Cara Colter - 9 Out Of 10 Women Can't Be Wrong

Ty had been riding in the lead, Stacey behind him.

And Harrie, last in line, had been leaning way too far out, mesmerized by the way he looked in the saddle, her first cheap 35 mm raised to her eye, wanting that photograph so badly.

She’d fallen and broken her arm, ending her visit.

The humiliation had led her to take riding lessons the following year while on assignment in England. She had never really got the feel for it. She could manage walk, trot, canter, stop, but the instructor had told her what she already knew.

She repeated it to him. “I can manage the basics, but I don’t have a good seat.”

She saw his eyes flick to the area in question, and she saw the comeback flash through his eyes, knew she had left herself wide open to it.

But apparently he had decided making her blush was not that amusing, because he said nothing for a moment. He was still watching her, puzzled, and she had a feeling he was a breath away from figuring that puzzle out when a loud noise ripped through the house, a banshee wail of nails being pulled from wood, of hinges parting. The noise was followed by a crash and a splinter.

Ty raced to the kitchen window, and she followed.

Basil was racing across the yard, straight toward the cattle pen that had intrigued him before. Ty’s back door, still attached to the leash, skidded along behind him.

Ty said three words in a row that would have made a sailor blush, then hurtled toward the door. She picked up her camera, but had to stop and put her shoes on. Then she went in hot pursuit. This was more like it. The war zone she could handle.

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