by Susan Wiggs
After the initial charge, he stopped short, forelegs splayed in a challenging stance. He dropped his head, bright eyes never leaving the mare, who trotted back and forth at the fence. Then the new horse burst into motion again, rearing up, hooves tearing at the air.
The mare increased her speed, half-crazed panic glinting in her eyes.
“This is cruel,” Abigail said. “The poor creature’s frightened half to death. Why don’t the grooms do something?”
“Sometimes they use a teaser to bring the mare to readiness.” As he spoke, he never took his eyes off Abigail. “In this case, it’s not needed. They’ve already done their job. Now it’s the stallion’s turn to do his.”
The new horse lowered his head and charged, nostrils flaring, a vicious intent burning in his eyes. Abigail pressed a fist to her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm.
He’ll kill her, she thought, wanting to squeeze her eyes shut but unable to look away.
The stallion came at the mare with eyes on fire and mouth wide open for the attack. At the last second, the mare swiveled and met him, biting back with a far more accurate and controlled fury, causing the stallion to squeal in pain.
“Daisy’s our best breeding mare. She always makes them suffer,” Jamie murmured.
“Then why don’t you stop this? It’s barbaric.” A thick ooze of blood streamed over the stallion’s flank.
“Because it’s a natural process. In the end, no matter how much abuse she heaps on him, she always gives him what he wants. And he’ll suffer any pain to get it.”
Abigail knew Jamie was perfectly aware of how disturbing and offensive this “lesson” was. He was probably also quite well aware of her sick fascination with the entire event.
The sentiment appeared to be shared in a different way by the breeder and grooms, who slapped each other on the back and swapped coppers to place bets on various aspects of the encounter.
Steam rose from the big bodies of the horses, and sweat mingled with the blood of the stallion. They performed an elaborate dance that had the primal rhythm of ancient ritual. She sidled close, raised her tail, and he subjected her to such an intimate inspection that all the words of outrage were burned from Abigail’s throat. After what seemed like a long time, the mating took place, a violent coupling as brutal as it was compelling. Abigail watched with a mixture of horror, amazement and a peculiar heat. She suspected that the heat was a form of lust. It embarrassed her to feel lust and to realize it came from watching horses mate.
The violent ritual went on for some minutes, then the stallion made a deep grunting sound and ceased his attack. The mare hung her head, sides fanning in and out. She looked defeated, spent, and so did the stallion, still covering her. Sand and dust rose in little clouds around them.
Finally the stallion moved away. The two horses ignored each other entirely, tails twitching, bodies running with moisture. The air was filled with a rich odor of sweat and blood and something she could not identify, but could feel in her bones.
“I imagine you don’t see that every day,” Jamie said.
“Are you trying to shock me?”
“Yes.”
“Then it worked.”
“Good.”
“Why did you want to shock me? And why is it a good thing?”
“It’s always useful for a person to see new things. No one ever said mating was pretty. A hurricane isn’t pretty, but you can’t deny its power.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to witness a hurricane, either,” she retorted.
“Maybe you should consider it,” he shot back. “You spend your time stargazing and studying pretty things. Well, the world is not all crystal and velvet. You’re hiding, Abby, with your eyes to the sky. You’re hiding from life, from grit and reality.” He laughed at the expression on her face. “Have I said something I shouldn’t?”
No one had ever spoken to her like this. No one had ever criticized her for being interested in beauty and science.
She pushed away from the cedar fence and stomped down the lane. She had no idea where it led, but away was good enough for her. Hearing his boots crunching on gravel, she knew when he caught up with her. She stared straight ahead.
“I didn’t realize you’d be averse to witnessing an act of nature,” he said. “You being a scientist and all.”
He was right, curse him. What could she say? I’m not that sort of scientist?
“You didn’t show me that in the interest of science,” she accused. “But to embarrass me.”
“And it worked.”
“How proud you must be.”
“Look, you claim you want Boyd Butler to sweep you away into marital bliss. I thought that meant you were interested in all aspects of mating.”
“What do mating horses have to do with my attraction to Lieutenant Butler?”
“Love isn’t always all perfume and magic. It has a physical side, one that has nothing to do with tender feelings, fluttering hearts, sentimental poetry.”
“Are you hoping I’ll find it all so off-putting that I’ll grow disillusioned with Lieutenant Butler?”
“Of course not. My purpose is to make your romance of letters become a romance in fact. But I don’t believe in self-deception. You should know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Lieutenant Butler is not an animal. He would never—”
“Trust me, love. He would. Does that frighten you?”
What frightened her now was that she could only think of Jamie’s hands on her, Jamie making love to her. But of course, she excused herself, he was the only man who had ever touched her. So far. “Should it?”
“No.”
“Good. Because unlike you, I believe in the magic of love. It is what elevates us above the beasts.”
“But we still mate in a manner not so very different from a mare in heat and a hot-blooded stallion.”
Abigail thought about what she’d just witnessed. Did a man and woman actually sweat and bite with such wild abandon? Such intense, single-minded purpose? She was surprised that she didn’t feel more disturbed by the spectacle. Or maybe that was not so surprising. It was a natural event, and even Helena had nothing bad to say about it. Abigail reminded herself to stay loyal to Lieutenant Butler, particularly now that Helena had taken up with the professor.
