A Lasting Impression

attention. “Their training has taught them to follow your lead. So if you’re unsure, the horse will be too.” He checked her stirrups again, the image of her being thrown over that fence returning with striking clarity. She looked so tiny atop Truxton, and had insisted on riding sidesaddle. He understood but would’ve preferred that she jump astride.
    “I want you to take this first jump”—he pointed to the shortest stack of logs, barely a foot high—“at an easy canter. Head out over there, like I showed you, and then come around. And remember to—”
    “I know, Sutton. I was listening.” With a tiny flick of the reins, she prompted Truxton to sidestep, then laughed. “He’s so smart!”
    Sutton gripped the reins. “If you want me to teach you, Claire, then you’re going to have to listen .”
    She looked down, the tiniest smirk on her face. “Yes, sir . . . Corporal.”
    Sutton wanted to yank her down and . . . He sighed. And do what, he didn’t know. He just couldn’t erase the image of her being thrown. He released the reins. “I simply don’t want you to get hurt again.”
    “I know,” she said softly. “I’ll be careful. Now”—she smiled, the morning sun at her back setting her hair to shining—“what else did you want to tell me?”
    “Just before you jump, make sure you give him as much rein as possible. Grab his mane or the neck strap if you need to. And keep your shoulders open. Don’t lean down his neck.” He looked back. “And never rein in, Claire. If you do, he’ll stop short and you’ll go flying. That’s what happened with Athena.”
    She nodded, her expression attentive.
    “And this may sound simple”—he smiled in hopes of lightening the mood—“but remember to breathe. Always look ahead. Never look down or to the side. That ruins your balance. Fix your gaze on something past the jump, not on it. Push your heels in hard too, just before he takes off. You’ll feel the timing, I know you will.” He ran a hand over Truxton’s sinewy withers, willing his trusted mount to carry this lady well.
    “Is there anything else?” Claire tossed him a flirty little gaze.
    “Yes, ma’am, there is.” He smacked Truxton solidly on the rump. “Enjoy the ride!”
    With a grin, Claire flicked the reins and Truxton took off. Sutton watched as she circled wide just as he’d told her.
    On Sunday following church, he’d overheard a group of ladies talking about “Miss Laurent.” Claire was becoming quite the popular topic of discussion among the social elite. At least half a dozen women among Adelicia’s peers had now hired their own personal liaisons. And at least that many men—all Adelicia’s age, or older—had made discreet inquiries about Claire to Adelicia, having seen Claire in church or “having heard about her through various sources.”
    And whether he liked it or not—and he most certainly did not—the upcoming reception for Madame LeVert would be an unofficial coming out, as it were, for Claire. Her first introduction to Nashville’s society. And though he knew she would shy away from the attention, if aware of it, he also had no doubt that she would shine.
    Claire made the turn and leaned slightly forward, lining up with the jump, then urged Truxton to a canter.
    “Keep your heels down,” he whispered, feeling himself tense. Eyes forward, straight ahead . . . One of the hardest things about jumping was learning the horse’s rhythm. Sometimes the jump came up faster than you thought.
    Twelve feet away, eight . . .
    Good girl . . .
    Claire’s hand disappeared into the mane, her body in perfect line.
    Now give him the reins—
    The second Sutton thought it, the reins went slack in Claire’s hand, just as he’d taught her, and she and Truxton flew over the jump, clearing its height by a good two feet. Sutton heard Claire’s laughter from where he stood.
    “I did it!” She squealed as she rode up, her eyes sparkling.
    He laughed. “Yes, you did. I’m so proud of you. You did everything perfectly.” The sparkle in her eyes deepened, and it took him a few seconds to realize she was tearing up. “Claire . . .” He reached up and took her hand. “Is something wrong?”
    “No . . . nothing’s wrong. Everything’s”—her fingers tightened around his—“very right.” She exhaled a quick breath, her exuberance reviving. “May I try it again?”
    “Will I be able to stop you?”
    Her cloud of dust told him no.

    Following dinner two