“I imagine you’ve been to the stables.” Francesca tried to keep her tone cheerful, innocent. But it wasn’t easy with her father’s already red face turning that distressing shade of mulberry.
“Correct. And do you happen to know what I found there?” He tugged at his cravat, and she saw the veins in his neck stood out too.
“Thunder?” Francesca dislodged a sparkling white pebble from the walk with her boot and scooted it around.
“If Thunder is the name of that ragged colt cowering in the back stall, then you are correct again.”
Francesca glanced in the direction of the stables. “Cowering? You didn’t scare him did you, Daddy? He’s very sensitive right now.”
“By God!” Her father’s voice exploded, and the gray hair at his temples seemed white compared to his purple face. “Am I now to concern myself with whether or not I’ve damaged the feelings of a horse?”
“Daddy, I didn’t mean—”
“I told you last week, no more animals!” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “None. Not one.”
“I know, but—”
“And this morning I find Shepherd in the back of my stables coaxing an ugly colt—”
Francesca jerked her chin up. “Thunder is not ugly!”
“—that looks suspiciously like Skerrit’s ugly colt into eating a handful of carrots.”
“Did he eat them?”
“No!”
“Oh.” Francesca looked down and prodded the pebble again. “That’s not a good sign,” she murmured under her breath.
“My feelings exactly! My house is being overrun by beasts!”
“Now, Daddy—”
Her father held up his hand. “I don’t want to know how you acquired the horse, where he came from, or where he goes. I am not feeding another of your charity cases.” His hand latched onto his cravat again, loosening it further. “I want the beast gone. Out of my stables.”
“Daddy, I can’t do that!”
“You can, and you will.” His tone had an ominous finality.
“But if you’d seen the way Skerrit treated that poor animal, you’d feel exactly as I do. Once I spend some time with Thunder, he’ll—”
“By God!” He slammed his fist into the door beside her.
She jumped. He’d never done that before.
“Do not test my patience. I am riding into Selborne village this morning on business. When I return for dinner, I want the beast gone. Is that understood?”
Francesca looked into his face, and her spirits fell. Argument was futile. She’d never seen him so angry or resolved. Clearly even her most fervent pleas and protests on Thunder’s behalf would not dent the armor shielding his heart.
“Yes.” Her boot made another jab at the stone, and she saw she’d amassed a small pile of round pebbles.
“Good.”
She scooted aside, and he marched past her, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “You’re a good girl, Franny.” His voice softened a little as he said her name. No lover of Italian, he always used the English version of her name. The door opened behind her then shut with a shuddering bang.
The sky, which had seemed so vivid a blue from her bedroom window, now loomed a dismal steely gray. In the distance, clouds moved in, threatening to block the sun completely by afternoon. She trudged down the path to the stables, and with every step, her boots felt as though they were mired in muck.
She waved halfheartedly as Davis gave his usual greeting, but she barely noticed the gardener today. She didn’t even hear Nat, the youngest of the grooms and a favorite of hers, as he called out, “Halloa, Miss Dashing!”
Gaze fixed on the ground, she turned over every option she had to help Thunder. Her choices were severely limited. If only she could make her father understand.
This wasn’t the first time he’d given her an ultimatum. He’d been giving them regularly since she brought home her first stray dog at age five. But today her father had worn the same determined expression she’d seen two years before when her mother had tried to convince him the family needed a new carriage. The viscountess had cajoled, pleaded, and raged for weeks to no avail. There had been no new carriage and, unless there was a miracle, there would be no reprieve for Thunder.
She understood her father’s reasoning. A horse wasn’t a wet, skinny kitten or an abandoned baby squirrel. A horse was expensive to house, feed, and care for.
Francesca entered the stable and went hurriedly to the back corner of the barn, where she’d hidden Thunder last night.
The chestnut colt glanced at her warily. His flanks twitched, and he hid his nose against the wall of his stall. Poor baby! How could her father be so cruel?
“Good morning, Thunder,” she cooed. “What a good horse you are.” She inched forward into the stall.
It smelled sweet and clean. Alfred Shepherd, the head coachman, had spread fresh straw for bedding. Light filtered through a nearby window, and a pail of water and a bucket of feed sat in the corner. Francesca frowned, as both buckets looked untouched.
Reaching out, she ran her hand lightly along Thunder’s bony body, fingers tangling in his matted mane. The horse shuddered and pushed his nose further into the wood wall of his refuge.
“Careful there, Miss Dashing.” She heard Alfred’s whispered words behind her. “He’s skittish.”
She nodded and freed a knot in Thunder’s scraggly brown mane. Thunder’s skin twitched. He cowered—hunching his shoulders, tucking his tail under, and shuffling his freshly trimmed hooves close together.
“Here. Try this.”
Francesca took the lump of sugar Alfred held out to her, smiling into his crinkled blue eyes.
With a smoothness requiring infinite patience, she extended her hand, palm open and filled with sugar, near the horse’s jaw.
“Here you go, baby.” The horse pricked up his ears, and Francesca saw his nose wrinkle with interest. “Come on, sweetie. Try some. It’s good.”
Thunder’s eyes rolled toward her, followed by his head and nose. He sniffed at the sugar.
Withdrew.
Sniffed again.
She held her breath when his large pink lips finally reached out and nibbled the sugar in her palm. One taste and he made quick work of the rest. He continued to lick her hand, swiping every last sugar granule, then gave her an expectant look.
Francesca took a chance and rubbed the back of her hand along Thunder’s velvety chocolate nose. He tolerated the caress for a moment before shying away.
“I think you’ve got a new friend there, miss,” Alfred murmured.
Thunder’s ears pricked up.
“I hope so,” Francesca said. “Do you think he’ll let me exercise him?”
Alfred rubbed his grizzled gray beard. “Oh, I think he might. Especially if you tempt him with more sugar.”
“I’m afraid Thunder and I share the same weakness.”
Alfred leaned against an empty stall, the sunlight catching the silver in his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m inclined to agree, miss. I tried apples and carrots this morning and neither tempted him. This one’s got a sweet tooth.” He grinned, nodding at Thunder.
Francesca moved out of Thunder’s stall and stood next to Alfred. Alfred Shepherd had been with the Dashing family since before her birth and had worked his way from stable boy to head coachman, one of the senior positions at Tanglewilde. His love of animals ensured he and Francesca were fast friends from the time she could walk. Everyone else called him Mr. Shepherd, but he would always be Alfred to Francesca.