Summer '09 [Niall Horan fanfiction]

BONUS: Hoofbeats on My Heart

Hello y'all. This is a bonus to the fanfic, has nothing to do with the story but it's just a one-shot I didn't feel like posting in another whole story. So thanks and enjoy! And please fan/vote/comment please it would mean loads to me!!

Gracias! <3 vb123321

Hoofbeats on My Heart

I walked into the stables, murmuring sweet hellos to each of the horses in turn and patting their noses lovingly. Trump gave a low, unfriendly whinny when he saw me, which I found unusual, because usually he loved to greet me. It told me someone was nearby. I glanced around to see a formal-looking man standing near the hay bales, gazing at the horses, and looked around for Harry before remembering he was on an express ride.

At that moment, the man turned and saw me standing in front of Trump’s stall, my hand still on his nose. “Excuse me,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are you doing in here, little girl?”

My temper flaring slightly at his tone, I fought to remain calm while I answered him. “My name is Becca,” I said, trying to make my voice louder and older, “and my – ah – father owns this stable.”

“Well, well.” His smile grew wider, and if anything, stranger. “Then maybe you can help me.” He took a step toward the stalls. “I am interested in buying this horse.” He gestured towards Trump. My heart nearly stopped. Not my Trump, my beautiful Trumpeter’s Lullaby.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I don’t think he’s for sale–”

“Nonsense.” He could not keep his eyes off the horse. “I want this one, and I will get it.”

My heart sunk. This was one of the stuck-up rich folks who thought they got everything they wanted. I wished Harry were there; he always knew how to get out of these situations. But he wasn’t, so I just gritted my teeth and tried to keep calm. “I said, I don’t think he’s for sale.”

The man turned to look at me. His eyes looked me up and down. I tried to put myself before my own eyes: a teenaged girl, reddish-brown hair done back in a hasty braid that dangled down the back of a calico dress, dark blue eyes – hopefully – flashing dangerously. Clearly, he didn’t think it was much as he gave a short, ugly laugh. “I don’t think it’s up to you, girl,” he said, taking a step towards me.

            I refused to back off. “It’s Becca,” I gritted out.

He smiled again. “Lovely. Now, if you could direct me to your house...?”

“Find it yourself,” I told him bluntly.

His eyes narrowed, smile vanishing. “You’ll be sorry when I get that horse of yours,” he growled. I stared at him until he stalked out of the barn, his shadow stretching in the twilight as he headed towards the bunkers, where undoubtedly one of the express riders would tell him where to find my father. I sank against Trump’s stall door, staring at the opposite wall. It couldn’t happen. Father wouldn’t sell – would he?

I could see the outline of the man with Father in his den as I entered the house to get on with my chores. Ma had me washing dishes in the kitchen, but I tried to listen in on their talk in the room next door. My seventeen-year-old brother James sauntered in, saying loudly, “Why the long face, Becky? Washing dishes isn’t that terrible.”

Glaring at him, I snapped, “Be quiet, and don’t call me that.”

He leaned against the small kitchen table, fixing me with an unusually serious look. “I heard Father and a strange man talking,” he said quietly. “About selling Trumpeter’s Lullaby. Are you–?”