"Good." He offered her a hand up.

Margo scrambled to her feet, refreshed and ready to tackle anything. Today, she told herself, I become a horsewoman.

The horse-of course-had other ideas.

Margo learned the first critical lesson about horseback riding within five minutes. When you fall off, you get back on. Heart in her mouth, she tried again. This time, she rechecked the cinch first, as Malcolm had told her before lunch-and which she'd forgotten in the interim then clambered back aboard.

This time, the saddle held She started breathing again and relaxed her death grip on the mane. "Okay, I'm on. Now what?"

Malcolm was busy mounting his own horse. Mar discovered an intense envy of the ease with which he floated into the saddle and found a seat. "Follow me and copy what I do."

He set off by thumping heels sharply against the horse's belly. Margo tried it Her hack moved off sedately with a placid "I have a novice on my back" air about him.

"It works!"

"Well, of course it works," Malcolm laughed. He reined in to let her pass. "Heels down, toes in."

"Ow! That hurts!"

"And don't forget to grip with your thighs. But leave your hands relaxed. You don't want to bruise his mouth with the bit."

What about my bruises?

Concentrating on heels, toes, thighs, and hands all at the same time while steering and not falling off was nerve-racking. For the first ten minutes, Margo sweat into her clothes and was thoroughly miserable. The horse didn't seem to mind, however.

"Keep right on," Malcolm said over his shoulder. "I'll follow you for a bit."

He reined around behind her. Margo's horse tried to follow. She hauled on the reins, overcorrected, and sent her horse straight toward a hedgerow. She straightened him out after wandering back and forth across the lane several times. Eventually she mastered the knack of keeping a fairly steady course.

"You're doing fine," Malcolm said from behind her. "Sit up a little straighter. That's good Toes in. Heels down. Better. Elbows relaxed, wrists relaxed. Good. Gather up the reins slightly. If he bolts now, he'll have the bit in his teeth and there'll be no stopping him. Firm but relaxed."

"If he bolts?" Margo asked. "Why would he do that?"

"Horses just do. It's called shying. Anything can scare a horse. A leaf rustling the wrong way. A noise. An unexpected movement or color. Or a particular item. A parasol. A train. A lawn chair."

"Great. I'm stuck way up here on something likely to jump at a shadow?"

"Precisely. Tighten your thighs. Heels down."

After half an hour, Malcolm let her trot. That was worse: The gait jolted her from top to bottom. Learning to post a trot put cramps in her thigh muscles. He brought her back down to a walk again to let her rest.

"I hate this!"

"That's because we haven't tried the canter yet," Malcolm smiled.

"And when we get to do that? Next week?"

Malcolm laughed. "Patience, Miss Smythe. Patience. You can't fly until you've learned to flap your wings properly. Now, the post again."

Margo held back a groan and kicked her horse into the posting trot that jolted everything that could be jolted. She missed her timing, rising on the wrong swing of the horse's withers, and discovered that was worse. She jolted along for a couple of paces before she got it right again. Eventually, Margo mastered it.

"All right," Malcolm said, drawing up beside her, "let's see if the nag will canter."

Malcolm clucked once and urged his horse forward with thighs, knees, and heels. He leaned forward.

And shot away in a thunder of hoof beats. Belatedly Margo licked her own horse to greater speed. One moment they were jolting through a horrendous trot. The next, Margo was flying.

"oh!"

It was wonderful.

She found herself grinning like an idiot as her horse caught up with Malcolm's horse.

He glanced over and grinned. "Better?"

"wow!"

"Thought you'd like that!"

"It's ...it's terrific!" She felt alive all over, even down to her toes. The horse moved under her in a smoothly bunched rhythm, while hedgerows whipped past to a glorious, stinging wind in her face.

"Better pull up," Malcolm warned, "before we come to the crossroad."

Margo didn't want to pull up and go back. Greatly daring, she kicked her horse to greater speed. He burst into a gallop that tore the breath from her lungs and left her ecstatic. Eyes shining, she tore down the country lane and shot into the crossroad-

And nearly ran down a heavy coach and four sweating horses. Margo screamed. Her own horse shied, nearly tossing her out of the saddle. Then the nag plunged into a watery meadow at full gallop. Margo hauled on the reins. The horse didn't slow down. She pulled harder, still to no avail. Freezing spray from the wet meadow soaked her legs. Patches of ice shattered under her horse's flying hooves. Then Malcolm thundered up and leaned over. He seized the reins in an iron grip. Her horse tossed its head, trying to rear, then settled down to a trot. They finally halted.

Malcolm sat panting on his own horse, literally white with rage. "OUT OF THE SADDLE! Walk him back!"

Margo slid to the ground. Rubbery legs nearly dumped her headlong into muddy, half-frozen water. She wanted to cry. Instead she snatched the reins and led the horse back toward the crossroad. Malcolm sent his own mount back at a hard gallop, spattering her with mud from head to foot. That did it. She started crying, silently. She was furious and miserable and consumed with embarrassment. Malcolm had stopped far ahead, where he was talking with the driver of the coach. The carriage had careered off the road.

"Oh, no," she wailed. What if someone had been hurt?

I'm an idiot ....

She couldn't bear even to look at the coach as she slunk past, leading the horse back down the lane. When Malcolm passed her, back in the saddle, he was moving at a slow walk, but he didn't even acknowledge her presence. When she finally regained the carriage, Malcolm was waiting.

"Fortunately," he said in a tone as icy as the water in her shoes, "no one was injured. Now get back on that horse and do as I tell you this time."

She scrubbed mud and tears with the back-of one hand. "M-my feet are wet. And freezing."

Malcolm produced dry stockings. She changed, then wearily hauled herself back into the saddle. The rest of the afternoon passed in frigid silence, broken only by Malcolm's barked instructions. Margo learned to control her horse at the canter and the gallop. By twilight she was able to stay with him when Malcolm deliberately spooked the hack into rearing, shying, and bolting with her.

It was a hard-won accomplishment and she should have been proud of it. All she felt was miserable, bruised, and exhausted. Whatever wasn't numb from the cold ached mercilessly, John solicitously filled a basin for her to wash off the mud. He'd heated the water over the fire. Her fingers stung like fire when she dunked them into the hot water. She finally struggled back into the hateful undergarments, the charity gown and Knafore Then she had to take another ATLS and star reading and update her personal log. When Malcolm finally allowed her to climb into the carriage for the return to town, she hid her face in the side cushions and pretended to sleep.

Malcolm settled beside her while John loaded the luggage and lit the carriage lanterns, then they set out through the dark. As a first day down time, it had been a mixed success at best. They rattled along in utter silence for nearly half an hour. Then Malcolm said quietly, "Miss- Margo. Are you awake?"

She made some strangled sound that was meant to be a "Yes" and came out sounding more like a cat caught in a vacuum cleaner.

Malcolm hesitated in the dark, then settled an arm around her shoulders. She turned toward him and gave in, wetting his tweed coat thoroughly between hiccoughs.