half-held out one of Squire Murdock. “Squire,” he said.
“Forgive us for being late but I fear I'm a bit hung-over and have
a lethal headache. I didn't receive word from Bertie of your filly
until this morning and so did not have this meeting in mind last
night.”
“Well,” the Squire answered. “I'm the last
fellow to hold that against a man. Now, if you wish to take a look
at our girl, here, go on and do so, and then when you're ready,
we'll give her a run.”
The two Tempton's remained back, but St.
James went forward after thanking the Squire. The Squire went again
to the head of the filly.
“Her name?” asked St. James as he ran his
hand down the filly's chest and front legs.
“Leaf,” the Squire answered.
St. James' hands moved back along the horse's
barrel and he glanced up at the rider. Lizzie looked down and was
met with a pair of startling eyes, an odd color that bordered
between hazel and gold. They flashed for a second as she met his
glance and his eyebrow lifted. “Rather unusual,” he said.
And for some unaccountable reason, Lizzie
felt herself blush.
“Aye. T'is indeed. But my, uh, daughter, um,
named her. She's visiting right now, my daughter is. Not at
home.”
Lizzie tried not to start, and when she
looked to her father, all too aware of the man that had passed
behind her now and was feeling down her mount's hocks, her father
only risked a slight shake of his head.
“I see,” St. James said. Then he stood back
from the horse. “Have your groom trot her about in a circle there,
and then let her loose on the track, shall you.”
“Yes, milord,” The Squire said and turned to
do as he had been asked. Lizzie, relieved to be doing something,
had no time to wonder why the man called St. James had suddenly
been elevated to 'my lord' by her father. She was only
concentrating on getting Leaf to go as smoothly as possible through
her paces.
“What do you think, St. James?” She heard
yellow coat—Lord Tempton ask.
St. James ran a hand through his wet hair,
raking it back from his eyes. “I think she should do, if the
circumstances are right.”
“It was only a cursory look at best,” his
friend muttered. “You have no idea what you may be saddling
yourself with.”
“And I said that if the circumstances were
right that I did not bloody care. Really, Bertie. You were the one
that brought her to my attention.”
Then Lizzie heard no more, for her father,
with a glance at St. James, who nodded, called for her to walk the
filly to the head of the track.
She settled into earnest business now, and
despite herself, she could not help a surging thrill. No, it was
not a race, and she was fairly certain her father would have drawn
the line at her jockeying in one at any rate, but it was nearly as
exciting having spectators to what she had achieved with her
training. Maybe they would be so impressed, she thought with giddy
guilt at her fancies, that they would entrust her with some of
their stock from their stables. But it all depended on Leaf, and
Leaf could be woefully undependable.
Then the man, St. James, was there at her
mount's head. He looked up at her for a moment and she still could
not determine if he had realized she was a female rather than the
boy she must appear. “Don't push her too hard in this slop,” he
advised. “I'm not looking for speed. If she impresses me enough
with her action, I'll make a point of returning to see how fast she
can go on a better day for it. Maintain control and keep her in
hand. If she seems to be doing well with her footing then you may
extend her on the last quarter. Understand?”
Lizzie, mindful of her father's inexplicable
lie, only nodded. Then the man released Leaf's head. Lizzie
gathered herself, could feel Leaf responding to her rider's intense
focusing. They remained still for a second playing off each other
through reins, legs and body movement, and then Lizzie loosed the
reins and tightened her knees, bent her body forward and