Free Race Girl by Leigh Hutton Page A

then he turned back to Dennis.
    His cordless was ringing again, but he wasn’t reaching for it. ‘Go see if you can catch her,’ Dennis said, his scowl softening a whisker. ‘She’s a right brat of a thing—I’m not chasing her all over the paddock, strainin’ my back again. If you can catch her, you can call her yours.’
    Tully ran to the paddock, the halter over her shoulder, lead rope ready to go. She ducked around the end of the timber fence, through the barbed wire, scanning the neighbouring paddock to make sure there weren’t any huge bulls or other dangers lurking there. Then she made her way through the prickly hitchhikers and other weeds to the back fence of the filly’s paddock.
    The filly watched Tully, but took a few steps back, keeping her distance. Tully stopped at a middle post, wishing she’d brought some treats to offer. She glanced down at the dirt, desperate to score some grass to at least entice the filly’s interest. She pulled a long stream of air into her lungs, settling herself, praying her nerves would stay at bay. She had nothing to hand to entice this horse towards her, and yet, she needed to get her. Now.
    Tully’s fingers gripped the halter and before she’d even taken a breath to consider if it was a wise or safe move she’d ducked into the paddock, making her way over the rocky, uneven ground towards the filly. She clucked her tongue, raising her hands and lowering her shoulders into a passive stance. ‘It’s okay, sweetie,’ she said gently, locking eyes with the horse.
    The filly raised her nose, snorted and pranced in a circle, tossing her head, jumping back a pace. Tully didn’t retreat. ‘It’s okay, girl,’ she said, approaching in slow, small steps. ‘I’m here to help you.’ She held out her hand as if she had a treat, hoping the filly would at least find the salt of her sweat appealing.
    Tully stopped when the filly reared. Was she preparing to charge? Her heart stopped, expecting the horse to either bolt or come at her with the intention of running her down.
    Tears of relief flooded Tully’s body when the filly dropped her head and trotted straight up to her, stopping square and sniffing her hand first, then the halter, lead rope, Tully’s hair, her cheek. Tully shook with elation and disbelief and a sudden fear of what she was taking on – of this new animal in front of her and this place she’d found her in. Her hand rose slowly and lifted the lead rope carefully over the filly’s neck.
    The filly hopped back when Tully first attempted to get her nose into the halter, but before Tully’s mind had fully processed what was happening she was leading the filly across the paddock to the gate where a grinning Bucko waited.
    He handed Tully a bucket about a quarter filled with fresh water. Tully slowly raised the bucket, offering the filly a drink.
    The filly stared deep into Tully’s eyes, before sniffing the rim of the bucket, then pushing her whole face in and proceeding to drink it dry, her ears flopping to the side and ticking forward with each gulp. Tully reached forward, gently stroking the filly’s filthy, matted face. The horse had the most gorgeous, intelligent dark eyes, fringed with long, thick black lashes.
    â€˜Easy, girls,’ Bucko said, taking the bucket. ‘We need to try and introduce feed and water slowly. Don’t want her to colic.’
    Only the silver light of the full moon illuminated the paddock by the time Bucko arrived back with a hay bag. He used the hunting knife he wore on his belt when making the rounds of the farm to cut the baler twine holding the gate closed, swinging it open for them to exit. The filly eyed Bucko for a moment, shying back towards Tully, but stepped up for him when he offered her the hay bag and took the lead rope to guide her out of the barren paddock.
    She jumped at the sound of Terror growling