Black Diaries

55. Bucking Horse, not Ham

"Bloody hell, no!" Lord Farleigh lurched forward, and tried to grab the reins again—but I was already galloping away, laughing out loud. Had I just heard correctly? The indomitable Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcolm Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh, had just lowered himself far enough from his pedestal to utter a curse word?

"Hey, what does 'bloody' mean, exactly?" I called over my shoulder.

"Come back here!" he roared, marching towards me with strides so long they could almost keep up with Silver Star. Almost. "Come back right now, you silly girl, before he kills you!"

"I don't think so." Pulling on one of the reins, I made Silver Star veer left, rushing, almost flying over the green grass. The wind whipped through my hair and my clothes, weaving a trail of black in the air. I laughed again.

"You know," I called to him. "I think you were right. This is fun."

"Get off that horse, damn you! He'll hurt you!"

"Quite a lot of fun, actually. Faster, boy! Go faster!"

"I'm serious, blast you!"

"So am I."

"Miss McKinney!" His voice lowered to a dangerous level. There was a note in it I didn't entirely understand, almost like... desperation? "Get of that horse before he throws you off! That is an order!"

Just then, I felt Silver Star buck beneath me. Laughing, I threw my head back.

"Tell me," I yelled in the direction of his mighty Lordshipness. "Have you ever heard of a rodeo?"

"What the hell are you babbling about?"

"It's a little thing we rebellious Americans do up in Alabama, where I come from—"

Silver Star bucked again, and I moved to counter his attack, grinning.

"Get down off that horse," his worshipful Lordliness shouted, "and then you can tell me all you want about your American horse races!"

I giggled. "A rodeo is not a race! You don't have trained horses and ride them two see who is the fastest—you have wild horses and ride them to see who can stay up the longest without cracking his head!"

"What?" Even with the world rocking up and down like mad as it was for me, I could see the scrounged up expression on his chiseled face. "Where's the sense in that?"

"Who says there needs to be sense to it?"

"You mean you people do this for fun?"

I slammed my heels into Silver Stars flanks, and the horse jumped, nearly knocking me clean off. "You bet we do! Yi-ha!"

Snorting at indignation at this unfamiliar American treatment, the proud English race horse tossed its head and galloped off, over the meadow. From behind me, I heard a familiar voice shouting: "You colonials are crazy!"

I laughed again. Crazy? It had been some time since I'd been on a horse, but years of weekends spent on my uncle Ted's farm near Hilly Springs hadn't been for nothing. I felt as at home on a horse as with a really sharp knife in my hand. And that was saying something! Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom Melville stepping out of the stable to see what the racket was about. He caught sight of me, and the pitchfork he was carrying fell out of his hand, thudding to the ground. I waved at him.

Silver Star made another attempt at chucking me into the mud. Clamping my legs more tightly around him, I leaned down, closer to his ear.

"Don't worry. I won't be on your back for much longer. Just a little bit. Just one last thing for his lordship to see, all right? Then I'll bring you an extra-big carrot."