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“A nice lady called Felicia. Would you like to meet her?”
“Sure! Can I wear makeup?” Molly asked eagerly.
“A little,” Bridget said.
“I want to look famous,” Molly said dreamily.
Bridget smiled and headed with her daughter to the back of the store. “I’m not sure what that means, but maybe Felicia will know.”
Molly noticed Jonas and raised her eyebrows at her mother, as if she was about to ask some pesky questions.
“Not now,” Bridget said very softly but firmly. “Just say hello.”
Jonas grinned when he saw them coming toward him hand in hand. “Hello, Molly.”
Molly tipped her nose up in an absurdly haughty way. “Hello.” She swept past him, not really thinking about anything but the prospect of being glamorous.
Bridget winked at Jonas. It was all she could do, considering Molly’s behavior. What little girl wouldn’t want to star in a magazine photo shoot and get all prettied up?
An hour or so later, Molly wasn’t quite so impressed with it all. She’d posed demurely in a plaid taffeta dress with a velvet bodice, not complaining once about the tightness of the matching velvet ribbon in her hair. But she had protested the thorough hairbrushing she’d had to endure, until Bridget reminded her that it was no different from getting her mare, Satin, ready for a show.
Mrs. Dutton had volunteered her five-year-old nephew, who owned a velvet suit, to pose with Molly under the mistletoe. Even though her lips never touched his cheek, the little boy, a real ham, scrunched his eyes shut and screwed his face into a priceless scowl.
Then it was Bridget and Jonas’s turn. The makeup artist retouched her lipstick as Molly watched, brushing shimmering, berry-bright gloss over Bridget’s parted lips.
Molly wasn’t the only one watching. Bridget was aware of Jonas nearby, talking casually with Harry. But his eyes were on her. She could feel it.
“Stay still,” Felicia said. “Oh, where’s the blusher—” She scrabbled through her compartmented bag, not finding it, and happened to look up at Bridget. “Wait a minute. You don’t need it. Your cheeks are really pink. No wonder.” She fanned herself with one hand. “Those lights are much too hot—c’mon, Molly. Let’s grab a cold soda and sit in the van. It has pretty good air-conditioning.”
It wasn’t the lights that were making Bridget warm and turning her cheeks pink. It was Jonas. Harry had told him to stand under the mistletoe to get a light reading and there he was … waiting for her. In the cream-colored fisherman’s sweater and those worn jeans, he looked utterly masculine and sexier than any man had a right to be. He was getting to her. Bridget was grateful that her daughter had left with Felicia for a few minutes. If Harry asked her to kiss Jonas, she didn’t know what she would do.
“Go for it!” Gil said loudly.
“Wh-what?” Bridget stammered. “What do you mean?”
“Give the man a kiss. How can you resist?”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t even think of a reason to refuse. So she went over and kissed him carefully, mindful of her lipstick.
Breathless, a little surprised, Jonas put his hands around her waist and returned the kiss just as carefully.
Harry clicked away, murmuring encouragement. “That’s good. Fine. Another one. Okay. Turn a little to the left, Jonas. Great. That oughta do it.” He paused.
Bridget had a feeling the photographer was looking up from the viewfinder, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were closed. Jonas was kissing for her for real.
“Hey, you two,” Harry said in an amused voice. “Stop already.”
Two days later…
As far as Jonas could see, the old Hanson house had no major problems, except for a porch that sloped. Jonas stepped back, hands on his jeans-clad hips, and made a mental list of the various things that needed fixing. He would have to prop up the porch roof with a couple of house jacks, rip out the rotting supports, replace the foundation, floorboards, and railings … and add a swing for two.
The blazing kisses he’d shared with Bridget were something he intended to repeat, and not with her daughter nearby or a photographer and crew standing around. Mrs. Harrison would pitch a fit if Gil Blanding decided to use the last few photos Harry had taken in the upcoming article. But Jonas doubted it. Good Living was a family magazine.