“This way.” Jamie steered her toward another long, low building with a fenced yard at one end.
“Now what? The mating habits of ring-necked pheasants? Hampshire pigs?”
“This is a bit different. Do you ride?”
“Ride what?”
“Horses, you goose. Well, one horse at a time.”
“No.”
“You don’t ride?”
“No.”
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
He looked so stunned that she laughed in spite of herself. “The whole world didn’t grow up in a place like this. Many people go through their whole lives without riding a horse. I know I intend to.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“You don’t.”
“Fine. Do as you’re told and I won’t say a word.”
“I will not—”
“You will. It’s part of your training. Every woman who aspires to marry is in training.”
She sniffed, resenting his cynical humor. But despite his infuriating qualities, Jamie never bored her. That was something. She wasn’t sure what, but something.
He brought her to the stables. In the yard, a tall boy worked with a horse that clearly didn’t want to cooperate. The horse trotted back and forth, snorting and tossing its head.
“Welcome home,” the groom said when they approached.
“Good to see you, Julius. What have you got there?”
“New three-year-old. Your father bought him for riding, but he’s got a mind of his own.”
“We’ll see about that.” Bracing a hand on the fence, Jamie vaulted over. “Most folks think this sort of thing is benea
th them,” he said to Abigail over his shoulder, “but there’s a practical value in styling one’s own mount.”
“Surely you don’t intend that I take my first ride on an untrained horse,” she said.
“Of course not. What do you take me for? That’s Miss Abigail Cabot, by the way,” he told Julius. “She’s visiting from the city. We’re going to teach her to ride.”
She greeted the boy with a smile. He and Jamie shook hands, then Jamie reached out and tousled his hair. “Don’t let the beast get the better of you, son. Your daddy never did.”
Julius showed Abigail into the stables, where a few horses poked their heads out. Jamie stopped in front of a stall and made a clicking sound with his tongue, then opened the door. “You’ll ride Patrick.”
Abigail subjected Patrick to a narrow-eyed assessment. He was small and rather homely compared to the other horses she had seen at Albion. He had a coat of nondescript brown, a mulish shape to his head and splayed hooves like dinner plates.
“You wouldn’t be judging this critter by his looks, would you?” Jamie asked.
“Of course not,” she said, chagrined that skepticism showed in her eyes.
“He’s obedient, reliable and loyal. Everything you could want in a horse…or a wife.”
“I don’t want a wife and I’m not entirely sure of the horse.”
He clipped a rope to the horse’s halter and handed her the lead. “Off you go.”
“I have no idea what to do.”
“He’ll follow you. But you have to go somewhere rather than standing there like a ninny.” He gestured at Julius, who waited at the end of the breezeway, where she assumed he would saddle the horse. “Trust me, it works every time. I’ll be out in the paddock with the new gelding.”
It was slightly intimidating to walk with a thousand-pound beast plodding behind her, but she was determined to master this. She insisted that Julius teach her to do the saddling, and he was pleased to oblige. She liked the boy instantly. He was perhaps thirteen, remarkably poised and quite possibly the handsomest boy she had ever seen, with his café-aulait skin, slender, long-fingered hands and a slight build.
As he showed her each step of the process, Julius was more patient and polite than Jamie had been. So, for that matter, was Patrick the horse.
“Don’t be afraid to touch him,” the groom advised her. “It’s always a good idea to get used to touching him.”
She gingerly patted his neck.
“A horse needs a hard touch, ma’am. He can hardly feel that.”
It took an act of will, but she learned to pat the horse with an aggression the creature seemed to like. She learned to put the headgear and reins on properly and to feed him the bit, ruining her gloves in the process. Abigail didn’t care; she wiped her hands and rubbed the horse’s nose and admired his long-lashed eyes—definitely the homely thing’s most attractive feature.
“Mounting is tricky in skirts.” Julius pulled the block alongside Patrick. “You’ll be riding astride. Sidesaddle’s too hard first time out.”
Abigail balked, stepping back to eye the horse. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Sure you can, Abby,” Jamie called out from the other end of the center aisle. He had managed to subdue and saddle the other horse all on his own.
“It’s impossible,” she called back.
“Suppose I said that about finding a comet.”
Abigail stopped arguing when she realized that she wanted to learn to ride. It was exciting in a way she couldn’t describe. “All right, Julius. What do I do?”
“First step is to get on.” He demonstrated, swinging his leg over the horse’s back. She didn’t like the look of the difficult move at all.
Nevertheless, she was determined. Standing on the block, she brought her other leg up, staggering a little and nearly unbalancing herself. Julius put out a steadying hand and instructed her to grasp the rim of the saddle. On the third try, she managed to lift her leg up and over, but that was only the beginning of the ordeal. She failed to clear the saddle and slipped back down. Then she swung her leg too high and fast, and sprawled forward, banging her chin on the arch of the horse’s bony neck. Gritting her teeth with pain and frustration, she dragged herself up. Good heavens. She sat astride the horse.
“I did it,” she said.
