The Kill (24 page)

Far too quickly, they reached the end of the field, and Manning twisted in the saddle and looked back at her as he brought Henry to a walk. He must have read the look on her face, because he flashed a broad smile. “I told you Braveheart was a pleasure to ride.”

“I love him. He must be a blast to hunt.”

“He is—hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Abigale brushed her fingertips across each cheek. “The wind made my eyes water.”

Manning knew better; she could read it in the tender look her gave her. “You should hunt him while you’re here.”

“Maybe I will.”

He swung open the gate into the next pasture and waited for her to ride through. “They put in a cross-country course up by the vineyard. Want to hop him over a couple of jumps?”

Jumping Braveheart was like flying in slow motion. He didn’t have the speed of a thoroughbred, but his huge stride gobbled up the distance and he sailed over each fence as if it were just another canter stride.

“It feels like I’m sitting on a couch,” Abigale said with a laugh as she pulled him up next to Manning.

He smiled. “That’s why Richard bought him. His back was starting to bother him and he needed a comfortable ride. Richard didn’t like to admit he was in pain, except maybe to Mother, but I noticed he was choosing to hunt Braveheart more and more. He pretty much backed off on hunting Henry, except when he was leading second field and wasn’t going to jump much.”

“Is Henry green over fences?”

“Not in terms of quitting. Henry will jump anything you point him at. But he’ll pick a long spot or add another foot or so to the height of the jump if he thinks it looks spooky. It’s hard to sit him when he overjumps like that, but he’s a phenomenal athlete. He should probably be an open jumper rather than a field hunter.”

He gathered up the reins. “Want to see him over a fence?”

“Sure.”

Manning trotted a low log jump, then let Henry canter to a hedge. The horse slid over the jump, quick and catlike.

“Wow, his knees were up around his ears!” Abigale exclaimed.

“Watch what he does over a bigger fence,” Manning said, cantering toward an oxer that looked to be a good four feet high with a three-foot spread.

Henry’s ears pricked forward and he leaned into the bridle. “Easy,” Manning murmured, checking him back. She could see that the horse wanted to leave long, but Manning steadied him and made him wait. They hit the perfect spot and Henry arced gracefully over the jump, clearing the front rail by at least eight inches, his front legs folded tight and square. As he stretched across the oxer, Abigale heard a muffled
pffttt
. An instant later, she saw the girth dangle beneath the horse’s belly.

The events after that seemed to happen in slow motion. Henry landed and scooted away from the jump, his head low between his front legs. Manning worked to get Henry’s head up but seemed unaware that the girth had broken.

“The girth!” Abigale shouted.

“What?” He turned his head to look at her, and in that moment Henry kicked up his heels and let out a buck that sent Manning and the saddle flying. It looked to Abigale as if Manning was launched ten feet in the air before plummeting to the ground.

Manning’s right forearm took the brunt of the blow; then his head smacked the ground, hard, as the momentum slammed him onto his back. His velvet hunt cap flew off and tumbled away. Manning still gripped the reins in his left hand as he was dragged on his back, bumping across the field behind the fleeing horse. Abigale heard herself scream.

Manning jerked the reins and Henry rocked back on his haunches. For an instant it looked like the horse would stop, then the right rein snapped near the bit; the thoroughbred kicked out and shot back into a gallop, ripping the broken reins from Manning’s grasp.

“God
damn
it!” Manning rolled to one side, then scrambled to his feet.

Abigale trotted Breaveheart over to him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He raised his arm, winced, then gestured toward Henry. The horse was on a flat-out run, still trailing the broken reins, racing toward the tree line at the far end of the field. “You have to stop him. He’s running toward Foxcroft Road.”

“Isn’t the field fenced in?”

“There’s a coop. He’ll jump it.” Manning’s breath came in short gasps, the color drained from his face. “If he gets to the road, God only knows where he’ll end up.”

Abigale gathered her reins but hesitated. “I don’t feel right leaving you here all alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“Manning—”

“I’m fine. I just got the wind knocked out of me. Now go!”

H
enry slowed when he got to the tree line, and Braveheart’s huge, galloping stride quickly ate up the distance between them. The thoroughbred screamed as he trotted along the fence, looking for a means of escape. Braveheart seemed to kick into overdrive and whinnied to his stable mate, a deep, throaty call that heaved his sides against Abigale’s legs. Henry swung his head in their direction, just long enough to raise Abigale’s hopes that he might stay in the field; then the horse found the coop, popped over, and galloped out of sight.

Abigale was close, no more than ten strides from the coop, when she heard the screech of brakes, tires squealing against asphalt. She sat back and tried to pull up Braveheart, but he grabbed the bit in his mouth and plowed for the jump.

“Whoa!” Abigale yanked on the reins, but she might as well have been a fly on his back for all the reaction she got. All she succeeded in doing was to throw him off stride.

“Damn it,” she muttered, her breath rushing out with a hiss. Her long absence from the saddle had caught up to her. No way seventeen years ago would she have let this horse—
any
horse—run her to a jump.

Braveheart came in tight to the coop and managed to clear it, but tossed her out of the saddle. She lost both stirrups, landing hard on the pommel. Pain shot through her crotch, bringing tears to her eyes.

The big horse must have sensed she was off balance and seemed to stall in mid-stride, allowing her to wiggle back into the saddle and slip both feet in the stirrups. She gathered Braveheart at a walk and blew out a shaky breath.

“Good boy,” she murmured, patting him on the neck.

They were on a narrow path, the muddy surface littered with Henry’s deep hoof prints. Through the thicket of trees, she caught a glimpse of a silver pickup truck stopped on the road about twenty feet ahead, then heard the
putt-putt-putt
of a diesel engine and the shrill yapping of dogs. Abigale trotted the remaining distance to the road, dreading what she would find.

