“By all means.”
Task complete, he wrapped Radish’s leather lead once around his palm and noticed Artemis did the same. “Are you ready to start walking?”
She nodded.
Silence expanded between them as the road crunched beneath their boots in slow, determined progress—the only progress he was capable of.
He tamped down the surge of bitterness that wanted to wash through and fill him with the old simmering rage.
Not today.
Surely he would allow it its head tomorrow or the next day, but not now.
He could have a different thought in its stead.
“Your dog,” he said. His skill with small talk decidedly lacked in charm.
“Bathsheba?” asked Artemis, with a mild lift of her brow. “What about her?”
“She isn’t accompanying you on the journey.”
“She would wear herself out trying to keep up, poor thing. It isn’t easy being an energetic one-eyed, three-legged sheepdog.”
Bran might have more than a little sympathy for thepoor thing, but wasn’t this conversation about giving voice to different paths of thought, rather than running round and round in those familiar bitter circles?
“Although,” continued Artemis, “there is a farmer near the Grange who trained his dog to ride a horse. Fashioned a special saddle for him and everything.”
“I imagine that’s a sight on the high street when they ride into town.”
“Oh, it is,” said Artemis with a breezy laugh. “Bathsheba is a game girl, though. She might take to it.”
“She appears greatly attached to you.”
“Oh, that she is.” Artemis’s laughter transformed into a smile. “And I to her. Actually, she’s being transported to London as we speak. I’ll reunite with her there after we’ve seen Radish to Epsom Downs.”
Ten years ago, Bran hadn’t known or even thought about the sort of woman Artemis would blossom into—he’d been too in the moment—but he was coming to see her now.
And he liked her.
Or rather, hemightlike her.
It was still too soon to commit to a feeling.
Fifty or so yards ahead, a gate opened to the east side of the road, and a shaggy sheepdog raced through, followed by a sudden flood of sheep pouring out. A farmer waved a friendly, but distracted greeting in their direction. His voice had no chance of being heard over the din ofbaaing and hooves clacking on the road.
“Well,” said Artemis, slowing to a stop beside Bran.
Another sheepdog charged through the gate, and he and Artemis watched together while the pair worked in unison to the farmer’s commands and whistles as they herded the sheep across the road and through an open gate on the west side.
“We could count sheep,” said Artemis.
Bran snorted. “I’m not sure it would be as entertaining without Mr. Scunt here to swindle us.”
Artemis rounded on him, aghast. “Mr. Scunt? A swindler?”
Bran’s mouth twitched, but he kept the smile that wanted out suppressed. “To his knotty old brazen soul.”
Artemis bristled, determined to defend the rogue. “He has an exceptional eye.”
