To avoid busier Peak Hill Road, they rode inland, going up Glen Lane. When they had passed Westmount, he asked, “Shall we try trotting?”
“Very well.”
He signaled his horse into a trot and hers reluctantly followed suit. Memories came back to her of all those long-ago rides with her father, first on a stubborn pony and later on a bay gelding.
As Sarah bounced along at a trot, she was suddenly grateful for her supportive stays.
“May we canter instead?” she asked.
“If you’re ready.”
“I am.” She urged the mare into a canter, and this time it was his horse who followed suit. Soon, Sarah was rising and falling with the rolling gait. As she settled into a smooth rhythm, pleasure filled her. She smiled over at him. “I have missed this. Thank you for suggesting it.”
They turned onto a quiet bridle path he had discovered during his previous visits to Sidmouth. As they rode along it, her trepidation faded, and she relished the exhilarating freedom of riding companionably on a sweet, well-trained horse. How could she have forgotten?
She looked around as they rode. Even in December, the hedgerows were still green, and hardy birds that stayed all year sang in the trees, some tenaciously holding on to their leaves, and the occasional Scots pine standing green and regal among them.
The sky above was a glorious clear blue. Even though the day was mild for winter, the brisk air made her eyes water and her cheeks tingle with cold.
As they rode along the path, a quail flew up, its beating wingsstartling the mare. Sarah managed to keep her seat, and again calmed the horse with soothing words. “You’re all right. Just a little bird. More afraid of you than you are of him.”
They rode on, trotting up a gentle rise until they reached a small grove of trees partway up Peak Hill.
“We had a picnic here that summer,” she said.
“I remember.”
They reined in their horses next to each other, the train of her skirt brushing his leg.
“You tried to show me how to play your guitar.”
“An excuse to be close to ye, as ye probably guessed.”
Was it? If that had been his aim, it had certainly been effective.
“How often do you play at home?” she asked.
“Daily, if I can. Music brings me peace as well as pleasure. Even when my life with Katrin was in turmoil”—his eyes took on a distant look—“I felt God’s presence when I played.”
Sarah thought for a moment, then confessed, “I have not often felt God’s presence these last few years. I know He has not changed. I’m the one who has grown distant, busy trying to manage everything and everyone on my own.” The truth of the admission pressed hard on her heart. “And yet, I have also seen God’s provision in ways I never would have asked for or imagined. He is faithful, even when I am not.”
Callum Henshall held her gaze, slowly nodding his understanding, and for a moment, the silence between them hummed with possibility.
Being alone with him there felt intimate and exhilarating. They were close enough to touch. Maybe even to lean across and ... Guilt pricked her. Was it wrong to be here enjoying herself while Mrs. Besley was in pain and Effie, a guest, was at home helping her?
A squirrel scampered through the leaves, and the mare snorted and sidestepped.
Sarah pressed her lips together. “Perhaps we had better head back.”
“If you wish.”
As they returned to town, Sarah insisted on riding with him allthe way to the stables. When they reached the livery, Mr. Henshall helped her dismount. Her legs were like jelly and nearly buckled beneath her.
He quickly put his arms around her to support her. “Careful.”
“I feel like I’m still riding.”
“You will regain your land legs in time.”