Bridget had been skittish at first, but that was understandable. He’d come over to her house uninvited and walked into her store when she wasn’t expecting. But once she’d warmed up, she’d responded, body and soul, in a way that let him know she wanted him.
He didn’t know when he would get that lucky again, but he could wait. And there was a limit to what he could accomplish, so to speak, with Molly around. At least that was one reason to be nice to Margaret Harrison. She took cafe of her granddaughter and that meant Bridget had more freedom than a lot of single moms. Not that he’d ever dated any others.
He’d gone out with a few of the female residents who rotated at the clinic, as busy and sleep-deprived and overwhelmed as he was. But not often, and the interaction was physical, not emotional. None had been interested in a time-consuming real relationship. Medical school, internship, and clinical training didn’t leave room for a social life.
But he’d never stopped thinking about Bridget. She’d claimed his heart long ago—that hadn’t changed. He’d known that the second he’d seen her in the shop in town. They were meant to be together. Buying a place down the road from hers was a statement she couldn’t ignore or brush off. It said that he was back and he wasn’t going to go away.
Patience and persistence would win her over, no matter what.
As Jonas walked around the rest of the farm, assessing the condition of the outbuildings, he began to wonder what the hell he’d been thinking. Some of the ramshackle structures had been put together by gosh and by gum, and some had been built to last by master carpenters. But nothing could withstand the rigors of Vermont winters forever.
The barn needed a new roof—he saw daylight when he looked up. The biggest holes probably were convenient for the owls that undoubtedly nested up there, allowing them to exit and enter to do their hunting in the surrounding fields. Soft hoots and an occasional screech had kept him up last night.
He’d been so eager to close on the deal, he hadn’t paid much attention to the building inspector, a conscientious old coot with a marked New England twang, who wasn’t all that easy to understand as he explained what needed fixing and what could wait.
Jonas made a rough estimate of the cost of repairs and then he mentally kicked himself for not thinking about any of that until now. It was probably cheaper to burn it all down and start over. But he never would, not in a million years. The farm had been here a long time and he wanted to make sure it would still be here a hundred years from now. He headed down a path that bordered an overgrown field. The tractor-capped yard guy who was supposed to keep the wilderness at bay hadn’t gotten this far yet. Mr. Hanson, who’d lost his wife some years ago after his two sons moved to California, could no longer keep up with the maintenance on a big place. Jonas had gotten it—house, barn, fields, and outbuildings—for a fair price.
Good thing, too. He didn’t need to add a huge mortgage on top of the med school loans he was still paying off. And he planned to open his own practice in the Randolph vicinity—that wasn’t going to be cheap. As a family-practice physician, especially in a rural area, he wasn’t ever going to be rich. But Jonas had never cared much about that. He’d enjoyed the variety of people he’d treated at the New York clinic, and he liked the idea of practicing in a medically underserved area. All over the US, so many older, small town doctors were retiring that communities were having a tough time finding replacements. He figured he had as good a chance as anyone else of making a living.
But … one thing at a time, starting with the roof over his head. When the necessary repairs had been finished, this old house would be perfect for raising a family. With the only woman he’d ever wanted.
Jonas looked at the decrepit porch again and sighed. Before he carried anyone over the threshold, he was going to have to replace it.
That afternoon found him at the edge of his property, inspecting a shed and a sadly diminished woodpile that had been used to supply the firewood holder on the porch without being restocked. Fortunately, someone had tossed a heap of logs into the shed to season and stay dry over the winter—maybe the yard guy. They were ready for splitting, sawn into two-foot lengths.
He could get started on those, Jonas thought. He could use the exercise, but it had been a long time since he’d chopped wood. He stepped inside the shed, looking for an axe, and saw several hung on a low beam. The dull metal blades gleamed in the darkness and he tested the edge on one with a finger.
Ouch. It was sharp. Old Mr. Hanson took care of his tools, evidently, even if he hadn’t used them for a while. Jonas took that as a sign. He picked an axe at random and propped it outside on the chopping stump, then went back into the shed for as many logs as he could carry.
