She stopped for a moment to watch the horses he’d let out into the paddock. He would be cleaning the stalls, then. She tried not to pout as she watched Tess and thought about what it was like to ride her and brush her and feed her apples.

Her mother might have evaded the subject of money, but Ali knew, with her new wisdom, that buying and keeping a horse would strain the budget.

Besides, she didn’t intend to ask Mr. Fury for anything.

He had yelled at her, scolded her, threatened to spank her. That was simply not permitted.

Head high, she walked into the stables. All the smells she’d begun to love were there. Hay and grain and horse and leather. She remembered the way he’d shown her to saddlesoap the tack, how to curry a horse. How he had put her in the saddle for the first time. And praised her.

She bit her lip. None of that mattered. He’d insulted her.

She heard the sounds of the shovel, and she walked to the end of the row, where Michael was filling a wheelbarrow with soiled straw and manure.

“Excuse me, Mr. Fury.” Her voice had a royal ring that she would have been surprised to know closely echoed her mother’s.

He looked behind him, took in the slight young girl in the tidy blue dress and trendy Italian sneakers. “You’re out early.” Thoughtful, he leaned on his shovel. “No school today?”

“I don’t have to leave for a little while.” She glanced at her watch, folded her hands. The gestures were so like Laura’s he had to fight back a smile.

“Something you want to say?”

“Yes, sir. I want to apologize for being rude, and for causing a family scene in front of you.”

Little Miss Dignity, he thought, your chin’s trembling. “Apology accepted,” he said simply and bent to his work.

He was supposed to apologize now. It was, after all, the proper way to close a misunderstanding. When he didn’t, her brows drew together. “I think you were also rude.”

“I don’t.” He dumped the last load, propped up his shovel, then gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Better move aside. You’ll get your dress dirty.”

“You raised your voice, you called me names.”

He cocked his head. “And your point is?”

“You’re supposed to say you’re sorry.”

He released the handles, brushed his hands over his jeans. “I’m not sorry. You deserved it.”

“I’m not a brat.” All her dignity crumbled, as did her face. “I didn’t mean the things I said. I didn’t mean to make her cry. She understands. She doesn’t hate me.”

“I know she understands. She loves you. A kid who has a mother like that in her corner’s got everything. Pushing it away’s pretty stupid.”