Spring Blossom by Jill Metcalf Page A

this fellow is truly not a gentleman, I want to feel
him moving beneath me. Perhaps then I can detect any tricks he has
in mind before he unseats me.”
    “Yes, sir,” one of the young men managed to
say as they both moved away, wide-eyed. “There’s goin’ to be hell
to pay when that man breaks his neck,” he muttered to his
companion.
    Hunter stood and talked quietly to the
animal, rubbing the soft muzzle and velvety ears.
    “My God,” Alastair whispered, “he’s going to
ride without a saddle.”
    “I’m certain he knows what he is doing,
Papa,” Margaret said as her heart began to beat a wild tattoo. Her
plan had to work, she thought, as she maintained total
concentration on the horse and rider. She couldn’t lose Pride; no
matter the cost. But some small part of her admired Hunter’s
nerve.
    Hunter continued to talk soothingly as he
caressed the animal’s sleek neck, then he ran his hand along the
muscular back. Still talking, he grabbed a handful of mane at the
withers and easily swung up onto Pride’s back.
    The great stallion stood still, awaiting a
command. Not until Hunter gathered the reins more firmly in his
hands did the horse appeared distressed.
    And the man immediately knew he had
trouble…several hundred pounds of trouble.
    Pride tossed his head fretfully and began to
worry at the bit. Hunter kept the reins firm and short; if Pride
managed to get his head down, he would buck. Instead, the horse
twisted and ran toward the far fence. Hunter immediately understood
the trick. Pride would turn at the last minute, raking his rider
along the wooden rails.
    Hunter was stunned that he had absolutely no
control over the horse; a horse that was not unschooled.
Instantaneously he realized the horse had the bit between his
teeth.
    After that there was no more time for
thought, other than to seek the best means of escape. If he did not
bail out now, he could lose his right leg. So…over the side he
went, rolling several times as he hit the ground before lying flat
on his back.
    Margaret flinched visibly at the sound of
man hitting solid earth.
    “Damn!” Hunter muttered and beat a fist into
the dirt.
    “Get that animal back in his stall!”
Alastair blustered.
    “No! Wait!” Hunter rolled smoothly to his
feet and called to the stable boys. “Wait!” he said again. “Let me
see him.”
    Margaret turned her head long enough to see
the worried expression on her father’s face. “Mr. Maguire is an
experienced horseman, Papa,” she said, trying to alleviate his
fears. “I’m sure he has taken many spills.”
    Alastair cast her a baleful look. “And that
makes this fall acceptable?”
    Margaret shook her head, frowning as she
returned her attention to the paddock. “Not acceptable, Papa, but
necessary.”
    Alastair’s frown intensified. “Margaret…”
But he grew quiet as his attention was drawn again to the stallion
and to Hunter.
    The stable boys had captured the horse and
Hunter stood staring at the beast. Pride continued to worry at the
bit and the froth from his mount was speckled with blood. Hunter
stepped forward and, keeping the reins around Pride’s neck, dropped
the bit free. His lips tightened and his eyes darkened as he saw
the severe curb. “What bit does this horse usually wear?” he asked
the older boy.
    “A snaffle, sir,” the boy answered
timidly.
    “Then why did you put such a harsh bit on
him today?” But, really, he did not need to ask as the two boys
looked fearfully at each other and then, pleadingly, back at
Hunter. In an attempt to quash his anger, Hunter ran his fingers
through his black hair and took a deep breath. “Miss Downing’s
instructions?” he asked softly, and the older boy managed a slight
nod of affirmation. Sighing heavily, he asked, “Is there a
hackamore in the tack room?”
    The older boy smiled. “Yes, sir.”
    “Get it for me, will you? This animal’s
mouth is sore enough.” He turned to the younger boy. “Can you hold
him here on