"Mr. Reed, does he usually let you handle his bridle?"
"Aye, Miss. Provided nobody's in a hurry."
"Would you stand nearby? Please don't approach him yet."
Thomas nodded and moved toward the gate. James remained beside Emma, his gloved hands resting against the weathered wood.
"You seem remarkably certain of yourself, Miss Carter."
"I'm not certain at all." She glanced at him. "That's why I don't want anyone guessing with a horse this frightened."
His expression changed slightly. Emma returned her attention to Storm. She had spent enough years beside her father's forge to recognize the difference between an animal that resisted work and one that anticipated pain: the first might argue; the second watched every approaching hand. Storm watched hers.
"May I enter the yard, Your Grace?"
"Is it safe?"
"Not entirely. But I won't go near him unless he allows it, and Mr. Reed knows him better than I do."
James considered the stallion's trembling legs. "Very well. Thomas, remain at the gate and help her if she asks. Captain Vale, keep the others back."
Emma slipped through the entrance and stopped several yards from Storm. She turned slightly, avoiding a direct approach, and let her arms hang loosely at her sides.
"There now," she murmured. "Nobody's coming to climb on your back."
Storm's ears flicked toward her voice. She waited. Somewhere beyond the yard, a hammer struck an anvil in the estate forge; the familiar sound steadied her breathing.
"You've had quite enough of gentlemen for one morning, haven't you?" she whispered.
Storm lowered his head an inch, then raised it again when a spectator shifted behind the fence. Emma stopped speaking until the man moved away. She took one slow step sideways, leaving the horse an open path toward his stall. He did not follow, but he did not retreat.
"That's all right," she whispered. "You don't owe me anything."
James heard the words from the gate. They were ordinary words spoken without ceremony, yet they carried a gentleness he had not heard in this yard for a very long time. Henry had spoken to his horses much the same way. James gripped the fence until the rough wood pressed through his gloves.
Inside the enclosure, Emma waited for Storm to turn his head toward her. When he did, she extended one hand without reaching for him. The stallion stretched his muzzle forward, sniffed her fingers, and withdrew. She remained still. A minute passed, then another.
At last, Storm approached far enough to investigate her hand again. Emma let him smell it before gently touching the side of his neck. His skin twitched beneath her fingers.