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She rode north toward the water and hills. Once she had traveled about two miles, she could see Arco de la Frontera’s white homes hanging on the cliff’s edge.
One other wonderful thing about riding: It was easy to forget one’s problems. Only the rider and horse mattered. Steering the horse along a worn path. Ducking tree limbs or using caution over rocky terrain. Just her and the horse.
Around a bend in the trail, Shelene pulled the horse to a stop. She turned her head, letting her ear identify the sound—she thought of men talking. But perhaps not. The river had its own language.
Father Etienne appeared on horseback, directing his horse through some brush. “Oh, Señora Forrester! What a pleasant surprise.”
“Buenos días!” Shelene was still on Las Colinas land, but there were several little homes and a few small villages with two or three families that dotted the landscape. “You are the last person I expected to see today, though I was thinking about you this morning.”
“I hope in prayer.”
She laughed, patting her horse’s neck. “No. Actually I was stirred up over the stained glass and why it has taken me so long to finish.”
“Patience is a virtue.”
“I’m sure your parishioners are tired of staring at the wooden insert where the beautiful glass should be.”
He waved her concern away. “You are far from home,” he said. “And no accompanying rider. I would think after the incident several days ago, your husband would be more cautious with his family.”
“Father, you of all people know I have an independent will.”
“An independent will should not supplant a cautious mind.” He removed his hat and fanned his face.
“You sound like Roman.”
“I trust all is well with your marriage since your husband’s return? We have not discussed the difficulties that have arisen since your marriage.”
“Should we not do that in the cool of the church instead of on this warm morning?”
“I am at your service should you wish to do so. If you still wish to pursue the unmentionable subject, we should have a very deep discussion. Señor Navarro would no doubt be happy if you were of that mind.”
“It is a difficulty, Father, but I have my son to think of now. And since Roman is home, I am sure he would contest any such thoughts or actions.”
“That is good. You are a credit to the Belgrano name. And to your father.”
“Are you returning to Arco de la Frontera? Perhaps I can ride along with you?” she asked.
“The company would be most welcome.” He plopped his hat on his sweat-speckled brow and clucked, his horse responding to his command. “It is a perfect day, is it not?” he said.
“Yes, and more than anything, I want to keep the peace in our wonderful valley.”
“With God’s grace and our prayers, I am sure that will happen. Are you worried?”
“Since Roman has returned, he has been distrustful of my uncle. You know his past. I very much want to believe him.”
“I am in the business of forgiveness. But I understand your husband’s past is the business of suspicion.”
Shelene laughed. “You know him so well!”
“But not as well as you. I am sure you can convince Señor Forrester that forgiveness is the best choice.”
“Roman is a man of truth. I think he would rather ride to Madrid and have an audience with the king about my uncle’s pardon. One word from him, and I think my husband would be silenced on the matter.”
“More like Doubting Thomas than John. He must see to believe.”
“Hmm, that is a good analogy, Father. I think even Roman would agree with that.”
In between their conversations and their silent ruminating, they arrived at the bridge, taking Father Etienne back into the small city.
He motioned a quick Sign of the Cross with his fingertips and bid her adiós.
Forgiveness? An odd memory came to her. Even when she had petitioned him about an annulment, he had not advised her to forgive her husband. Nor did he do so today.
Is that what she wanted? Permission to forgive Roman?
