The Horsemaster's Daughter. Сьюзен Виггс

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СКАЧАТЬ The horse’s cantering slowed. It flicked back one ear. Still he feinted, but the loops he ran were tighter; he came back more readily. His head dropped a little, and Hunter could see his jaw working.

      Each time the stallion approached her, he became bolder. Each time she shooed him away, he came back again. To Hunter, it resembled a subtle flirtation of sorts. She was clearly interested, yet full of disdain. The stallion played the ardent suitor, persistent, refusing to be put off, yet not gregarious enough to force himself on her. There was a curious grace in the interplay between girl and horse.

      Perhaps she was stranger, even, than Hunter had originally thought.

      Then, right before his eyes, the dance changed from a wary flirtation to a tentative partnership. The stallion stayed at her side now, his muzzle practically nudging her shoulder. They walked along side by side, their pace unhurried and their steps oddly synchronized, as if they were moving together to the same silent music.

      Hunter started to relax a little. The horse perceived no threat from the woman, so he posed no menace to her. When Eliza Flyte turned, the stallion turned. When she quickened her pace, so did the horse. When she slowed down, he did the same. And finally, as if it were the most natural movement in the world, she stopped walking and touched the horse, her hand resting at the side of his head.

      Hunter heard her whoa across the broad stretch of beach. The horse halted. Hunter froze, held his breath. He couldn’t have taken his eyes off her if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He was as much her prisoner as was the horse. Finn’s ears flickered but he didn’t pull back, and she didn’t take her hand away.

      She turned her body toward the stallion, though she held her gaze faintly averted. He dropped his head, submitting with something almost like relief. His muzzle hung so low to the ground that he probably inhaled grains of sand into his nostrils. The pose of submission looked incongruous on the big horse.

      The girl, like an angel, ran her hand down the length of the horse’s head. Even from a distance, Hunter could see the stallion’s shivered reaction to that gentle caress, and it had a strange impact on him. He felt Eliza’s hand on the horse as if she had touched him. It was absurd, but he found himself so captivated by her that he wanted that caress for himself.

      It was an unorthodox way to train a stallion, one Hunter had read about in the writings of the great horsemaster, John Solomon Rarey. He had never thought the method could be put to practical use, but the mystical ritual had taken place before his eyes.

      She had made the stallion want her—to be near her, to be touched by her.

      Hunter lowered himself to the ground, looping his hands loosely around his drawn-up knee. He wondered what she would do next.

      Just then, a flock of gulls rose as one from the shallows. Their wings flashed white against the sky and they made a sound like a gust of wind. The horse panicked, rearing so high that his hooves nearly struck Eliza in the head. Hunter roared out a warning, leaping up and running toward her.

      She calmly stepped away. The horse landed heavily, then twisted his big body and galloped away toward the thicket behind the dunes.

      “You’re crazier than the horse is,” Hunter said, his nerves in shreds. “I won’t have any part in this. I’m leaving with the morning tide.”

      Eliza appeared not to hear him as she coiled the rope carefully. “That’s enough for today anyway,” she said. “There’s always tomorrow. Best not to rush.”

      “You might not be able to find him tomorrow.”

      She shaded her eyes and looked up at the rise of the dunes. The stallion turned, showing his profile, and reared against the sky, a whinny erupting from deep within him. Then, with a flick of his tail, he was gone.

      “He’ll be back,” Eliza said.

      Six

      Eliza set out some of last autumn’s apples she’d preserved in a charcoal barrel. In the morning she slipped out early to find that they’d been eaten. She tried to quell a surge of excitement, reminding herself that her father’s first rule was to work at the horse’s pace, peeling away his fears layer by layer rather than trying to rush things. There were more good horses ruined by haste than by any sort of injury, she reminded herself.

      In the half-light she inspected the training facility that had been the hub of her father’s life. It was sad, seeing it like this, broken, burnt and neglected. He had died here, she thought with a shudder. He had died for doing the precise thing she was about to do.

      The area inside the pen was overgrown with thistle and cordgrass. She would have to spend the day clearing it. Backbreaking but necessary work. Perhaps Hunter Calhoun would be of some use after all.

      The thought of her unexpected visitor seemed to have summoned him, for when she untied the halter and turned to pull the gate, he stood there, behind her.

      He discomfited her. There was no other word for it. Wearing his own clothes rather than the ill-fitting ones he’d worn yesterday, he managed to appear as broad and comely as a storybook prince, with the breeze in his blond hair and his sleeves rolled back to reveal the dark sun-gold of his forearms. On closer inspection she saw that a golden bristle shaded his unshaven jaw, but that didn’t make him less striking. It only served to soften the edges of his finely made cheeks and jaw, and added to his appeal.

      She had never heeded her own looks. She’d never taken the time to make sure her dress fit nicely or her hair was properly curled and pinned. Living on the island with her father, and lately all on her own, made such vanities seem unimportant.

      But now, feeling the heat of this man’s stare upon her, appearances were everything. Absolutely everything. She wanted to shrivel down into the ground like a flower too long in the sun. She found herself remembering a group of gentry that had accompanied the drovers to the island to buy ponies from her father one year. They’d made a holiday of it, much as people did on penning day up at Chincoteague to the north. She was twelve, and until that day she had not known a girl wearing breeches and haphazardly cropped hair would be considered anything unusual.

      But as she walked past the freshwater pond where the herd of ponies grazed, she became aware of a hush that swept over folks as she walked by, followed by a buzz of whispers when she passed.

      “I never knew Henry Flyte had a boy,” someone said.

      The dart had sunk deep into the tender flesh of her vanity. She recalled actually flinching, feeling the sting between her shoulder blades.

      “That’s no boy,” someone else declared. “That’s the horsemaster’s daughter.”

      That day, Eliza had stopped wearing trousers. She had painstakingly studied a tattered copy of Country Wives Budget to learn how to make a dress. She let her hair grow out and tried to style it in the manner of the engraved illustrations in the journal. In subsequent years, visitors to the island still whispered about her, but not because she looked like a boy. It was because she had become a creature recognizable as female no matter what she wore. The stares and whispers carried quite a different connotation. But she never managed to fix herself up quite right. Never managed to capture the polished prettiness of a girl gently raised. And in truth, it usually didn’t matter.

      But when she brushed the tangle of black hair out of her eyes and looked across the field at Hunter Calhoun, it mattered.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