“That’d be wicked,” she whispered happily.
I could only hope that Tempie noticed the change in Chassie herself.
Fortunately, not much slipped by Tempie.
“Wanna try your hand at flipping a pancake?” I offered.
“Please?”
I handed her the spatula. “You have to wait until the batter bubbles, then you can flip.”
When the time came, her first go was a disaster. But I tidied it up. The second and third were much better, and the fourth was superb.
“See! You perfected it in four!” I crowed.
A pretty pink blush colored her cheeks.
“Right, grab a mitt and take the bacon up,” I ordered. “I’ll finish these and be right behind you.”
“Will do.”
She was on her way with the bacon when I called, “And you tell them, if there aren’t two rashers waiting for me, I’m not cooking again!”
“Will do that too!” she called back, loud, no wispy whisper attached.
Healing.
Or at least, I fucking hoped so.
“This is for the birds,” I bitched.
“Use your legs. Let go of the pommel,” Battle instructed.
“You let go of the pommel. I’ll hit the dirt if I do.”
Battle reached out and grabbed the reins of the beautiful gray roan mare who had the unfortunate luck to have me hauled up on her back half an hour ago.
She was a good girl all through Battle giving me a twenty-minute riding lesson before we headed out.
But she got stuck with a dud in me.
With some “whoas,” tightening my reins and his, he stopped us.
“And why don’t you have those sticky-uppy pommels like American saddles do?” I demanded.
“Have you ever seen an American saddle?”
“In Western movies.”
“So, when you said you’d never ridden, you really weren’t joking.”
“Look, Your Grace, not all of us were born with an English riding saddle in the barn.”
He studied me, visibly fighting laughter, and if I thought I could do it without falling off this damned horse, I would have smacked him a good one.
“Can’t we go back, and I’ll ride you?” I offered hopefully.
With that, he burst out laughing.
