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.

      “Problems?” a cool voice inquired.

      Dany jerked around in the saddle, startled.

      Sam’s eyes narrowed and he lost that infuriating