He balanced the first on its end, hefted the axe and swung, splitting the log cleanly in half with a well-placed strike that made a sharp, satisfying crack. Hah. He grinned, pleased with himself. Paul Bunyan had nothing on him.
Halved and then quartered, the wood smelled clean and light, like the Vermont air. He tossed the split wood into a rough pile to stack later, enjoying the rhythm of manual labor and getting sweaty.
Jonas paused to pull his shirt out of his jeans and unbutton it. Too bad he didn’t have a handkerchief. But the shirt would do to mop his face if he took it off. He’d be warm enough if he kept working.
He slid out of it, wiped the sweat from his face, and hung it on a nearby tree. Then he returned to his task, energized, working faster and harder than before. He had no idea he was being watched.
Bridget put down her binoculars, feeling awfully guilty. She was a hundred yards away, but even so—she knew Jonas didn’t know she was there.
She’d ignored the sound at first, assuming it was the handyman or the yard guy the realtor hired to look after the place, hard at work. But the steady chopping interrupted her concentration and made birdcalls hard to hear. Once she’d turned around and trained her binoculars in the direction of the noise, she’d seen Jonas … and she hadn’t been able to look away. A fallen tree had created a clear line of sight to the property line and the spot where he was chopping wood.
Bare chested, he was gorgeous, with a lot of hard, sinewy muscle. His arms were pumped from swinging the axe and all she could think about was how good it had felt to be held in them when he had kissed her. She’d sensed the power of his clothed body, even ventured a tentative caress or two both times, but seeing him like this was almost overwhelming.
Jonas put down the axe and walked over to the tree where he’d hung his shirt, using it to wipe his face. He pressed his sweat-dampened hair back with both hands, bringing out the rugged contours of his face, and propped his hands on his hips, catching his breath.
Bridget shivered and not because she was cold. Truth be told, the sight of him like this was a thrill and then some.
He walked back to the stump, picked up the axe, and got back to work. Thunk. Chop. Thunk. Chop. He tossed the split wood into the ever-growing pile near the stump. Every time he raised the axe over his head and his muscles tightened for a split second before the downward swing, her heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man chop wood. But Jonas looked incredibly sexy doing it. She could see that he was getting tired—his taut belly, ridged with muscle, drew in and away from the waistband of his jeans as he took deeper breaths. His skin gleamed with sweat in the fading afternoon light. The chilly spring air made his flat male nipples tighten—and eventually the chill won out.
Jonas selected one last log—a big one—and cleaved it with a mighty blow that sent both halves tumbling to the ground. He sat down on the stump, blew out his breath in a sigh she could almost hear, then rose and went to get his shirt.
Bridget watched him button it, feeling tenderness well inside her at the simple action. It was easy to imagine him buttoning up in just that way after … after an afternoon of lovemaking. Oh, how she wanted that. She dropped the binoculars but the strap caught them. The sudden pressure against the back of her neck brought her back to reality.
She didn’t raise them to her eyes again, embarrassed by her own shamelessness. Okay, no one had seen her, but if they had … Bridget turned and headed home, creating a roundabout shortcut that involved a little bushwhacking. A few minutes and a few scratches later, she was on the main road and a healthy distance from the Hanson farm.
Bridget went into the crafts room where she and Molly did projects, making a huge, happy mess whenever they felt like it. She spotted the quilt blocks Molly had been working on thumbtacked to a corkboard. The one in progress, the bullfrog, looked pretty good, except that the legs were too long, dangling past the bottom edge of the twelve-inch-square block. Bridget folded one skinny green leg at the knee and pinned it into a bent shape, then did the same with the other one. There. Now the frog fit.
She sighed, unsure of what to do next as far as Molly was concerned. Or herself. The brief and beautiful spring was almost over—it was near the end of May. Soon it would be summer, bringing scads of tourists. The shop would certainly benefit, but she wouldn’t mind letting Mrs. Dutton run it for her while she took a trip somewhere else, with or without Molly.
