”Better pull up,” Malcolm warned, “before we come to the crossroad.”
Margo didn’t want to pull up and go back. Greatly daring, she kicked her horse to greater speed. He burst into a gallop that tore the breath from her lungs and left her ecstatic. Eyes shining, she tore down the country lane and shot into the crossroad-
And nearly ran down a heavy coach and four sweating horses. Margo screamed. Her own horse shied, nearly tossing her out of the saddle. Then the nag plunged into a watery meadow at full gallop. Margo hauled on the reins. The horse didn’t slow down. She pulled harder, still to no avail. Freezing spray from the wet meadow soaked her legs. Patches of ice shattered under her horse’s flying hooves. Then Malcolm thundered up and leaned over. He seized the reins in an iron grip. Her horse tossed its head, trying to rear, then settled down to a trot. They finally halted.
Malcolm sat panting on his own horse, literally white with rage. “OUT OF THE SADDLE! Walk him back!”
Margo slid to the ground. Rubbery legs nearly dumped her headlong into muddy, half-frozen water. She wanted to cry. Instead she snatched the reins and led the horse back toward the crossroad. Malcolm sent his own mount back at a hard gallop, spattering her with mud from head to foot. That did it. She started crying, silently. She was furious and miserable and consumed with embarrassment. Malcolm had stopped far ahead, where he was talking with the driver of the coach. The carriage had careered off the road.