She didn't know what to do with a quiet, observant kindness from a man who held her livelihood in his hands. Why? She asked suspiciously. Because a crippled breaker is of no use to me.
Henry replied smoothly. The smile vanished replaced by his usual guarded mask. But he didn't look away. And because I find myself entirely invested in seeing you win this particular fight.
Use it, Kelly. He turned and walked back toward the great house his boots cutting sharp lines into the frost hardened earth. Basia watched him go. Then she picked up the jar.
The glass was still warm from his pocket. December arrived with teeth. The ground froze solid, turning the mud of the paddock into jagged, ankle-breaking ruts. Ruin was no longer trying to kill her daily, but the truce was fragile.
He allowed Basia to saddle him. He allowed her to ride him out of the yard, but he was a coiled spring. Every shadow, every snapping twig in the woods made him drop his hindquarters and bolt. He didn't want to amble.
He wanted to run until his heart exploded. "He needs a job," Basia told Henry one morning. They were standing in the main barn, the smell of hot bran mash and sweet molasses heavy in the air. "He's bored.
Groundwork isn't enough anymore. He needs a stretch of open ground." Henry was inspecting the stitching on a bridle. He paused. "The ground is iron hard.