No—she couldn’t just up and leave. She’d promised to volunteer at Molly’s school, and the kitchen needed painting, and it was high time she straightened out her financial paperwork and started a college account for Molly—and, and, and, Bridget told herself. She would never be done with all the ands. Her unsettled emotions made Bridget suspect that Jonas had a lot to do with her restlessness. Whoa, she told herself. You really don’t want to be regretting anything when he gets fed up and goes back to Manhattan.
He couldn’t have been thinking straight when he bought that house—he couldn’t turn back into a Vermonter overnight. Had he forgotten how long winter was up here? Someone who was into downhill racing or cross-country skiing would be happy: the slopes and trails were less than an hour’s drive from Randolph, and, as she remembered, Jonas did like to ski. But he would have to do without nightlife and the other sophisticated distractions that Manhattan offered. She felt a little bit envious that he had the option of going back to the city if he got cabin fever—she didn’t and she never would.
Hmm. He did seem to be making the right preparations—he’d been chopping wood like one possessed. Only a real Green Mountain man got started on the woodpile six months before the weather turned cold. He hadn’t strayed so far from his roots after all. Or from her. Wishful thinking, Bridget warned herself. For all his lumberjack skills, Jonas just wasn’t likely to adjust to living up here, not once winter hit.
Jonas finished stacking the wood he’d cut and sat on the stump, his shirt slung over his shoulders. The work had been hard, but it was satisfying. He wasn’t used to it, though, and he knew it would be wise to take a couple of ibuprofen so his muscles wouldn’t be too sore tomorrow. But come to think of it, he didn’t have any. Considering how much work there was to be done around here, he ought to buy a bottle—hell, he ought to stock up a first aid kit with everything he needed. He didn’t want to run over to Bridget’s if he needed a bandage or antibiotic cream, even though, like most mothers, she had undoubtedly had enough experience with minor emergencies and illnesses to qualify for a practical nursing certificate.
Physician, heal thyself, he thought. Jonas grinned as he got up, dusted the wood slivers from his jeans, and walked to the house. He slid his arms into his shirt sleeves and buttoned up the shirt, breezing through the back door to look for his car keys.
He decided to take a back road into town he hadn’t driven over yet—it had only recently been paved. The realtor had told him that it connected a number of outlying farms, so it was a good way to check out the scenery. He wasn’t likely to run into anyone.
How wrong he was. Fifteen minutes later, Jonas sat behind the wheel of his car, surveying a sea of woolly backs that surrounded him. The flock of sheep had come around the bend, parted ranks around his car, and then stopped in their tracks. They didn’t seem to want to move, except for one really dirty sheep by the driver’s side of the car, who was rubbing its burr-laden, matted wool against the smooth enamel surface of the front fender and favoring Jonas with a blissful but remarkably stupid look.
He considered honking but he knew better. The only thing worse than a flock of motionless sheep was a flock of scared sheep. Maybe they were waiting for a command. What did you say to sheep to get them to move?
Jonas had grown up two towns away from Randolph but not on a farm, although he did know how to ride. He had no clue about sheep, however. He gave the matter some thought, finding his predicament more funny than not. Hmm Wasn’t it gee for oxen and mush for sled dogs?
He leaned out the window. “Gee. Mush.”
The dirty sheep rubbing itself on the fender didn’t budge. Jonas did attract the attention of a few of the others, though, who baa-ed and blinked at him and pressed in more, making it impossible for him to open his door.
He was stuck. Jonas reached for his cell phone. He might as well amuse himself by taking a picture of them and sending it to his buddy Del Anzalone, a new resident at the clinic. The closest Del, a Brooklynite through and through, had ever gotten to actual sheep was a lamb chop, medium rare.
