“Did you miss your family while you were away?” I asked. The familiarity with which he spoke of France made me wonder how long he’d spent there.
“I missed Georgiana. She wrote to me often. My mother and I have never gotten along, not really. And my father ... he worked quite a lot. Even at the end.” Peter stared ahead, letting out a breath.
Curiosity led me to prod. “Were you close with him?”
Peter glanced at me, hesitating. “I knew him well, and we were close. But my mother’s happiness was always his priority. There were many times I wished to know him better. To feel more of his care. His opinion mattered much more to me than my mother’s.”
“Is she alive, your mother?” By the way he alluded to her, I’d thought she too was gone from his life.
“She is.”
I waited for him to continue, but in vain. Stealing a peek, I saw his lips were pursed, eyes set ahead. “Have I silenced you at last?” I jested.
Peter cast me a rueful grin. “Paris is a more appealing subject than my parents.”
I understood wanting to avoid something painful, so I did not press him. We walked a few paces in silence, my mind mulling over these new revelations from Peter. He’d known disappointment in his life after all, that much was evident. His mind must have been working as well, for his feet carried him faster, pulling me along at a racing speed.
Before long, we reached the base of the hill. Just in time for me to realize the ache in my feet.
“Slow down, Peter. We are practically at a run already.” I panted as he tugged me upward. Nearly there, my lungs heaved, protesting the climb. Whatever the surprise was, at this pace, it had better be worth it.
“Close your eyes.” Stopping, he released my arm.
“Why?” I stepped backward, glancing over my shoulder.
“It is a surprise, and I want to see your face precisely when you see it.”
“I will not walk blindly like a fool, Peter.” I thought of blindman’s bluff and how he’d laughed at me. I folded my arms tightly.
“Just close them.” Peter tugged my hands loose, and the strangest warmth radiated from his soft grip. “Trust me.”
Something about the kindness in his eyes pulled me in, begging me to trust him, to follow his lead. But still, I hesitated. I knew I owed Peter this afternoon, but could I trust him?
Tightening my hold on his hand, I closed my eyes, focusing on each step as Peter led me a few paces upward. I held up my skirts with my other hand, waiting for the moment I would collide with a rock or a tree. But the path was clear, easy, and brief.
Peter steadied me with his strength, the sounds of his excited breaths between us. I was so close to him our legs brushed as we walked, shooting sparks to my toes and my chest. What was this strange feeling? The climb was making me dizzy.
Peter let go of my hand, and I waited, listening for any clue, a rustling, a voice, a smell, to reveal his secret surprise.
“All right,” he said finally. “Open them.”
Something was running toward me, a small brown spot on wobbly legs.
“Is that a foal?” My smile grew instantly, and Peter’s eyes sparkled.
“Indeed. A colt. He is barely eight weeks old. Curious little one already. Born to that mare there.” He pointed to the horse in the distance.
By the time he’d finished his thought, the little foal had reached me. Only he wasn’t quite as small as he’d looked before.
I knelt down beside him, taking off my gloves and rubbing his sleek coat. He was a light shade of brown with a blond mane, and within seconds he was nudging his nose all over me.
“Peter.” Laughing, I tried to lean back from the colt, but he was so persistent and strong I quickly became pinned beneath him. “Peter!”
“Get off, you,” he scowled. “If you are wanting this, you’d best behave yourself.” He shook a bag of what I assumed was oats, and the colt jumped and pranced around him. Had Peter planned this adventure for me?
“His name is Winter, and I’m told he’ll eat straight out of your hand.” He poured a handful of oats into my palm. Feeling his bare fingers brush mine sent another wave of heat to my chest, which allowed Winter to nearly knock me over again in his eagerness.
The feel of Winter’s rough, unsteady tongue, and the nearness of chomping teeth was both nerve-racking and thrilling. I petted his smooth mane as he devoured the oats in my hand, until Peter gave me more and more to fill him with.
