Crossing into Central Park itself, Marston glanced south and saw in the distance the office building in Midtown where she spent fifty hours a week practicing corporate law. There were a thousand thoughts that might have overwhelmed her now about the job, projects that were "front-burnered," as one of her partners said with irritating frequency. But none of these thoughts intruded at the moment. Nothing could. She was invulnerable to everything when she sat here, on one of God's most magnificent creations, feeling the sun-warmed, loam-scented air on her face as Donny Boy trotted along the dark path, surrounded by early jonquils and forsythia and lilacs.

The first beautiful day this spring.

For a half hour she circled the reservoir slowly, lost in the rapture of that unique connection between two different, complementary animals, each powerful and smart in its own way. She enjoyed a brief canter and then slowed to post in a trot as they came to the sharper turns in the deserted northern part of the park, near Harlem.

Completely at peace.

Until the worst happened.

She wasn't sure exactly how it occurred. She'd slowed to make the turn through a narrow gap between two stands of bushes when a pigeon flew directly into Donny Boy's face. Whinnying, he skidded to a stop so fast that Marston was nearly thrown off. Then he reared and she almost went backward over his rump.

She grabbed his mane and the front edge of the saddle to keep from falling eight feet to the rocky ground. "Whoa, Donny," she cried, trying to pat his neck.

"Donny Boy—it's all right. Whoa!"

Still, he kept rearing, crazed. Had the collision with the bird hurt his eyes?

Her concern for the horse, though, was mixed with her own fear. Sharp rocks jutted from the ground on either side of them. If Donny Boy kept rearing he could lose his balance on the uneven ground and go down hard—possibly with her under him. Nearly all of the serious injuries among her fellow riders weren't from tumbling off a horse but were from being caught between the animal and the ground when it fell.

"Donny!" she called breathlessly. But he reared again and held the position, dancing in panic on his hind legs and edging toward the rocks.

"Jesus," Marston gasped. "No, no . . ."

She knew then she was going to lose him. His feet were clattering on the stones and she felt the huge muscles quivering in his own panic as he sensed his balance go. He whinnied loudly.

Knowing she'd crush her leg in a dozen places. Maybe her chest too.

Almost tasting the pain. Feeling his pain too.

"Oh, Donny . . ."

Then, from nowhere, a man in a jogging suit stepped from the bushes. Wide-eyed, he looked at the horse. He jumped forward, grabbing bit and bridle.

"No, get back!" Marston shouted. "He's out of control!"

He'd get kicked in the head!

"Get out of the . . ."

But . . . what was happening?