The driver’s door hung open and a slim woman stood with her back to them by the front of the truck, hands on the hips of her faded jeans. Three terriers danced around her feet. She spun around as Braveheart’s steel shoes clomped onto the paved road.

“He went that way,” the woman called, shielding her eyes with one hand and pointing at a gravel drive on the opposite side of the road.

Abigale saw angry tire marks on the asphalt behind the truck, but the front of the vehicle appeared to be undamaged. “He wasn’t hit?”

“No, thank God. I was able to brake in time.” Her voice had the slight trace of an accent. French, Abigale guessed.

“Where does that lane lead?” Abigale asked. The drive was wide enough for only one vehicle at a time, with narrow grass shoulders on both sides that ran abruptly into wobbly-looking American-wire fencing. Dense woods flanked the lane on the left and a pasture ran along the right. Abigale saw a round metal trough perched in the center of the pasture at the top of the hill. Black cattle grazed knee-deep in the yellow-green grass.

“It’s the back entrance to Beaver’s Ridge Farm. They only use it to access this cow pasture.”

“Is there a gate?”

The woman shook her head slowly. Sunlight filtering through the trees caught glints of gold in her spiky dark hair. “There is, but I don’t think they’re religious about keeping it closed. There’s a cattle guard to keep the cows in. And a people gate next to it, so riders can get through. But it’s probably hit-or-miss whether or not the vehicle gate across the drive is closed.”

Abigale felt a lump form in her chest. “Great.”

“Think he’ll try to jump the cattle guard?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hope he has more sense than that,” she replied. “Want me to stay here in case he heads back this way and gets past you?”

Abigale crossed the road and eyed the narrow lane. “If he stays in the fenced lane, I think I’ll be able to get him. But would you mind checking on his rider? He took a pretty bad fall. He insisted he wasn’t injured, but I’m worried about him.”

“Of course. Where is he? Right there at Seven Chimneys?”

“Yes. In the jumping field.”

“You got it. Just let me put my dogs back in the truck and pull it off the road.”

Abigale trotted Braveheart down the lane, praying that Henry did have good sense. “Thank you, God,” she whispered when she saw that the vehicle gate hung wide open but the horse hadn’t jumped the cattle guard. Henry stood next to the people gate at the end of the lane, gazing over the fence at the herd of cattle. As Abigale neared the horse, she saw his glossy black coat was crusted with sweat down his neck and between his hind legs.

“Good boy,” she said softly. Henry nickered at Braveheart and showed no inclination to flee when she grabbed the end of the broken reins. She removed her belt and looped it through the ring on his snaffle bit as a lead shank. Henry walked quietly alongside Braveheart, head low and relaxed, as she led him back down the lane.

As she topped a slight rise, she saw the woman’s silver truck bouncing up the lane toward her. The woman must have spotted her, because the truck braked to a stop. The passenger door flew open and Manning hopped out as the engine cut off.

“He’s okay,” Abigale called.

Manning nodded that he’d heard, then turned and spoke to the woman in the truck. The driver’s door opened and the woman climbed out, shooing back the dogs as she eased the door shut. She walked to the bed of the truck, returning a moment later with a halter and lead rope. Manning reached out for it but she shook her head. Abigale was close enough to see the scowl darken Manning’s face, the stubborn thrust of his jaw, but he withdrew his hand, too much of a gentleman to argue, she guessed.

As Abigale pulled the horses up near the truck, the terriers scampered across the front seat, yapping ferociously. She felt the lead go tight as Henry jerked his head up and started to jig. The woman shushed at the dogs, succeeding in silencing them for all of about five seconds.

“Terriers. Don’t you love them?” she said, stepping forward and slipping the halter over Henry’s head.

Abigale smiled as the dogs scrambled over each other in the driver’s seat, juggling for position as they lunged at the window. “What breed are they?”

“Cairn. Fearless little buggers. Too smart for their own good.”

Manning shot a look at the dogs as he walked over to Abigale. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m perfectly fine.” She tilted her head toward Henry. “I don’t think Henry hurt himself. He seems to be walking okay.”

Manning squatted beside the thoroughbred and ran his hand down each leg. Seeming satisfied, he rose and grasped the lead shank near the halter, above where the woman had hold of it.

“I’ve got him,” Manning said.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shrugged and backed away, letting the lead slip through her fingers.

“I called the barn,” Manning said. “Michael’s on his way with the trailer. We can load up down by the road.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll meet you down there.” He led Henry onto the grass strip to get around the truck, ignoring the way Henry snorted and shied at the frenzied dogs.

“He’s in a mood,” Abigale said quietly.

“Male pride rearing its ugly head, I imagine,” the woman replied. “I’m Michelle de Becque, by the way.”

“I’m Abigale Portmann. Thanks so much for your help.”

“No problem.” Michelle stepped to the side and motioned for Abigale to go first. “You go on. I’ll turn around up in the pasture and meet you by the road. I’ve got his saddle in my truck.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s hurt, you know,” Michelle said as Abigale started to ride off.

“Who?”

“Prince Charming. His right arm. I’d put money on it being broken, considering the way he’s babying it.”

Abigale looked down the drive at Manning and realized for the first time that he was leading Henry from the off side, using his left arm. He was left-handed, which was probably why she hadn’t noticed earlier that he wasn’t using his right arm.

“He’d trekked across the field, lugging his saddle, and was almost to the road by the time I met up with him,” Michelle continued. “I spotted right off that he was protecting his right arm and tried to get him to let me carry the saddle. But it was like my offer fell on deaf ears.”