Chase The Clouds

Sam pursed his mouth, casting a troubled glance in her direction. “Very carefully. We use the snaffle only when he shows in the dressage portion of the show.”

Dany gave him an incredulous look. “What on earth do you use, then?” It was beyond comprehension in her mind to ride an eventing horse without a bit in his mouth! Riding over a thousand pounds of horseflesh at twenty-five to thirty miles an hour over a grueling, dangerous course without the control of a bit was impossible to comprehend. No wonder Altair has injured his previous riders, she thought, experiencing a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“We use an aluminum hackamore, Dany.”

She searched her memory for the use of the training device. Hackamores were invented for the horse that wouldn’t carry a bit in its mouth. The rawhide or aluminum loop fit around the muzzle and when it was pulled on, it exerted pressure against sensitive nerve endings that lay on either cheek of the horse’s jaw. She gave Sam a distrustful look. “Is that why the riders have been injured?”

“No. Do you think I’d ask you to ride and train him if he wasn’t manageable?” he demanded.

She bristled. “At this moment, I think anything is possible! You bind me with a contract that was signed by my ex-husband and practically blackmail me to fly me out here to retrain this horse.” She was aware of the effort he was making to control his temper as his gray eyes darkened like ominous thunderclouds.

“I’m not in the habit of risking people’s lives, particularly a woman who I think can salvage my stallion and bring him into his own. I need you alive, not dead, Dany. Sure, he can be dangerous because of his past. But he’s responsive. Altair is not deliberately cruel or vicious. God knows, he ought to be, for what he’s suffered. But look at him. Does he look unsafe?”

As if listening to the heated conversation between them, Altair walked between them, head down, standing quietly while they glared across his back at one another. Dany put her hands on her hips in defiance.

“I won’t ride him unless he’s got a bit in his mouth, that’s final.”

“Fine. You find a way to do it, and we’ll both be happy. He’s extremely responsive to the hackamore, though.”

She shook her head. “Sam Reese, either you’re the most eccentric man I’ve ever met with an even more eccentric horse or—”

“We’re both unique,” he interrupted. His gaze lingered on her. “And so are you. You’re one of a kind, lady. Just the gal to help Altair to become the best Grand Prix jumper in the world.”

She didn’t know how to react to his backhanded compliments, and was continually uncomfortable beneath his warming, caressing gaze. “Tell me what else he has problems with,” she muttered. “The fly in the ointment, no doubt.”

“He doesn’t like water. He’ll damn near do anything to avoid it. Including dumping his rider into an oxer or earth bank.”

Dany looked over at him. “Did your riders quit, or were they killed?”

Sam managed a sour grin. “None killed. One got hurt pretty seriously, and he was out of action for two months. It was after Tony’s fall that I decided I wasn’t going to risk anyone’s life until I could get Richland Stables to honor its commitment.”

Dany frowned, allowing Altair to nuzzle her hair with his velvety nose. “Are you going to let me help you, big boy?” she asked the stallion, giving him a playful pat on the forehead. Altair backed away, snorting. A mare from another pasture whickered a greeting, and the sorrel thoroughbred raised his magnificent head, standing like a marble statue. He bugled out an answering call, the sound raucous and harsh to their ears. Sam smiled and slipped between the railings.

“That’s his way of making sweet talk to them.”

“He’s a nice-looking horse, Sam. So I can’t blame the mares for wanting to entice him over to their paddocks,” she grudgingly admitted.

He took her arm and led her down toward the stable. “We’ve got his yearling crop in here. I bred him to five of my best broodmares. Let’s see what you think of the results.” Dany reviewed the thoroughbred yearlings and stood in the passage between the large, roomy boxstalls with Sam. “That’s simply amazing,” she admitted. “There’s a uniformity in conformation I’ve rarely seen. Each one looks like a stamp of Altair.”

“Exactly. He’s prepotent as hell. I bred him to five different bloodlines to see how his genes would affect the mare’s breeding line. In every case, his stamp came out,” Sam said, sounding somewhat incredulous. “The legs on every yearling are absolutely straight. They’re bred to withstand the strain of jumping.”

Dany smiled. “And you can hardly wait for them to mature enough to put them on the circuit, right?”

He walked her out of the barn, and they ambled at a slow pace toward the house. The sun was barely edging the tip of the Sierras, sending streamers of light through the fog as the thickened mist began to evaporate. The cobalt blue sky turned a shade paler as the sun ascended across the peaks, promising another cool spring day. She was aware of his body only inches from her own, and once again, her skin prickled with a pleasurable tingle as his arm occasionally brushed against her.

