburst.

Goodbye, gold medal.

Goodbye, media darling.

Never missing a beat, I continue my tirade and proverbial chewing out of the reporter’s ass. The competition grounds were wet from the unlikely monsoon of rain over the weekend. I’d taken Achilles out the day before to give us both a chance to settle in, but I mistook his uncertainty and allotted it to the travel time. It was my mistake.

He continues jotting notes down in time with the sound of the loop on his recorder moving.

By the time the morning had come around, most of the arena was underwater, the dry ground just asking for flooding. I took for granted the trust Chil had put in me in the past. I should have withdrawn, but my pride and ego are what led me here.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, accepting fault in losing the gold medal for your country, but that would hardly be enough of a reason to let the blame rest on Chil’s shoulders, however wide they might be.

How did the weather result in your fall? He’s grilling me, circling like a shark that smells blood in the water.

The one thing the press loves more than a rising star is a fallen angel.

Looking past his scrawny frame, I seek strength in the bright sun. Achilles has always been my rock, and being separated from him for any length of time is next to impossible for me to bear, let alone in a situation such as this.

The routine started fine. I could feel his tension, but urged him on regardless. It wasn’t until we moved into the pirouette that I could feel how off he was. When he reared, I was not in any way prepared for such a sudden reaction, and I was unable to get my arms around his neck. Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay those fractions of a second in my mind. When he came down, he threw an exaggerated buck, unseating me before rearing to his hind legs again. This time, I was holding on only by the reins. It seemed like forever he was standing there, frozen in midair.

It was at this time you made the decision to forfeit? he prompts.

Opening my eyes, I drag them off the window. Then I narrow them at him, putting all the force of my physical and mental hurt into my stare. It was not a matter of forfeiting or ‘tossing in the towel,’ as I’ve heard it said on the news. In the moment, I decided it was best to bail on my own regard, as I didn’t want to pull Achilles over on top of me.

Brave, he murmurs sarcastically. Did you know you had hurt yourself right away?

When I threw myself off and landed on my lower back, I knew instantly I had done damage—I wince inwardly—and sure enough, moments later, the pain kicked in, confirming my suspicions.

You were later taken by ambulance to Athens General Hospital. What is the seriousness of your injuries? If you don’t mind my asking.

I mind, you clown, my brain screams, but thankfully, my mouth does not comply. I have fractures in my sacrum on both sides. It’s not hard to miss the depression settling in my voice at the possibility of being faced with the end of my professional riding career. The sacrum is a triangle-shaped bone that is found at the bottom of the spine, I add for effect, hoping he feels as stupid as he looks.

What is your prognosis?

Standard procedure is three months off before I can start riding again.

But you won’t know to what degree until that time, he finishes for me, and I nod.

Anxiety is creeping up my throat and into my features; I have no idea what life would be like without horses or riding.

You wish to stand by your earlier statement that this national loss is attributed only to your lack of skill, not your horse’s temperament?

He is pushing my buttons, and he knows it.

As a horse has its own mind and sometimes objects to being through or in front of your leg, or just finds things a bit hard, they will react in a way that can trigger those fears. I look him directly in the eye so there is no possibility of him misinterpreting what I have to say. I imagine you’d see no kindness or flattery in being whipped or sparred through an event that crippled you with fright, all for the sake of a shiny, gold coin around your boss’s neck.

The reporter later describes me in his article as ‘hostile denial in its finest form,’ which is followed by a brutally accurate portrayal of my injuries and a detailed description of my shortcomings as a rider. No longer do I push the boundaries of the sport in a fresh and challenging way. It has now been deemed that I have no respect for the discipline and, for lack of a better phrase, got what I deserved. However, it is in his last statement where he truly kicks me while I’m down.

With the injuries sustained during her fall, it is unlikely London Daniels will return to ride professionally at any capacity, but I suppose the real question is: Would the equestrian industry as a whole want the fallen favorite, even if she could?

Two Weeks Later

Willow Bay, Alberta

I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME my heart was broken. I was ten. Tommy Pruitt had just given his Valentine’s Day card to Heather Boston, and I was crushed. Completely and utterly devastated. That afternoon, after barreling into the barn when I got home from school, a mess of tears and wracked by confusion, I dramatically flopped down into the sawdust of the stall Momma was cleaning.

After leaning her pitchfork against the wall, she slowly sits her lean frame beside me and pulls me into her lap. Hush now, my sweet girl. What’s wrong? she coos, sweeping my blond hair off my face.

I babble out the gut-wrenching story in waterfall fashion, the rejection stinging my young heart.

Pressing her lips to my forehead, she curls them into a smile before she speaks. When life feels as if it’s become too difficult and our momentum threatens to break stride, remember, London—hope is not lost. We are strong women, we are horse women, and when push comes to shove, sweet girl, we can always change rein, for a new direction never ceases to bring with it a new light.

He was my soulmate, I wail into the crook of her neck. What if no one ever loves me again?

Cupping my wet cheeks with her frail hands, she lifts my face to meet her gaze. "I think there are people out there for all of us. Not necessarily one perfect person, but a multitude of individuals who shape us into who we are. Then, hopefully, when we’ve twisted and turned, gathered some scars of our own, fate sends us the person to fade our scars and shine light into the dark parts of who we are. When they come? I’m not sure. Some get them sooner than later. Others get