The Horsemaster's Daughter. Сьюзен ВиггсЧитать онлайн книгу.
surprising as she wrenched free of him. “Are you mad?” she demanded. “I almost—”
“I’m not the crazy one around here.” He reached for her again.
She feinted away. “It took me half an hour to get him this far,” she snapped. “Now you’ve spooked him and I’ll have to start all over again.”
He cast a look at the horse. Finn stood tensely some yards away. His skin twitched, and his tail flicked nervously over his flanks. His nostrils were distended, eyes wary.
“I’ve seen what this horse can do,” Hunter said. “I won’t stand by and watch him attack you.”
“He won’t attack me.”
“Damn it—”
“Look.” She edged away from him as if fearing he’d try to touch her again. Her long hair twitched in a manner that reminded him of the horse. “Give me a chance with this horse. That’s all I ask. Just a chance.”
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
“Please,” she said, her anger draining away to desperation. “I need to try. Just let me try.”
He didn’t know why she moved him. What was she, anyway, but a strange hermit woman with crazy ideas? Yet he found himself softening, relenting. “I’ll wait there,” he said, pointing to a gnarled, budding tree at the edge of the marsh. He stooped and picked up the stout piece of driftwood. “And if he goes on the attack, so will I.”
“But you have to promise you won’t unless I call for your help.”
He hesitated. Then, surprising himself as well as her, he said, “I promise.”
She didn’t smile, though her eyes shone in a way he shouldn’t have noticed, but did. “I hope you have a lot of patience,” she said, hefting the rope over her shoulder. “You’re going to need it.”
Hunter waited quietly in the shadows, feeling the wind dry the sweat on his face. He was convinced he’d have to save Eliza Flyte from herself, from her own fool notions. He was amazed at how scared he’d been, seeing her stalked by that horse. He was even more amazed that she’d convinced him to let her try her weird training again.
Walking along the beach as if just taking a stroll, she completely disregarded both Hunter and the horse. The stallion turned at an angle, but Hunter could tell Finn was watching her with one wary eye. She continued walking, elaborately and disdainfully ignoring him. Like an inquisitive child, the stallion sidled closer.
Hunter’s fist closed around the makeshift club. Instinct told him to act quickly, spook the horse, but he forced himself to stay still. And watchful.
The horse moved closer and closer, inexorably drawn to the woman walking along the empty beach. Hunter could relate to that level of curiosity even as the tension churned in his gut. He tried not to think about the hired groom almost fainting from the pain in his shattered wrist.
The horse closed in near her shoulder. She sent Hunter the swiftest of looks, warning him not to interfere. His muscles quivered with the urge to act.
Eliza turned, quite calmly, and made a shooing motion with the rope. Snakelike, the rope sailed through the air and dropped on the sand. The horse immediately shied back, pawing the sand and dipping his head in irritation.
But he didn’t spook the way he had when Hunter had run at him. He wondered why Eliza would do that with the rope. Why provoke a dangerous animal? What was she thinking?
She continued walking, unconcerned. She reached a tall brake of reeds where the sand disappeared into the spongy estuary leading to the marsh. Making a wide turn, she headed back the way she had come, staying on the beach. To Hunter’s surprise, the horse followed her, though he gave her a wide berth.
After a few minutes, the stallion approached her obliquely again, and again she shooed him away, flicking the rope in his direction. She behaved like an exasperated mother flapping her apron at a wayward child. And like the wayward child, the horse never did lose interest, but kept trying to move in closer. They repeated the bizarre exchange several times more, always with the same result.
Then, with her shoulders square and her eye fixed on the horse, she moved abruptly toward the stallion.
Her motion alarmed Hunter. He took a step forward, then remembered his promise and made himself stop. Finn cantered in a tight loop, his attention fixed on her. Hunter expected him to disappear, but instead, he loped around and came back again. She kept pushing, taunting, startling him into flight over and over again. She never looked away from the horse, and the horse never looked away from her. It was an intricate dance of aggression and surrender, the partners intent on one another. The fascination was mutual.
Hunter kept expecting her to call for help, because the horse had moved in too close for comfort. Then he realized, with a start, that Eliza was controlling the situation completely. She dictated when the horse could come near, and when she wanted him to flee. There had to be a point to her actions but he couldn’t quite decide what that point was. She had the posture of ritual—the fierce attention of her stare, the dignified stance of her body, the solemn flick of her arm shooing him away.
After a few minutes, her gaze underwent a subtle change. Rather than staring so intently into the horse’s eyes, she looked away once. Then twice, thrice. 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