“Hold still,” Jonas instructed the nearest sheep. He flipped open the phone and snapped just as the critter moved toward him. The photo was blurred and mostly nose. He deleted it and took another. “Perfect. Thank you, Miss Sheep.” Jonas punched in Del’s number and added a text message. Getting wild ‘n woolly in Vermont. He hit send and waited for a reply, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while the sheep milled around.
None came. Del must be busy—-the clinic always was.
Jonas swore under his breath. Who was in charge here? The sheep had to belong to someone. Biblical-size flocks like this couldn’t run around unsupervised, even in rural Vermont.
As if in answer to his unspoken question, an odd but familiar figure came around the bend, carrying a shepherd’s crook in one hand. A colorfully dressed older woman with long gray braids—someone he remembered but not from where—oh, right. Dotty Pomfret. Bridget’s wool supplier.
“Hey!” Jonas waved out the window.
“Hey yourself,” Dotty called without enthusiasm. She was in no hurry to get to him, he noticed, feeling a little annoyed. He heard her whistle and then his eyes widened at the sight of a black-and-white dog that jumped up … and walked effortlessly on the backs of the sheep.
At her whistled commands, the dog got the flock to move away from Jonas’s car and down a low rise into a pasture, where the sheep stood huddled, looking nervously at the dog. One baa-ed disconsolately and the dog stared it down until it shut up. Satisfied with the job, the dog sat down and kept them where they were by sheer force of personality.
Jonas got out of his car, laughing loudly. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Where’d you get that dog?”
“He was born on my farm. But his mother was from New Zealand. His name is Kiwi.”
She gave Jonas a look that seemed to say and you are?
So he did, putting out his hand to shake hers. “I’m Jonas Concannon. Pleased to meet you. Actually, we’ve met before, but very briefly.”
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “We did?”
“At Bridget O’Shea’s store. In March.”
“Do you … knit?” she inquired.
“Ah, no. I just happened to stop in. Bridget and I—well, we knew each other a while ago.”
“I see.” She peered at him, fiddling with the end of one of her long braids. “Oh, now I remember you. I’m Dotty Pomfret. My farm is that way.” She pointed, not in the direction he was going.
“Need anything from town? I was just heading in.”
“How neighborly of you.” She beamed at him. “Do you have a pen? I’ll make a list. Actually, there are quite a few things I need. You can charge everything to my name. Would you mind? My old truck isn’t running and I would very much appreciate it if you—”
“Not a problem,” Jonas said quickly. He had the feeling that Dotty Pomfret could ask him to do anything and he would do it, in somewhat the same way that the sheep obeyed the dog.
He found a pen and pad of paper in the glove compartment and jotted down what she said, relieved that he could get a lot of it at the drugstore.
“My sister and I don’t get into town that often,” Dotty was saying, “so this really is very nice of you. Tell you what. I’ll make you a sweater.”
She looked him up and down in a way that disconcerted him, but Jonas didn’t think she was ogling him. Still, he was being measured and not just in a physical way.
“I’ll cast the first rows when I get home and it’ll be done by fall.”
For the first time, Jonas noticed the details of what Dotty was wearing: a baggy, misshapen sweater that hung down almost to her knees made of loopy, speckled yam in a riot of colors. It didn’t look like clothing—it looked like an art project.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said hastily. “I’m happy to help.”
Later that evening, Dotty and Elizabeth went through the bags that Jonas had brought from town, taking out items one by one.
“He got everything on the list,” Dotty said, pleased. “Very good.”
Sitting on the floor between the sisters, Kiwi banged his tail.
“I didn’t mean you,” Dotty said. Kiwi gave her a disappointed look. “Silly. You are a good dog, though.”
“What a nice young man he must be,” Elizabeth replied. “And you say he’s handsome. He’s perfect for Bridget, don’t you think?”
“It seems they knew each other back in the day.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Now, now,” Dotty said reprovingly “We’re not going to play Cupid.”
“Could be fun.”
