The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,117

the glade.

Leaning low over the mare’s back, Mary laughed, the rush of their passage whipping away the sound. Her heart pounded in time with Lucinda’s hooves as they stayed with Ryder’s gray, matching horse and rider inch for inch; the moment filled her with glorious joy.

Lucinda’s stride broke.

Mary was too experienced a rider not to react immediately; drawing evenly back on the reins, she straightened, adjusting her weight to help draw the horse from their headlong rush.

Beneath her, Lucinda slowed, but also shifted, half twisting, muscles bunching and twitching as if she wanted to buck. Alarmed—Lucinda never behaved badly—Mary clung to calm, knowing that was the surest way to keep Lucinda calm, too. Focusing fully on the mare, she reined the horse in, slowed her—and the instant she safely could, unlooped her leg from the pommel, drew her foot from the stirrup, and dropped to the grass.

Clutching the reins tightly, she waited until the mare came to a quivering halt, then, puzzled, careful not to startle the horse, she went to Lucinda’s head and stroked her long nose. “What is it?”

Noticing her sudden absence, Ryder had wrestled his gray into a turn and now halted a few paces away. “What happened?”

Frowning, Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.” She gestured with one hand. “But just look at her. She’s shivering. It’s as if she’s distressed.”

Ryder cursed. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him dismount. After tying his reins to a convenient branch, he strode across to her.

Hazel eyes hard, he surveyed the mare, circling to her other side.

Mary continued to stroke Lucinda’s nose and croon; the mare seemed to be calming, but still her hide flickered and her breathing wasn’t steady. “Can you see anything?”

“No.” After a moment, Ryder asked, “Tell me exactly what happened—what made you halt?”

“She broke stride—I worried she might have put a hoof wrong, partly down a rabbit hole or something of the sort. It wasn’t a big jerk, more like a hop, but . . .” Closing her eyes, she thought back. “I think it was one of her rear hooves that had just struck when it happened.”

Ryder humphed. “Hold her steady. I’ll check her legs and hooves.”

He did, but there was nothing—no soreness, no damage, no stone in a hoof—to account for a sudden change in the mare’s gait. And although she’d calmed considerably, the mare was still twitchy.

Standing back, hands on hips, beyond puzzled, he said, “Walk her. Let’s see if we can pinpoint what’s bothering her.”

Mary dutifully walked the mare—who paced without any obvious restriction, long brown legs shifting fluidly, exactly as they should, each movement as assured as it should be . . . except that, after a few steps, the mare shifted and twisted and her hide rippled.

“It’s nothing to do with her legs.” Mystified, but now certain of that, he walked to the mare; halting opposite Mary, he met her eyes. “It seems to be something to do with your saddle.”

Mary blinked, then looked at the saddle. “It’s my usual saddle—the one I always use on her.”

“Regardless, let’s get it off her and see what that does.”

He circled the mare. When he tugged on the buckle securing the girth, the horse snorted and sidestepped away.

“Oh.” Mary drew the mare back. “I see what you mean. Perhaps something broke and is sticking out underneath.”

She held the mare steady; more carefully, Ryder released the girth. With the saddle finally loose, he lifted it free—and they saw the problem.

“Gorse.” Disgusted, Mary picked up the spiky branchlet, went to toss it away, but then stopped. Going up on her toes, she peered at the spot where the prickles had marred the bay’s glossy hide. She frowned. “How the devil did it get there?”

Ryder looked and had to agree. “It couldn’t have slipped in there—not that far under—while you were in the saddle.”

“Or even before—the saddle fits too well.” Mary smoothed her gloved hand over the spot, and the mare shivered, almost shuddering with relief. “Well, regardless, that seems to have been the problem.”

“That part of the problem, perhaps.” Ryder tried not to sound too grim. “But as to how it got there . . .”

Mary met his eyes. After a moment said, “It can’t have been there when they saddled her—she wasn’t bothered when I mounted her. But at the same time, I can’t see how a piece of gorse that size could possibly have worked its way under the saddle while we were riding.”

“Agreed.” He followed the thought to the only conclusion.