out to save herself, falling headfirst into the stream.
The sorrel, saddle slipped well to the side, trotted to a stop while horses parted around Catriona, hooves narrowly missing the ball she had rolled herself into. One or two riders slowed and stopped to ascertain she was unhurt. Catriona climbed soddenly to her feet, waving them on.
Grace’s horse waded in. Bending down, Grace caught the reins of Catriona’s mount, leading him back. She tossed the reins to Catriona as Derek Derrick, even farther back in the field than she, pulled up beside them where they stood on the pulverized bank.
“What happened?” he asked, looking from Grace to Catriona.
“My girth billets broke,” Catriona said, examining the hanging saddle. Her wet and mud-streaked face was grim. Kneeling, she ran her hands down her horse’s forelegs
“That brute’s fine,” Derek said. “You’re soaked through.”
It was cold down by the water. Catriona’s teeth were beginning to chatter, as she said, “I’ll live.” Her look implied that someone would not.
“I’ll go back with you, will I?” He offered a clean hanky, and Catriona took it, wiping her face and taking a better look at her saddle girth.
“How could both billets give at the same time?” Grace questioned, watching Catriona scrutinize what looked to Grace like cut leather.
After a moment Catriona said, “Perhaps it’s defective.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
“You seem to be having a lot of accidents,” Grace commented.
“And you always seem to be around when I’m having them.”
This was such an unreasonable retort that Grace was momentarily at a loss for an answer. She noticed that Derek seemed to be trying to catch her eye.
“I’ve got this under control,” he assured her. “Why don’t you rejoin the field? No point all of us missing out on the kill.” Maybe he thought Grace was aggravating the situation, or was every woman on Derek’s menu? Grace gave him an “E” for Effort. Catriona was liable to eat him alive.
“Go ahead,” he urged, as she hesitated. “I’m not that keen on—”
He broke off as a large brown fox came splashing across the shallows of the stream, passing within a few feet of them. The three humans exchanged looks.
It occurred to Grace that she was supposed to shout “Tally ho” or wave her cap to indicate having spotted the quarry, but the sight of the fox, trotting as fast as his legs would carry him, pink tongue hanging…
“Tally ho baaaaack!” Shouts echoed across the water. Horses and riders wheeled, hooves kicking up clots of grass and mud as the pack came thundering back, dogs baying outrage as they cut through riders. The notes of a hunting horn drifted over the churning surface.
Catriona hastily led her mount downstream as a tidal wave of water, horses and dogs crashed past.
Since Catriona was unhurt and more than a match for Derek, and since Grace wasn’t wanted by either Catriona or Derek, she decided she might as well rejoin the hunt. Saluting the other two, she kicked the mare forward into the plunging mass of bodies lumbering back up the hillside. A final glance over her shoulder showed Derek dismounting to join Catriona on the stream bank.
By now Grace felt the effects of her strenuous ride, especially in her legs and tailbone. Her arms ached. Her—recalling Peter’s smart-assed comment—“poetic nook” ached. They had been riding hard for more than ninety minutes; she estimated they had covered well over ten miles. This was probably the hardest riding that Grace had ever done. She was tired and chilled and, having had a good look at the fox, wasn’t keen to see it slaughtered.
In full cry the pack retraced their course across meadow and field, over the stone wall and down the rocky hills. When they reached the woods, the hounds lost the scent. The sound and fury of the hunt seemed to dissolve into green silence. Horses and hounds moved through the trees. Twigs snapped. A horse
The sorrel, saddle slipped well to the side, trotted to a stop while horses parted around Catriona, hooves narrowly missing the ball she had rolled herself into. One or two riders slowed and stopped to ascertain she was unhurt. Catriona climbed soddenly to her feet, waving them on.
Grace’s horse waded in. Bending down, Grace caught the reins of Catriona’s mount, leading him back. She tossed the reins to Catriona as Derek Derrick, even farther back in the field than she, pulled up beside them where they stood on the pulverized bank.
“What happened?” he asked, looking from Grace to Catriona.
“My girth billets broke,” Catriona said, examining the hanging saddle. Her wet and mud-streaked face was grim. Kneeling, she ran her hands down her horse’s forelegs
“That brute’s fine,” Derek said. “You’re soaked through.”
It was cold down by the water. Catriona’s teeth were beginning to chatter, as she said, “I’ll live.” Her look implied that someone would not.
“I’ll go back with you, will I?” He offered a clean hanky, and Catriona took it, wiping her face and taking a better look at her saddle girth.
“How could both billets give at the same time?” Grace questioned, watching Catriona scrutinize what looked to Grace like cut leather.
After a moment Catriona said, “Perhaps it’s defective.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
“You seem to be having a lot of accidents,” Grace commented.
“And you always seem to be around when I’m having them.”
This was such an unreasonable retort that Grace was momentarily at a loss for an answer. She noticed that Derek seemed to be trying to catch her eye.
“I’ve got this under control,” he assured her. “Why don’t you rejoin the field? No point all of us missing out on the kill.” Maybe he thought Grace was aggravating the situation, or was every woman on Derek’s menu? Grace gave him an “E” for Effort. Catriona was liable to eat him alive.
“Go ahead,” he urged, as she hesitated. “I’m not that keen on—”
He broke off as a large brown fox came splashing across the shallows of the stream, passing within a few feet of them. The three humans exchanged looks.
It occurred to Grace that she was supposed to shout “Tally ho” or wave her cap to indicate having spotted the quarry, but the sight of the fox, trotting as fast as his legs would carry him, pink tongue hanging…
“Tally ho baaaaack!” Shouts echoed across the water. Horses and riders wheeled, hooves kicking up clots of grass and mud as the pack came thundering back, dogs baying outrage as they cut through riders. The notes of a hunting horn drifted over the churning surface.
Catriona hastily led her mount downstream as a tidal wave of water, horses and dogs crashed past.
Since Catriona was unhurt and more than a match for Derek, and since Grace wasn’t wanted by either Catriona or Derek, she decided she might as well rejoin the hunt. Saluting the other two, she kicked the mare forward into the plunging mass of bodies lumbering back up the hillside. A final glance over her shoulder showed Derek dismounting to join Catriona on the stream bank.
By now Grace felt the effects of her strenuous ride, especially in her legs and tailbone. Her arms ached. Her—recalling Peter’s smart-assed comment—“poetic nook” ached. They had been riding hard for more than ninety minutes; she estimated they had covered well over ten miles. This was probably the hardest riding that Grace had ever done. She was tired and chilled and, having had a good look at the fox, wasn’t keen to see it slaughtered.
In full cry the pack retraced their course across meadow and field, over the stone wall and down the rocky hills. When they reached the woods, the hounds lost the scent. The sound and fury of the hunt seemed to dissolve into green silence. Horses and hounds moved through the trees. Twigs snapped. A horse
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