If he runs off with you and trips, he'll shatter a cannon bone and break your neck." "He won't trip. He knows where his feet are," Basia argued. She stepped closer, invading his space just a fraction. It was a habit she was developing, pushing back against his authority in small physical ways.
"You bought him to hunt. You bought him to jump. If you keep him boxed in this yard, he's going to revert." Henry looked down at her. He noticed, not for the first time, the stubborn set of her jaw and the sharp intelligence in her eyes.
"Fine. Saddle him. I'll ride out with you." An hour later, they left the estate grounds. Henry rode a magnificent dark bay thoroughbred, a horse that moved with fluid, arrogant grace and obeyed his lightest touch.
Basia rode the hurricane. Ruin was a nightmare. He side stepped, chomping furiously on the heavy iron bit, tossing his massive head and fighting Basia for every inch of rein. He jogged in place, his hooves cracking against the frozen dirt road like pistol shots.
Basia sat deep in the saddle, her hands low, using her core to absorb his frantic energy. Her thighs ached fiercely within the first mile. Henry watched her from the corner of his eye. He was waiting for her to snap, to lose her temper, and yank the horse's mouth.
But she didn't. She just kept a steady, unyielding pressure, talking to the beast in a low, rough murmur. They rode past the bare skeletal trees of the Northwoods, cutting across the frost-covered moors. The wind was brutal here, sweeping down from the hills to bite at their exposed faces.
"Where are we going?" Basia called out, her breath pluming white in the air. "South." Henry replied, pointing with his leather riding crop. "To the boundary." It took them another 20 minutes to reach it. When they broke through a line of dead pines, Basia saw it.