”Oh, no,” she wailed. What if someone had been hurt?
I’m an idiot ….
She couldn’t bear even to look at the coach as she slunk past, leading the horse back down the lane. When Malcolm passed her, back in the saddle, he was moving at a slow walk, but he didn’t even acknowledge her presence. When she finally regained the carriage, Malcolm was waiting.
”Fortunately,” he said in a tone as icy as the water in her shoes, “no one was injured. Now get back on that horse and do as I tell you this time.”
She scrubbed mud and tears with the back-of one hand. “M-my feet are wet. And freezing.”
Malcolm produced dry stockings. She changed, then wearily hauled herself back into the saddle. The rest of the afternoon passed in frigid silence, broken only by Malcolm’s barked instructions. Margo learned to control her horse at the canter and the gallop. By twilight she was able to stay with him when Malcolm deliberately spooked the hack into rearing, shying, and bolting with her.
It was a hard-won accomplishment and she should have been proud of it. All she felt was miserable, bruised, and exhausted. Whatever wasn’t numb from the cold ached mercilessly, John solicitously filled a basin for her to wash off the mud. He’d heated the water over the fire. Her fingers stung like fire when she dunked them into the hot water. She finally struggled back into the hateful undergarments, the charity gown and Knafore Then she had to take another ATLS and star reading and update her personal log. When Malcolm finally allowed her to climb into the carriage for the return to town, she hid her face in the side cushions and pretended to sleep.