The Horsemaster's Daughter

She stood no more than thirteen hands high, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Yet she claimed she could tame this horse.

She was a liar, a cheater, a marshland bumpkin taking advantage of him.

“How much do you want for your services?” he asked suspiciously.

She frowned, then said, “The life of this horse, no more.”

“Right.” He snorted in disbelief.

“Why would I lie?” she asked peevishly. “Do you think I came out here expecting to meet some whiskeyed-up planter and the horse he beat half to death?”

“I never—” He stopped himself. It was pointless to argue. He needed to do what he should have done first thing that morning instead of listening to Noah. He eyed the landing. The scow was positioned just right for the horse to exit down the ramp to the hard-packed sand of the long, lonely beach. Hunter could simply take aim, shoot and leave the carcass lying on the beach to be taken out with the next tide.

“So let’s have a look at him,” the woman said, a brisk bossiness in her voice now. She reached for the latch of the pen.

He pushed her hand away. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” he demanded. “This animal is dangerous. Now, stand aside.” He grabbed his rifle and rammed the butt against his shoulder. “I need a moment to reload—”

A distinct sound interrupted him. He looked up in time to see his cartridges spin through the air, stark against the twilight sky, before plopping into the water about fifty yards out.

His first thought was one of amazement. He had never seen a woman throw so far. His second was one of fury. “No wonder you live like a hermit on this island. You’re completely mad.”

She flinched, a strangely animalistic movement, as if he had struck her physically. Then she glared at him, pain hardening into an anger to match his. “You are the one who can’t seem to hear. You won’t be shooting this horse.”

He anticipated her move and stepped in front of the gate. She made a sound of exasperation and bent down. Complete disbelief held him immobile just long enough for her to grab him around the ankle. She pulled up sharply, surprising him with her strength. Arms wheeling in the empty air, he fell backward over the gunwale of the scow and landed in the chilly shallows.

While he sat, half stunned, in the silty muck, she climbed up and spoke quietly to the horse. Then she reached over the side of the pen and untied the blindfold. The iron muzzle fell with a thunk. She lifted the latch of the gate, drew aside the bolt and opened the pen.

Cursing, Hunter sprang up. The stallion clattered down the ramp, frantic hooves throwing up a spume of blue-green water. The animal raced ashore, a sleek dark shadow moving with amazing speed. Hunter’s anger drained away as he stood knee-deep in water and saw, for the first time, the full power of the horse.

In a wave of strength and grace, the stallion ran across the ribbon of the beach, loping along as if made of water, one movement flowing seamlessly into the next. The length of his stride and his quickness convinced Hunter that if the sea storm had not driven this horse to madness, he would have been a champion beyond compare.

Still, Finn’s owners had sold him cheaply. Too cheaply. Perhaps he was mad from the start, and the agent in Ireland had failed to see that.

Something scuttled up Hunter’s leg. He jumped, brushing at a pair of quick, busy crabs. Then he waded ashore, the heavy sand sucking at his boots. He still had murder on his mind, but the stallion was out of range. He would murder her.

Eliza Flyte watched him, her mouth quirking suspiciously close to laughter.

If she laughed, he would do worse than simple murder.

She laughed.

And he did nothing but drip, and rage. And glare at her. And despite the insanity of the situation, he laughed too.

He laughed because there was nothing left to do. Because he was a widower with two children he didn’t know how to love, and a fortune he wasn’t able to repair. Because he was considered a rebel among his peers. Because he was raised to be a wealthy Virginia planter and he had become something entirely different. Because losing the stallion would be the final nail in his coffin.

The thought sobered him utterly. The horse would die in the wilderness. Finn was a stable-bred horse that had been raised as artificially as an orchid in a glass house. The purchasing agent in Ireland had sworn the yard did all but chew the Thoroughbred’s food for him. Such a creature had no notion of how to survive in the wild. The humane thing to do would be to hunt the poor animal down and put it out of its misery, but the very idea turned Hunter’s stomach sour.

“Well,” he said to the strange woman, who had finally managed to conquer her mirth and stood watching him expectantly. “You’ve certainly solved my problem for me. The horse’ll starve and thirst to death on this island all on his own.”

Her smile disappeared. Only when it was gone did he realize how attractive she was. She had full, moist lips and straight teeth, and a twinkle in her eye that hinted at a merry intelligence.

“I said I would tame him, and tame him I shall.” She had a weird accent, a combination of Virginia’s lazy drawl and something foreign, from the small shires of England, he guessed.

He regarded the chestnut shadow in the distance. The stallion was tossing his head and trotting to and fro, pausing now and then to browse in the odd spiky grasses that fringed the marsh.

“I see,” he said sarcastically. “And I suppose after he gets tired of being on his own, he’ll simply come knocking at your door.”

“You’re close to the truth,” she said. “Horses are herd animals. They naturally want to join with you. It’s their nature. Their instinct.”

“He’ll kill anything he encounters,” he promised her. “You’ve let Satan out of hell.”

She fixed him with an enigmatic stare. “Why do you assume his madness is a permanent state? That it can’t be healed?”

His mind flickered to events of the past and then recoiled. “Experience has taught me so.”

“Not me.” She started walking away.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“Home. It’s nearly dark and I’m hungry for my supper.”

The mere mention of food made his stomach cramp with need. He’d had nothing but whiskey all day, and at last the hunger had caught up with him. He eyed the scow and then the evening sky. It was too late to sail for home tonight. He was marooned on this wind-harried island with the most bizarre young woman he had ever met.

“I’d be obliged for a meal,” he said.

“I didn’t hear myself invite you,” she retorted, her voice growing as faint as her form in the distance.

He hurried to catch up to her. “I’ve money to pay.”

She kept walking, didn’t even glance at him. “I don’t want your money.”

He touched her arm. She yanked it away so quickly that she nearly stumbled over the vines snaking across the sand dunes. “Skittish, aren’t you?” he asked, torn between feeling intrigued and annoyed.

“Why should I trust you?” she fired back. “You’re a stranger. You’ve brought me a wounded horse, which you claim is not your fault, but how do I know you didn’t beat him until he went insane?”

Hunter was nearly out of patience. He planted himself in front of her, stopping her. “You took one look at the horse,” he said, “and you went all weird and misty-eyed, like you could read his mind. Take a look at me, Eliza Flyte.” He glared down at her. “Take a real good look and tell me you see a man who beats horses and crosses dangerous waters in an old scow just for sport.”

Her eyes narrowed, and in the flickering twilight he fancied he could feel her scrutiny probing at him. In the long, tense silence, broken only by the shudder of the wind and the lapping of the waves, he resisted the urge to squirm like a schoolboy.

“I don’t know what I’m seeing,” she said quietly. She gestured at the scow. “Have you any personal belongings you’ll be needing for the night?”

“For the night?”

“You know, things. You’re sleeping on the porch where I can keep an eye on you. So if you need something from your boat, get it now.”

“There’s only my gun,” he said. “And without shot, it’s no good to me at all.”

She made no apology. “Come, then. You’ll want to dry your clothes.”