muttered something about having work to do and disappeared into the stable office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Shaking his head, Ross turned to collect the first saddle and bridle.
After working Bishop in the arena for an hour, he saddled Ginger and set off to explore the countryside, thankful to be free for once from Sarahâs nervous awkwardness and Leoâs sullen presence.
He made his way down the lane behind the Manor and past some farm cottages. When a heavily built German Shepherd came leaping and snarling to the end of its chain as he passed, Ross instinctively tightened his grip on Ginger, remembering her sudden panic with Sarah. But nothing seemed further from her mind today. She remained docile, almost lazy, her long ears flopping back and forth with the movement of her stride. This was how she normally behaved. Even when jumping she was scarcely more animated, clicking her toes over each fence, often bringing a light pole down as she skimmed over.
Ross relaxed and turned his attention to the beauty of the Wiltshire countryside. It was early summer and the leaves still looked fresh and new. Birds sang and the sun was warm. After the vast unchanging tracts of land in parts of his native America, impressive as they were, Englandâs leafy lanes, copses and green fields enchanted Ross. They seemed somehow intimate; they narrowed life down to more manageable proportions. Lindsay had often said that America made her feel insignificant, like looking up into the night sky. With a surprising twinge of loneliness, Ross realised how much he was missing her and wondered how soon she would return to England. She still had three months of the planned year to run, but had mentioned the possibility of cutting her visit short.
As he rode down a narrow bridleway and into the shelter of a valley the sun became quite hot and flies began to buzz around both horse and rider. Ross broke a whippy branch from a willow tree and used it to fan his face. Ginger swished her tail and shook her head.
âThe flies bothering you too, girl?â he asked, and leaned forward to flick the leafy branch round her ears.
She stopped dead, her body taut and quivering.
âWhat the . . . ?â Ross laughed. âCome on, girl. Stop messing me about.â
Ross didnât normally carry a whip out hacking, he didnât find it necessary, but now he wished he had one. In spite of his urging her with legs and voice, the chestnut mare refused to budge. Exasperated, he stung her with the twig in his hand.
With a high-pitched squeal the mare bolted.
When a horse is hell-bent on running there is little any rider, however strong, can do to stop it. Ginger was no exception. Catching him unprepared, she ripped the reins through his fingers and ran. The bottom of the valley was reached in no time and she floundered in the boggy stream that ran through it, almost pitching Ross over her head. He threw his weight back and she leapt clear of the soft ground, heading at top speed for a copse halfway up the valley side. Ross searched ahead desperately for a gap in the trees large enough to admit a horse and rider at speed, and found none. Ginger showed no sign of stopping.
Ross contemplated baling out, but thoughts of several thousand poundsâ worth of showjumper charging riderless through the countryside and his own aversion to walking home kept him in the saddle. He abandoned attempts to slow the mare, throwing all his weight on to one rein instead, in an effort to turn her. Gradually she came round, and without slackening speed tore down the valley side again, through two gorse bushes without seeming to see them, and plunged into the bog once more.
At this point, lower down the valley, the bog was deeper and wider and as her forefeet sank into the mud, her momentum carried her body up and over to land heavily on her back. Ross was catapulted clear, hitting the soft ground with his shoulder and rolling to his feet,
After working Bishop in the arena for an hour, he saddled Ginger and set off to explore the countryside, thankful to be free for once from Sarahâs nervous awkwardness and Leoâs sullen presence.
He made his way down the lane behind the Manor and past some farm cottages. When a heavily built German Shepherd came leaping and snarling to the end of its chain as he passed, Ross instinctively tightened his grip on Ginger, remembering her sudden panic with Sarah. But nothing seemed further from her mind today. She remained docile, almost lazy, her long ears flopping back and forth with the movement of her stride. This was how she normally behaved. Even when jumping she was scarcely more animated, clicking her toes over each fence, often bringing a light pole down as she skimmed over.
Ross relaxed and turned his attention to the beauty of the Wiltshire countryside. It was early summer and the leaves still looked fresh and new. Birds sang and the sun was warm. After the vast unchanging tracts of land in parts of his native America, impressive as they were, Englandâs leafy lanes, copses and green fields enchanted Ross. They seemed somehow intimate; they narrowed life down to more manageable proportions. Lindsay had often said that America made her feel insignificant, like looking up into the night sky. With a surprising twinge of loneliness, Ross realised how much he was missing her and wondered how soon she would return to England. She still had three months of the planned year to run, but had mentioned the possibility of cutting her visit short.
As he rode down a narrow bridleway and into the shelter of a valley the sun became quite hot and flies began to buzz around both horse and rider. Ross broke a whippy branch from a willow tree and used it to fan his face. Ginger swished her tail and shook her head.
âThe flies bothering you too, girl?â he asked, and leaned forward to flick the leafy branch round her ears.
She stopped dead, her body taut and quivering.
âWhat the . . . ?â Ross laughed. âCome on, girl. Stop messing me about.â
Ross didnât normally carry a whip out hacking, he didnât find it necessary, but now he wished he had one. In spite of his urging her with legs and voice, the chestnut mare refused to budge. Exasperated, he stung her with the twig in his hand.
With a high-pitched squeal the mare bolted.
When a horse is hell-bent on running there is little any rider, however strong, can do to stop it. Ginger was no exception. Catching him unprepared, she ripped the reins through his fingers and ran. The bottom of the valley was reached in no time and she floundered in the boggy stream that ran through it, almost pitching Ross over her head. He threw his weight back and she leapt clear of the soft ground, heading at top speed for a copse halfway up the valley side. Ross searched ahead desperately for a gap in the trees large enough to admit a horse and rider at speed, and found none. Ginger showed no sign of stopping.
Ross contemplated baling out, but thoughts of several thousand poundsâ worth of showjumper charging riderless through the countryside and his own aversion to walking home kept him in the saddle. He abandoned attempts to slow the mare, throwing all his weight on to one rein instead, in an effort to turn her. Gradually she came round, and without slackening speed tore down the valley side again, through two gorse bushes without seeming to see them, and plunged into the bog once more.
At this point, lower down the valley, the bog was deeper and wider and as her forefeet sank into the mud, her momentum carried her body up and over to land heavily on her back. Ross was catapulted clear, hitting the soft ground with his shoulder and rolling to his feet,
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