Free Gerrity'S Bride by Carolyn Davidson Page B

you’re used to, is it?” Matt’s wide palms were lodged against his hips, and his eyes glittered with unconcealed glee. Watching her and assisting her in mounting the gelding had been an experience he’d thoroughly enjoyed. Holding her left foot in his palm, he’d hoisted her easily, one hand at the waistband of the skirt she wore. Regrettably, he hadn’t been able to fit her as neatly with boots. The ones he’d found in his mother’s room were a size too large, but he’d stuffed the toes with batting that secured her feet for safety.
    “I’ve ridden astride before,” she told him. “But we box our reins and hold them with both hands.” Her palms rested on the horn of the saddle, and she scooted about in the cradle, seeking a spot where she would feel comfortable and yet in control of her mount. Her legs clung to the pony’s sides, and she spent a moment sending a prayer heavenward that she’d not disgrace herself on this first day. A vision of falling headlong in front of Matt or losing control of the horse she rode caused her to tighten her grip on the reins. Her horse pranced sideways, sensing her unease.
    “Let up on the reins!” Matt said sharply.
    “I am!” she retorted, attempting to soothe the animal. Ears back, the gelding was skittering toward the corral fence, and Emmaline realized she was facing her first test.
    With soft words and a gentle, even pressure on the reins, she turned the horse and then allowed him to move out at a quicker pace. Automatically, she rose to meet his quick trot, and behind her Matt howled his dismay.
    “No...not like that! You can’t post on a western pony. Just ride the trot...keep your rear end in the saddle and get used to the motion.” He shook his head in scorn at her eastern ways. “You’ll be laid up with liniment on your bottom at this rate,” he said, catching up with her as she rode beyond the confines of the corral.
    She glanced at him with as much dignity as she could muster, given the bouncing ride she was coping with. “I’d like to see you on a saddle with one of our big hunters between your legs and watch how you handle it!” she snapped.
    “You’ll never find me perched on one of those pancakes you call a saddle. We don’t ride for pure fun, lady. Out here, our horses are just equipment that allow us to do our work.”
    “Well, I certainly don’t call this ride pure fun.” But, gradually, she caught the rhythm of the animal she rode and settled deeper into the saddle, rolling more easily with his gait. One hand slid from the leather of the saddle to smooth the mane, which flowed against the dark neck of her mount.
    “Does this animal have a name?” she asked.
    He shrugged at her question. “I think Claude calls him Brownie.”
    Her hand ceased its motion.
    “Brownie?” The word dripped with derision. “You actually call a horse Brownie?”
    He swept her a mocking bow from his saddle, and his eyes sparkled. “Actually, I don’t call him anything. What would you call him back in Kentucky?”
    “Our horses all have names they’ve been registered with, and we usually call them by some part of that name. Mine is Rawlings Sweet Fancy. I call her Fancy.”
    “Well, today you’re riding a cow pony named Brownie, bred for cutting cattle,” he drawled, urging his horse into a slow lope. Hers followed suit, and she settled with relief against the saddle.
    Emmaline scanned the horizon, where low hills melted into each other, covered with a dark underbrush and dotted with taller scrub. Before them lay a sparse pasture where mares and foals were kept. Surrounded by a double strand of barbed wire, the mares appeared to have docilely accepted their confinement. But the foals were frolicking, kicking up their heels and racing to and fro, carefree in the hot sunshine with their mothers close by.
    “We’ll be working with these foals later today, if you want to watch,” Matt said, his gaze ever alert to her. She’d changed, thawing before