squeeze three hundred a month out of it. It didn’t look possible and she was just saving face. Oh, her pride! How it plagued her.
Clay glanced over his shoulder at Streak. “I have to work things out with that horse. He’s too damn valuable and good-looking to lose.”
“How would you lose him?” she asked.
“Well, if he can’t be ridden, if he can’t compete, he can’t work. If he can’t be ridden, no rider will want him, and if he’s got a personality disorder and can’t be trained, he shouldn’t be bred. A breeder with half abrain wouldn’t buy his sperm. Can’t breed him just for his good looks.”
“The animal kingdom is so civilized that way,” she said under her breath.
He shot her a look and laughed outright. “Completely.” He put a booted foot on the lowest rung of the fence and hoisted himself over to her side, facing the pen. “I shouldn’t take a chance like that, showing him my back.” He leaned on the fence along with her and watched Streak run back and forth. “Just because he’s cutting me some slack doesn’t mean he can be trusted. He’s got a short fuse and it doesn’t take much to ignite it.”
“Why is he like that? All high-strung and cranky.”
“Could be many things,” Clay said with a shrug. “I do know he had that accident—fell in a ditch and wasn’t rescued for a long time. Hours. I think he almost drove himself crazy trying to find a way out, and then had to be pulled out mechanically. You can’t hoist a colt up in the air in the dark of night and not expect repercussions. He’s screwed up, that’s all. So how’s that make him so different from the rest of us? He just needs understanding.”
“That’s all it takes? Understanding?”
“A little experience with horses doesn’t hurt. It’s horses like him that make me want to do my best. He’s big, smart enough to learn, to bond with and work through his fears. Right now he’s hard to handle, but if he ever gets under control, he’s got unimaginable power and grace. Sixteen and a half hands at two years—tall for an Arabian. Not mellow. But there are lots of things an edgy stallion can get done that a mellow horsejust isn’t good for. Just like the rest of us, they come prepackaged with their very individual DNA.”
She didn’t respond to that. Eventually he turned toward her. “Who taught you to ride?” he asked.
“My grandfather and neighbors on the reservation. We were right next door to a big ranch and were friends with the owners till I was thirteen, when we moved away.”
Streak stopped running back and forth and began making wide, slow circles inside the corral. As he edged closer to the fence, Lilly made a clicking and humming sound, reaching a hand into the corral. Clay just watched curiously. Streak was looking at him expectantly, something he’d just begun to do in the past couple of days. It wasn’t quick, but on the fourth or fifth wide circle, the horse slowed dramatically. He tossed his head, dug at the ground a couple of times, then walked right up to Lilly.
Very softly, under his breath, Clay whispered, “No way…”
“Just a baby under all that temper and fuss,” she said gently, stroking his face, his neck. “Someone knows he’s pretty, that’s what. Never a good thing for a man—you’ll learn that. The women take to you at first, but they figure you out fast and then you’re on your own again. Shhhh, too handsome for your own good. A bit too strong. Go slowly, little man.”
Clay momentarily wondered, Who is she talking to? Him or me?
“There’s nothing much wrong with this horse except he isn’t comfortable with his own strength. He needs the right hand—gentle control. He needs a mommy who can handle him.”
“I thought he needed a good trainer….”
“Well, yeah,” she said, stroking the white blaze that ran down the bridge of his nose. “But like most pretty boys, he’s full of himself and he’s going to need a well-trained rider.
Clay glanced over his shoulder at Streak. “I have to work things out with that horse. He’s too damn valuable and good-looking to lose.”
“How would you lose him?” she asked.
“Well, if he can’t be ridden, if he can’t compete, he can’t work. If he can’t be ridden, no rider will want him, and if he’s got a personality disorder and can’t be trained, he shouldn’t be bred. A breeder with half abrain wouldn’t buy his sperm. Can’t breed him just for his good looks.”
“The animal kingdom is so civilized that way,” she said under her breath.
He shot her a look and laughed outright. “Completely.” He put a booted foot on the lowest rung of the fence and hoisted himself over to her side, facing the pen. “I shouldn’t take a chance like that, showing him my back.” He leaned on the fence along with her and watched Streak run back and forth. “Just because he’s cutting me some slack doesn’t mean he can be trusted. He’s got a short fuse and it doesn’t take much to ignite it.”
“Why is he like that? All high-strung and cranky.”
“Could be many things,” Clay said with a shrug. “I do know he had that accident—fell in a ditch and wasn’t rescued for a long time. Hours. I think he almost drove himself crazy trying to find a way out, and then had to be pulled out mechanically. You can’t hoist a colt up in the air in the dark of night and not expect repercussions. He’s screwed up, that’s all. So how’s that make him so different from the rest of us? He just needs understanding.”
“That’s all it takes? Understanding?”
“A little experience with horses doesn’t hurt. It’s horses like him that make me want to do my best. He’s big, smart enough to learn, to bond with and work through his fears. Right now he’s hard to handle, but if he ever gets under control, he’s got unimaginable power and grace. Sixteen and a half hands at two years—tall for an Arabian. Not mellow. But there are lots of things an edgy stallion can get done that a mellow horsejust isn’t good for. Just like the rest of us, they come prepackaged with their very individual DNA.”
She didn’t respond to that. Eventually he turned toward her. “Who taught you to ride?” he asked.
“My grandfather and neighbors on the reservation. We were right next door to a big ranch and were friends with the owners till I was thirteen, when we moved away.”
Streak stopped running back and forth and began making wide, slow circles inside the corral. As he edged closer to the fence, Lilly made a clicking and humming sound, reaching a hand into the corral. Clay just watched curiously. Streak was looking at him expectantly, something he’d just begun to do in the past couple of days. It wasn’t quick, but on the fourth or fifth wide circle, the horse slowed dramatically. He tossed his head, dug at the ground a couple of times, then walked right up to Lilly.
Very softly, under his breath, Clay whispered, “No way…”
“Just a baby under all that temper and fuss,” she said gently, stroking his face, his neck. “Someone knows he’s pretty, that’s what. Never a good thing for a man—you’ll learn that. The women take to you at first, but they figure you out fast and then you’re on your own again. Shhhh, too handsome for your own good. A bit too strong. Go slowly, little man.”
Clay momentarily wondered, Who is she talking to? Him or me?
“There’s nothing much wrong with this horse except he isn’t comfortable with his own strength. He needs the right hand—gentle control. He needs a mommy who can handle him.”
“I thought he needed a good trainer….”
“Well, yeah,” she said, stroking the white blaze that ran down the bridge of his nose. “But like most pretty boys, he’s full of himself and he’s going to need a well-trained rider.
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