Ruin startled, kicking out blindly. The hoof shattered the bucket. Oats exploded in a beige cloud raining down on the filthy straw. Basia didn't retreat.
If she backed up to the door, she was prey. She pushed forward stepping directly into his space, grabbing a handful of his thick tangled mane near the withers where he couldn't easily bite or kick. Ruin threw his head up dragging her off her feet for a second. Her boots scrambled in the muck.
Her bruised shoulder screamed, but she held on twisting her fist into the coarse hair. "Quit it." she barked, putting all the authority she could muster from the pit of her stomach into the shout. It wasn't a sweet whisper. It was a command.
The horse froze. He trembled violently, his skin twitching under her knuckles. He was waiting for the whip. He was waiting for the heavy boots and the yelling men with pitchforks.
Instead, Basia just stood there breathing heavily, hanging onto his mane. She didn't hit him. She just anchored him. They stood in the semi-darkness for a long minute.
The only sound was the harsh rasping breath of the horse and Basia's own ragged panting. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck icy in the damp air. The texture of his mane was greasy, stiff with dirt. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Basia slid her right hand up his neck.
Ruin flinched, his ears pinning back again, his head tossing. "No." she said firmly. She kept her hand there, a heavy, warm, unmoving pressure. Through the open top door, she could hear West muttering something to the Duke.
She ignored them. The world outside this 12 by 12 box didn't exist. There was only the heat of the horse, the smell of ammonia, and the beating of their hearts. It took 10 minutes to get the halter over his ears.