Halting at the back porch, he pushed the hat off his forehead, watching her closely. “Well, what do you think? Is he reason enough to stay on?”

She avoided his gray eyes. Instead, she turned her back to him, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “Please don’t think my decision has anything to do with Altair’s conformation or potential, Sam.” She girded herself inwardly, closing her eyes tightly for a moment. “But I can’t stay. This is too strange an environment for me to stay here. I’m used to the Eastern circuit, and I’m familiar with the people and the land.”

“You’re the only woman capable of bringing Altair around,” he growled.

Dany gritted her teeth. The man was stubborn! Irritation stirred to life within her, and she compressed her lips and turned, meeting his fiery gaze. Part of her resolve disappeared immediately. Sam Reese was no longer pleasant-looking in any sense of the word. He was towering over her, his eyes an angry silver hue. She took a step back, feeling the masculine aura of strength so sharply that it made her dizzy.

“It’s not the training aspect that bothers me,” she managed, her voice strident.

“Then what the hell is it?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it, her sapphire eyes glittering with golden fire. Why did she want to escape? Was she running from Sam? Or her fear of having to ride in shows? She sensed her body’s own hungry needs that had lain dormant for over nine months. She didn’t want a careless affair with him. He was able to manipulate her as no other man ever had, and it frightened her thoroughly. “I’m turning your offer down, it’s as simple as that.”

Sam smiled savagely. “Nothing’s as simple as that, Mrs. Daguerre. Remember, there’s been a contract signed, and I’ll hold you to it if I have to.”

Her nostrils flared with contempt. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“What are you running from?” he asked, his voice suddenly lined with impatience. He reached out, grabbing her arm and drawing her near. “Sorry,” he breathed thickly, “but you’re too good a trainer and I need you for that horse out there. I don’t care what you’re running from, but you aren’t leaving this commitment. You’ll fulfill the obligations.”

Dany muffled a curse, jerking her arm away from his branding fingers of fire on her skin. “You—you bastard,” she hissed. “All right,” she blurted out in reckless abandon, “I’ll stay! But keep away from me while I’m training that horse. Do you hear me? I don’t want a thing to do with you!”

She rubbed her bruised arm, taking two more steps away from him. God, how she hated that composed, implacable look on his stony face. How had she led herself to think it was as simple as flying out to his ranch? His tenderness and care from the night before had thrown her off guard. Well, his true personality was now surfacing. He was just as arrogant and imperious as that stallion of his. Her lips curled away from her teeth. “I despise you for thinking you can run my life for me, Mr. Reese. You’re so used to molding everything to the way you want it. It’s obvious you come from generations of men who are used to getting their way. Well, you may get your way for a while, but as soon as I’m done with Altair, I’m leaving. And I don’t care if I have to run away in the dead of night to do it!”

Sam smiled lazily, beginning to relax. He pulled the brim of the cowboy hat down across his eyes. “If you leave, you’ll find yourself in high country full of cougar, bear and bobcat. And at this time of year, they’re coming out of a hard winter and they’re hungry. So forget that idea.”

Four

The next morning Dany woke up, determined to get to work on Altair. She threw on her hunt breeches, knee-high black riding boots, and grabbed her protective hard hat and leather gloves. Stopping in the kitchen, she borrowed a jar of molasses from Martha and headed determinedly out to the stud barn.

Cowboys dressed in blue chambray shirts, dusty, dirty jeans or well-worn chaps looked with mild interest as she walked briskly into dark passages between the boxstalls. Dany halted for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness. She found Altair in his stall and placed the jump saddle and other riding equipment down beside the ties. She still felt testy and belligerent from her confrontation with Sam yesterday, and she sent a warning glance at one cowboy who started to say something and then, apparently, thought better of it.

Altair whickered gently as she approached. “Just like him, aren’t you?” she whispered. “All sweet talk on the outside and mean on the inside. Come on, it’s time for us to get acquainted.”

The big red stallion stood quietly in the ties in the middle of the aisle as she brushed him down vigorously until his copper coat shone like a newly minted penny. Two ranch hands sitting down at the end of the stable watched her in silence, each chewing on a wad of tobacco lodged in his weather-hardened cheek. Dany was positive that they had never seen someone in English riding clothes, and that irritated her even more. Damn Sam Reese! The breeze was slight, stirring through the barn, as she rummaged around until she located the tack room. In there, she found Altair’s hackamore hanging and a snaffle bit beside it. Fashioning a double bridle composed of the snaffle along with the hackamore, Dany brought out the bridle and opened the jar of thick, sweet molasses, spreading the brown syrup onto the snaffle.