“You did.” Julius went around to the right side to fit her foot into the stirrup. She nearly howled with humiliation when he discovered the special shoe and said, “This ain’t going to fit in the stirrup.”
“Then show me how to get off,” she said, knowing she was just inches from tears.
“Ma’am, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re going to learn to ride. Wait here.” Julius disappeared into the tack room. She could hear him rummaging around, whistling between his teeth. How could he whistle when she wanted to curl up and die?
Except she didn’t want to. She hated her foot, hated the misshapen shoe she had to wear. But she had realized something, sitting on the horse’s back. Her bad foot didn’t matter when Patrick had four good hooves to stand on.
Out in the yard, Jamie rode back and forth on the handsome new horse. Despite the chilly November day, man and beast gleamed with sweat. They were wearing each other out, but maybe that was the point.
After a few minutes, Julius emerged from the tack room with a pair of stirrup loops. “These are used for hunting, so the opening’s bigger.” He held them up for her to see.
She waited in silence as he attached the new loops.
“A perfect fit,” he said. “Ma’am, you are ready to ride.”
“Julius.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Could you pull the hem of my skirt down? You know, to—”
“Yes, ma’am.” He made sure the fabric draped over her feet. He was so matter-of-fact about it that she forgot to be embarrassed. What a pleasant young man he was, she reflected.
“Hang on now, ma’am,” he said, then unhooked the horse from the cross ties and led him out to the paddock.
“Oh.” Abigail clutched at the lip of the saddle, struggling to keep her seat. The lumbering, swaying movement of the horse made her feel as though she might fall at any moment.
“Just sit up straight,” Julius advised. “Look between the horse’s ears. Gravity will do the rest.”
Abigail wanted to ask Julius how he knew about gravity, but she was too busy holding on. Her wild look of panic caught Jamie’s eye, but he merely grinned and waved. “You look splendid, Miss Cabot,” he said jovially. “Simply splendid!”
The liar. She was a terrible rider, fearful and clumsy. Julius and the horse had endless patience, and eventually she managed to exert a small amount of control over the reins. Within the generous oval of the paddock, she could compel the horse where she wanted him.
She kept her seat and steered him this way and that, even taking him up to a trot by prodding him with her heels. Abigail knew there was nothing elegant about her riding, but she didn’t care. She was riding a horse. For the first time in her life, she moved with a normal gait, just like anyone else in the world.
Jamie had pushed her into doing this. How could he know what her soul yearned for when she didn’t even know that herself? Perhaps he was magic. Or diabolical.
When Julius finally brought her from the paddock to the bridle trail, she had the most foolish grin on her face. Waiting for her astride the dun gelding, Jamie grinned back. She would never tell him so, but he looked as dashing as a painting in a museum.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“It’s a surprise. Your horse will follow mine.” He headed down a broad, sandy path that followed a meandering creek. Gradually, the terrain changed and flattened into rich bottomland dotted with the small farms she recognized from the journey by coach. The surprise turned out to be a visit to one of the farms.
At their approach, a bluetick coonhound set up a racket in front of a snug house ma
de of cedar planks. The remnants of a garden straggled along the side of the house, and in the distance lay a long, low barn and fenced paddock. In the yard, Jamie shushed the dog as he dismounted, then helped Abigail down. To her relief, he didn’t appear to notice her foot at all, but seemed focused on the little house with its thin ribbon of smoke twisting from the chimney.
“Jasper!” yelled a woman’s voice. “I swear, you’re the loudest dog the good Lord ever saw fit to make.” She stepped out onto the porch, a tall black woman wearing a man’s dungarees and a flowered apron, a wooden spoon in her hand. When she spied Jamie, her face lit up with a smile. “Well, now, look who came to call. So can you come in a spell, or are you too citified these days?”
He took the porch stairs two at a time and swept the woman into his arms. “How’ve you been, honey?”
Abigail had never heard such warmth in his voice, and she was intrigued. She waited at the bottom step until Jamie turned to her.
“Abby, this is Patsy Calhoun, my sister-in-law. Patsy, this is Abigail Cabot, my…” His voice drifted off. He didn’t seem to know what Abigail was to him any more than she knew what he was to her.
“How do you do?” she said, mounting to the porch and holding out her hand.
Patsy looked from her to Jamie and back again, lifting an inquisitive brow. “Your lady friend?”
“No.” Both Abigail and Jamie protested with one voice.
Patsy lifted her eyebrow even higher. “I see,” she said. “I do indeed. Best get inside, then. I got a chess pie in the oven.”
Abigail passed a most unusual and pleasant afternoon in the simple, sturdy cabin of Noah Calhoun’s widow. Jamie seemed a different person with Patsy. He was relaxed and jovial, and not a sarcastic word passed his lips. This, Abigail realized, studying his face by the light of Patsy’s cozy fire, was the essence of a home. No wonder he was so committed to protecting the farms along the creek.
They arrived at the plantation house an hour before supper. Abigail dismounted on her own and gave a happy sigh, even pausing to press her cheek against her homely horse for a moment.
“You owe me an apology,” said Jamie.
“For what?”
“For saying you didn’t want to go riding.”
