The Fake Husband. Lynnette Kent
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within the trailer, Imperator had heard his master’s voice. His shrill whinny ratcheted the anxiety of the other horses up several notches. Rhys got the ramp down and the door open just in time to see the big Thoroughbred hunch, elevating his hindquarters. With the sound of a cannon shot, both hooves impacted the wall of his stall.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Beside the trailer, Terry hung on to a lead rope as the bay gelding on the other end, taking exception to Imperator’s display, attempted to rear. By the sound of it, the horses still in the trailer with Imperator were on the verge of outright revolt. “Down, Abner. Down.”
Rhys climbed into the trailer to stand spread legged in front of his stallion. “Okay, big boy, we got the message. You want out. Can you be halfway cool about this?”
Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, Imperator was anything but cool. His winter coat of thick black hair was streaked with sweat. He didn’t travel well at the best of times, and this morning’s tranquilizer had worn off a couple of hours ago—the scheduled time of their arrival before the intervention of the storm.
“Settle down, son.” Rhys stroked a hand along the arch of Imperator’s neck. “Just a little uneven ground, here. You’re the best there is over hills.”
The horse pawed the floor with an impatient hoof, barely missing the toe of Rhys’s boot.
“Get you out, is what you’re saying. Right. Just don’t kill me in the process.” He untied the lead rope from the ring on the wall and stepped back as Imperator lunged against the padded breast bar keeping him in the stall.
“No.” Snapping the rope taut, Rhys put steel into his voice. “Back up. Back up,” he ordered, pressing his fist into the stallion’s chest. “You heard me. Back.” Imperator brought his own stern will to the argument, refusing to retreat. Snow blew into the trailer, along with a cold wind that froze Rhys’s rear end and stiffened the tense muscles in his back.
Giving in, however, would destroy what control he might possess over this powerful animal. He jerked the lead rope once more, pulling the horse’s head down until they met eye to eye. “Imperator. Back. Now.”
After a moment, Imperator conceded and shuffled back a step, then another. Rhys let him stand there for a few moments, submissive, to reinforce the lesson. “Okay. Now we’ll try again.” He released the breast bar. “Slowly. Walk on, Imperator. Walk.”
The horse stepped to the door of the tilted trailer and hesitated at the top of the ramp, staring out at the white world swirling around him. Snowflakes matted his mane and eyelashes immediately. Imperator snorted and shook his head.
“Yes, we were leaving this weather behind, weren’t we? The point of coming south was to get warm, right?” Rhys felt for his footing in the soft snow. “Among other things. Walk on.”
Steadily Imperator moved down the ramp. Once on the ground, a combination of fresh air and the prospect of freedom energized the big horse. Head high, eyes wide, he surveyed his new surroundings, shifting his body to take in a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Though he obviously would have preferred to gallop across the field to the trees where Abner was already tied up, Rhys held him to a walk on the unknown ground and tied him at the other end of the line from the bay. “You two be gentlemen. We don’t need any other complications this afternoon.”
When he turned back to the trailer, he saw Andrew trudging through the snow leading the two mares, Daisy and Lucretia, followed by Terry with Felix, the black-and-white pinto yearling.
“So,” he said as they came close, “we’ve got five horses to move down this lane in the snow. Any reason we can’t ride three and lead the other two?”
Terry shrugged. “Whatever we’re going to do, let’s be quick about it. I’m freezing my cheeks off out here.”
Rhys nodded. “I’ll take Abner and lead Imperator. Andrew can mount Daisy.” He gave the gelding a pat. Daisy and Abner were brother and sister, though a year apart in age, and shared the same even temperament. Riding either horse was like relaxing in a favorite armchair.
But Terry stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’d advise against riding her after all the upset. You can never tell what will cause a mare to drop her foal too early.”
“Damn.” Daisy was pregnant, and Terry was exactly right. But Felix was far too young to carry a rider. “That leaves us a mount short.”
Andrew looked around, his eyes bright. “I’ll ride Imperator.”
Rhys shook his head. “No.”
“I can. He—”
Keeping a firm grip on his temper, Rhys explained the obvious. “All we need is an Olympic champion running wild with you on his back, through a snowstorm, over unfamiliar, unseen ground. The way things are going today, both of you would end up with broken bones.”
An insolent—even contemptuous—sneer curled Andrew’s mouth. “I’m not the one who fell off him last.”
“That’s enough of that,” Terry said sharply. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy.”
Rhys swallowed against a surge of emotion he didn’t want to classify. “I have more weight to use and twenty years of experience to my advantage. That makes me a safer bet.” Avoiding the sullen outrage on Andrew’s face, he turned toward the truck. “I’ll lock up the rig.”
First he tried to pull the trailer wheels out of the hole again, thinking that without the weight of the horses, he might actually succeed. But the traction just wasn’t there. Even in low gear, the truck’s wheels spun uselessly against the weight behind it.
In the tack room of the trailer, he slung Imperator’s bridle over his shoulder and pulled saddle pads off the racks. He’d seldom ridden this horse bareback—Imperator needed the discipline of a saddle to keep him focused.
Then again, the last time he had been on Imp’s back, a saddle hadn’t kept either of them from disaster. For a moment, Rhys stood with his eyes closed, fighting back the memory of that last fall, his own sense of helplessness as the world literally spun around his head.
But that was the past. Today, he was making a start on his future. Their future, his and his son’s.
When he rejoined Terry and Andrew, they’d fashioned their horses’ halters into bridles without bits. Rhys gave them blankets and turned toward the stallion. Again Terry grabbed his sleeve. “I’ll ride him, if you want,” the Irishman said in a low voice. “You’ve no need to take such a risk, with your back still tender.”
“I’ll be okay,” Rhys assured the trainer, and himself. “Give me a leg up.” As they walked to open ground for mounting, Imp tossed his head and capered, obviously wanting a brisk run.
“Are you sure?” Terry asked once more.
“What do you think?” Rhys brushed the snow from Imp’s back before slinging the saddle pad across.
“That you’re a damn lunatic, just as I have said since you were five years old.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent. Ready?” He closed the reins inside his left fist.
Terry bent his back and held out his clasped hands for Rhys to put his knee into. “If you say so.”
Then, with three bounces on his right foot and a toss up from Terry, Rhys found himself, for the first time in two months, astride the great Imperator.
“All right?” Terry said, as Imp sidled and shied.
What other choice did he have? He could either admit he was all but puking with fear…or else sit here and ride the damn horse.
Rhys drew a deep, shaking breath. “All right.”
The Irishman retained Daisy’s lead rope as he ploughed through the deepening snow—at least eight inches by now—to Lucretia, a gray Thoroughbred named for the wicked glint in her eye. Andrew,