“I wasn’t burned where I grip a saddle-any kind of saddle.”
“God love the girl.” And he wrapped me in a hard embrace.
So I was atop Rocking Lady in a matter of moments, and she took my mind off anything else. That was all to the good, because fighting a fractious mare was something I could do. I made her sweat, and I made her obey me, my hands and my knees. I rode her right up to the bridle, and we were both sweating freely when I finally pulled her to a halt.
On Rafe’s face was the same delighted smile he’d had in the bleachers at Sunbury the first day I’d seen him. As I wiped the sweat from my face, I saw Albert watching from the shadow of the stables, and I knew from his stillness that I’d done better than he’d expected.
“Mrs. Clery, you sure can ride,” Jerry said, shaking his head respectfully as he took the weary mare’s bridle and led her away.
Rafe grinned at me. “Not bad for a first session. Not bad.”
“Not bad? I like that!” I rotated my shoulder blades to ease the strain across my back. “Why, she’s been allowed to get away with murder.”
Rafe chuckled, turning me slightly and kneading the muscles at the base of my neck. Did the man know people as well as he knew horses?
“You want the grays now?” Albert’s words were not exactly a question, and not really a statement. Rafe caught my eye. “Game?” “I’m not ready for the dishes yet.”
Albert came trotting up with the two mares.
Rafe had every right to be proud of them, for they were perfectly matched-probably right down to the position of each dapple on their sleek hides. They were dainty fillies, about 15.2 hands high, with good clean lines.
“Maisie and Sadie, born and bred here,” Rafe said. “That’s short for Masochist and Sadist, of course,” he added with a reprehensible grin. “You’ll find out why.” He nodded to the left-hand mare and took the right-hand reins from Albert.
“How can you tell them apart?”
“You’ll know, miz,” Albert said as he gave me a knee up, “soon’s he’s up.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Rafe had mounted his mare, and she began to back, head tossing, hooves striking sparks on the cobbles. Rafe had her in hand and spurred her abreast of Sadie, who regarded her sister’s display of temper with calm forbearance. Maisie resisted the maneuver with an ill-tempered fit of bucking, which Rafe sat out. Then, with a snort for her failure, Maisie agreed to move back to her sister, and Rafe led me toward the jumping ring.
Their opprobrious names made sense during that session, for time and again Masochist would attempt to get away with some maneuver to be hauled up, and patient Sadist would compensate. I got so I could anticipate Maisie’s lunges and attempts to balk, and at the last we managed to take four of the six fences simultaneously. I didn’t envy Rafe his jarring ride on Maisie at all, but sitting Sadie was a pure joy.
“Shall we switch?” I asked as we drew the horses to a walk.
“Switch?” Rafe was astonished. “No, we’ll quit. We’ve had a good session on the twins. No sense souring Sadie, and I’m worried about opening those burns.”
“Hey, boss, the doc’s here,” Jerry called from the ringside, gesturing to a tall figure standing in the shade cast by the stable.
“About time,” Rafe muttered, and signaled Jerry to open the ring gate.
As if she had despaired of her freedom, Maisie made a dash and was pulled up sharply by Rafe. She squealed in bad temper and reared, coming down in a series of stiff-legged bucks. I’d not’ve thought she had the energy left. Evidently that was her final effort, for her head hung down in weariness, and she made no more fuss as Rafe trotted her out of the ring and around to the stable yard, Sadie following sedately.. She was just beginning to sweat.
Glen MacNeil was the long, bony type, with the “angry” face with which some Scotsmen are endowed. Actually he rarely lost his temper, but his features were clustered in the middle of a narrow face with so little space that his deep-set eyes appeared to frown, his brow was perpetually wrinkled where his sharp nose jutted out from his forehead. There were deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth, and between that and the cleft of his strong chin, one did have an overall impression of “anger” except when, as now, his face was wreathed by a broad smile.
“Show me the beastie I’ve got to miracleize.” “Nialla, come meet the MacNeil,” said Rafe, gesturing me forward on the gray mare.
“Nialla, is it?” And Dr. MacNeil’s smile threatened to break his face apart as he shook my hand. “That’s not a common name.”
“Russ Donnelly’s daughter, Glen… and my wife.” There was such a ring in his voice that I wondered if he was used to the notion of having a wife again.
“Wife, is it now?” Glen MacNeil boomed out, his eyes almost popping at me from under his heavy brows. “Wife, is it?” He rolled his eyes sympathetically. “Well, now, I wish you luck with him. Or is it Rafe I must console when he’s wed to a girl who looks as if she can outride him?”
“Oh, Rafe’s some hampered by his effect on the female of the species,” I said very sweetly, and slid down the mare’s side. Then I had to crick my neck to look up at the Scot.
“My charm was effective with you, at any rate, m’girl.” And Rafe slipped a possessive arm around my waist as he shook hands with the veterinarian. “Heard about the barn fire- at Sunbury?”
Glen drew in his breath and then stared at us. “You had horses in that? I thought they got all the stock out?”
“Nialla’s dowry is two leapers, and one of them got a frog singed and enough hide gone to make him look like an Appaloosa. Give me your opinion.”
“Of what? The wife or the horse?”
He had the lower half of the stall door part open when he got a good look at Orfeo. He backed hastily out and closed the hatch. “Are you kidding, Rafe Clery? That’s…”
“That’s Orfeo’’ I said, more sharply than I meant to, and brushed past the vet into the stall.
“Orfeo, is it? Orfeo!”
“Orfeo!” Rafe’s eyes danced at the man’s confusion and hesitation.
Glen took a deep breath and cautiously entered. Orfeo slowly regarded the newcomer.
“Christ, what’s that now?” Glen demanded as Dice suddenly uncoiled himself from the shadows of the corner.
“The cat is Eurydice,” Rafe said, his face straight.
Dice wove his way through Orfeo’s legs and sniffed at the doctor, backing off as he smelled the antiseptics and aromatics clinging to the man’s Levis. However, he did not raise his hackles, although he voiced a mild complaint about the disturbance. Orfeo swung his head down, whiffling at Dice, who made one further cryptic comment before retiring to his corner, where he observed the proceedings quietly.
“Coon cat, huh? Well, it oughn’t to surprise me this black devil has an uncommon familiar.”
MacNeil had mastered his reluctance, and crooning softly to the gelding, hoisted the damaged hoof, tapping at it carefully and then angling it so he wasn’t standing in the shadow of the stall light.
“Another week might just heal it,” he remarked, checking the hoof itself, mumbling approval that someone had stripped off the shoe. He ran gentle fingers over the other evidences of the fire. “You’d’ve thought fire wouldn’t mark one of its own.”
“Orfeo was horribly mistreated,” I said, stung to speech.
“Never seen him look better or calmer, Mrs. Clery. How’d you tame him?” Glen glowered at me, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes that disclaimed his appearance.
Rafe cleared his throat as if he didn’t want the conversation to take that turn. “Soaks, Glen?”