“Mrs. Templeton.” Patience was wearing thin and going ragged around the edges. “Does this little bastard look threatened to you? Right now all he’s doing is gloating.”

It appeared that he was, Susan admitted, making another close study of the colt’s eyes.

“Then explain why—”

“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.