“You’re going to like this,” she muttered. Approaching the curious stallion, Dany placed her right arm between his ears, holding the headstall. With her left hand, she held the snaffle close to the stallion’s mouth. His large nostrils flared as he picked up the sweet scent.

“That’s right,” she crooned, putting the snaffle in the palm of her hand and resting it on his lips. “Easy…easy…” she whispered as he opened his mouth and began licking the molasses off the bit.

Dany gave a sigh of relief as she deftly slid the snaffle into the stallion’s mouth, placing the hackamore over his nose and then sliding the headstall behind his small ears. Altair stood there, chomping in an exaggerated fashion as he mouthed the snaffle. Dany remained near, crooning softly to him and patting him. She followed the same procedures ten more times until Altair docilely accepted the bit. The next stage of the plan would be more dangerous; she would not only have to get used to the horse but also balance control through the hackamore and snaffle. Would he rear or flip over backward on her if she pulled too hard on the reins that were attached to the snaffle? Chances of injury on a horse “sun-fishing” on her were great. It would mean leaping off his back at exactly the right moment or getting crushed under a thousand pounds of flailing horse. She slipped the snaffle bit into Altair’s mouth one more time and the bridle over his large, broad head and snapped the throatlatch closed. She decided to use a strap attached from the cinch to the noseband known as a standing martingale. It would stop Altair from jerking his head up and hitting her.

Taking a riding crop, Dany slipped it over her wrist and drew on the thin riding gloves. She recalled times when the palms of her hands had been cut open by horses who had pulled the leather reins sharply through her grip. Wearing the gloves protected her hands, plus it gave her more grip with the sometimes slippery reins. Fixing the hard hat firmly on her head, she buckled it tightly, the chin strap snug against her jaw. Looking up at Altair, she muttered, “Okay, big boy, let’s find out what you’re made of. If it’s anything like that owner of yours, this ought to be one heck of an experience for both of us.”

Altair brushed her shoulder affectionately, beginning to prance airily as she led him out into the bright afternoon sunshine. He tossed his head, sensing the excitement of his rider. Dany looked around and decided to ride him in a pasture that seemed free of fences at the other end. If she did get in trouble with him, then there was open area to deal with the situation. She placed the toe of her boot in the stirrup, leaping easily upon the stallion’s broad back. Altair sidled, tucking his head and humping his rear playfully. Dany monitored the pressure on the hackamore, forcing him to stop the small, harmless bucks. All cross-country horses were bred hot, and few could stand still for more than one second if they were asked. Altair was no different.

The stallion felt good between her tightly clenched thighs, and she carefully moved her calves against his well-sprung barrel, gently putting pressure against him, asking him to move out at a slow trot. A small smile of appreciation smoothed the frown on her features as he moved out in a fluid, unbroken stride. His nostrils flared, drinking in great draughts of wind, as she moved him in large, lazy circles, checking his sense of balance, of motion and flexibility, against the hackamore. He responded beautifully.

For twenty minutes, Dany tested Altair’s weaknesses and strengths, finding him an utter delight to ride. Although tall for a rider, she looked like a miniature jockey astride the giant copper stallion, his flaxen mane and tail flowing like white silk behind him. Dany spotted several oxer jumps a good two miles away. Sitting deeply in the seat of the saddle, she pushed downward with her spine, giving him the signal to gallop. Altair surged forward in an unbroken, pounding rhythm. His length of reach was phenomenal, because his legs were long in proportion to his extreme height. The ground began to blur into a ribbon of green, and the wind created by the thoroughbred’s speed sheared against Dany’s face, causing her eyes to water.

Dany began to pull Altair in, applying just a slight pressure against the snaffle and more against the hackamore as the oxers came up quickly. She reached down, touching his sleek neck and shoulder, checking for sweat; there was none. She was pleased that he was in such good condition and began to croon to the stallion, asking him to slow his pace even more. Raising up off the saddle, knees pushed inward against the small patch of leather, Dany leaned forward on his withers to check his speed even more, her face inches from his arched neck. A small puddle of water appeared over the next small rise, and Altair was suddenly airborne, popping over the puddle as if it were a jump. Dany’s neck snapped back and she felt her body being pulled back by the mighty thrust of power from the unexpected leap. Her thighs tightened like a steel trap against the saddle. Altair landed heavily, startled by the sudden shift of his rider’s weight. She slammed forward, her face smacking into the crest of the stallion’s neck. For a moment, blackness threatened to engulf her, but she hung on, gripping his mane.

“Whoa,” she croaked, sitting up and pulling him to a stop. Her nose ached abominably, and she shook her head, trying to escape the pain that radiated outward from it. She reached up with her gloved hand. “Oh, damn,” she muttered, staring at the blood on her fingers.