"If you'd just let loose of him before he sees I can be slapped around by a woman half my weight and I completely lose the upper hand here, along with six months' work, I'd appreciate it."
She did loosen her grip on the bridle, but warily. "I'm warning you, Michael. If you dare to hurt him, I'll do more than slap you around."
"I believe it," Michael muttered as she took a single step back. "Would you move back to the fence, please? Bastard still has a problem with control."
"Charming name." With her arms folded, Susan took a few more steps in retreat. And stayed poised, ready to leap.
"You've got me in it now, haven't you?" With a firm hand, Michael took the bridle, pulled the colt's head down until their eyes were level. "Make me look like an idiot, pal, and I might just mistake your face for a Spalding. Got that?"
The colt snorted, then jerked his head clear when Michael released it. Michael shifted his grip on the bat, curling fingers around tip and base, then lifted it. After a humming war of wills, the colt reared up, pawed the air.
"Up." Heedless of striking hooves, Michael stepped under them. "Stay up there, Bastard. Nobody'll feed you if you kill me." Shifting the bat again, he grabbed a handful of mane and swung up onto the nearly vertical back.
At the quick and easy grace of the move, the fluidity with which man and horse merged, Susan sighed in admiration. And again when Michael turned the mount in a half circle.
The pressure of Michael's knees brought the horse down. "Stay back," Michael ordered Susan, without looking at her. "This is the part we're having trouble with."
He brought Bastard into a rear again, rolled off and under the dancing hooves. "Don't you step on me," Michael muttered, as he felt the ground shake. "Don't you step on me, you son of a—shit!"
A hoof caught him in the hip. Just a graze, but it was the principle of the thing. He was on his feet again, staring the horse down. "You did that on purpose. You're going to do it again till you get it right."
Limping only a little, Michael picked up the discarded bat and went through the entire routine again. And again.
When they were both winded and he'd managed to complete the drill without breaking anything, Michael, limping a bit more, went over to the bag he'd slung over the fence and took out an apple.
The colt followed him, pushed his head against Michael's back. "Don't try to make up. I'm only giving you this because I'm not on my way to the hospital."
The colt nudged him again, then tried to eat Michael's hair.
"Cut it out. You are such an ass kisser. Here." Th
e apple he offered was taken eagerly. "And you have revolting manners," he added when bits of apple flew.
"I owe you an apology."
Michael stopped rubbing his bruised butt and looked at Susan. In his concentration, he'd forgotten she was still there. "No problem. Maybe I was thinking about bashing him one."
"No, you weren't." She stepped over, ran a hand over the colt's smooth neck. "You're in love with him."
"I hate the bastard. Don't know why I ever took him on."
"Um-hmm." She smiled, absently brushed some of the paddock dirt off the sleeve of Michael's shirt. "He certainly looks ill-kept, ill-used. Ill-fed too."
Embarrassed now, Michael shrugged. "He's an investment. A good stunt horse earns good money."
"I'm sure." She simply couldn't stand it—now she broke into excited questions. "How in the world did you teach him to do that? How do you keep him from trampling you? Aren't you worried? How long have you been working with him?"
Rolling his aching shoulders, Michael settled on the last question. "Not long enough. He's smart, but he's got some rough edges." Then he grinned. "You had me quaking, Mrs. Templeton. I figured you were going to grab the bat out of my hands and go to work on me with it."
"I might have." She caressed the colt. "I can't stand to see something abused."
"Can't say I care for it myself. There was this wrangler on a set a while back. He had this terrific horse, sweet-natured, generous. But the wrangler was never satisfied, always pushing for more, working that horse to exhaustion and never giving anything back. It was bad enough to see him breaking that horse's heart, and his spirit, but then he started using a whip, and his fists, and whatever else came in handy."
Michael paused to shovel the hair out of his eyes, squint at the sun. "He got himself a bad rep. Nobody wanted to hire him or work with him anymore. They all said it was too damn bad, 'cause that horse was a rare one."
"Why wasn't something done?"
"There's politics, the network—the wrangler'd been in the game a long time. I was pretty new at it then, and I never did care much for politics. I talked him into selling me that horse. Made a pretty decent stake working with him."