A Bride for Donnigan Read Free Page A

He was right where he wanted to be—and still young enough to enjoy many years of being there.
    Donnigan’s body shifted as the big black beneath him pawed the ground again and snorted his annoyance at being kept in check.
    “All right. All right,” said the man, for the first time just a hint of impatience in his voice.
    He lifted the reins and urged the horse forward. “So where do you think they’ll be feeding?”
    The black did not wait for a second invitation. With a toss of his head he headed south, taking the rise in long, powerful strides, the foam on his broad chest flecking the man who sat in the saddle.
    “Easy. Easy,” Donnigan chided gently, his hand slightly tightening the reins.
    They topped the rise, and there they were—three geldings, seven mares, and six foals. At the sound of the approaching hooves all heads lifted and excited whinnies welcomed the black. One mare left the herd and trotted toward them, her head held high, her nostrils distended. Other mares joined her, trotting a few paces, stopping, snorting, tossing heads and swishing tails. The geldings shifted about, seeming uneasy at the appearance of the black stallion. Only the younger foals seemed unaffected. They fed or gambolled or chased after dams just as though the big black was not quickly covering the distance between them.
    Donnigan rode right up to the shifting herd. They swirled and bolted around him, and though his demeanor seemed just as relaxed, his eyes were ever alert for the playful kick that could mean a bad bruise or even a broken leg should it strike a rider.
    “Look at that young colt,” he said to his black. “You ought to be plenty proud of him. He looks just like you.”
    The colt was playfully nipping another foal and dancing and kicking in mock battle.
    The black paid no more attention to the colt than to the rest of the milling herd.
    Donnigan studied each of his horses carefully. For the most part he was more than pleased with what he saw, but his eyes did narrow when he saw Sergeant, one of his work geldings, appear to move forward with a very slight limp. He seemed to be favoring his right front leg. Donnigan watched the horse take a few more steps, his eyes squinted against the harsh afternoon sun, and then he lifted his rope from the saddle horn and moved the black into closer proximity.
    With one quick flick of his wrist the rope snaked out and encircled the neck of the surprised roan. He did not fight the noose about his neck, but his head lifted and he snorted his complaint.
    Donnigan moved the black to a hold position and swung down from the saddle.
    “Whoa, boy. Whoa, Sarg,” he soothed as he moved along the rope to the gelding.
    Gently his hands began to rub the nose, caress the neck, and then slide down toward the right front foot. The horse responded by lifting the foot when the hand reached the hoof. Donnigan was relieved at what he found. No serious problem, simply a small stone lodged against the frog.
    Holding the hoof with one hand against his bent knee, he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his knife. After opening the blade with his teeth, he began to gently nudge the stone from its wedged position, all the while talking soothingly to the horse.
    When the stone was gone, Donnigan ran a practiced finger over the entire area. There seemed to be no damage—no swelling. The horse should be fine.
    Patting the gelding again, he released the leg and slipped the noose from the roan’s neck. The horse did not step back but reached instead to rub his nose against the tall man’s shoulder.
    “Go on with you. Get outta here,” said Donnigan affectionately with another slap on the animal’s neck. “You won’t be needed in the hay field for a few days yet.”
    The roan flung his head and moved slowly away, and Donnigan made his way back to the black, coiling his rope as he moved.
    He replaced the rope on the saddle horn and reached for the reins. His eyes passed over the herd that had