“Could be a disaster. People have to figure things out for themselves. Otherwise they might as well be sheep.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Anyway, I don’t know too much about him. He’s from Vermont but he didn’t grow up in Randolph.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Bridget is a nice girl, I hear, but her mother is impossible. Margaret Harrison thinks very highly of herself. And the airs she puts on … good Lord.”
“Well, I suppose she has some redeeming qualities. Most people do.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t think she has anything nice to say about us.”
“Can’t be helped. You shouldn’t listen to gossip. Shall I make tea?”
“Do we have any?”
Dotty rose from the checked-cloth-covered table and looked into a canister. “There’s a few bags of cham-omile left.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Okay. Put a little whisky in mine.”
Dotty gave her sister a faintly shocked look. “Why?”
“To take away the taste,” Elizabeth laughed. “I hate herb tea.”
A few days later …
Outside, Bridget paused on the gray porch steps of the house, struck for an instant by the vivid hues of green painting the valley and the rolling hills. The green of the land brilliantly contrasted with the blue of the sky, the air startlingly clear and fresh with scents of summer.
Her gaze made an admiring sweep of the verdant scenery. It was a rejuvenating view that lightened her footsteps. She spied her father near the barn working on the farm tractor and smiled at the sight of him in denim coveralls, his hands covered with grease and a straw hat on top of his head.
He was still a farmer at heart, despite all the money he had made selling off acres of his land to wealthy out-of-staters who snapped up large tracts to preserve their unspoiled views. Earthy, easygoing, Bill Harrison was the complete opposite of his wife and was the steady anchor that had kept Margaret Harrison from becoming too puffed up with an inflated sense of her own importance.
“Hi, Dad!” Bridget waved.
He glanced up, surprised, wiping his hands on a snowy white kerchief. Bridget could hear her mother calling when she saw it. “Well, hello, princess,” he smiled and looked to the white house. “Coming!” he shouted. He turned back to Bridget. “Molly was just here looking for you, you know.”
“Did she say what she wanted?” She frowned curiously.
“No, I—there she is now.” His gaze had made a searching swing, sighting his granddaughter on the other side of the road. “Just coming around the chalet.”
Bridget saw Molly astride the bay horse at almost the same instant that Molly saw her and waved. “I’ll go see what she wants. See you later, Dad.”
Molly met her at the mailbox by the road. “I didn’t know where you were.”
“I saw your grandpa so I went over.” More often than not, Bridget was glad that her parents lived so close. Yes, her mother drove her crazy sometimes, but Bridget was getting better about ignoring behavior she couldn’t change. Besides, everybody felt that way about their mothers. “Dad said you were looking for me.”
“Yes, I want you to come riding with me.” She leaned forward in the saddle. “Please, Mom. I don’t feel like riding alone.”
“I’d like to, honey, but I have a lot of housework to do,” she said, a touch of regret in her smile.
“You haven’t gone riding with me for way too long,” Molly argued. Bridget knew it was true. Not since she learned that Jonas had purchased the adjoining farm. “Please come with me and I’ll help with the housework when we get back—I promise.”
“Well …” Bridget hesitated and Molly knew she had won.
“You go change into your boots and I’ll saddle Flash.” She didn’t wait for Bridget to agree as she reined the small bay around to ride to the horse shed behind the chalet.
Bridget glanced at the cloudless blue sky and the inviting green of the hills and shrugged. It was too beautiful a day for housework.
It took only a few minutes to change out of her sandals into a pair of boots and to tie the sleeves of a sweater around her neck in case it was cool. The usually difficult-to-catch sorrel mare was already tied to the fence, saddled and bridled, swishing her flaxen tail at the flies. Molly giggled at the look of surprise on Bridget’s face.
“I had her all ready just in case you decided to come,” she explained mischievously.
“Just don’t you forget you promised to help with the housework.” Bridget laughed, untied the reins from the post, and swung aboard the horse. “You lead the way. Flash and I will follow.”
“We’ll play follow the leader,” Molly called over her shoulder and guided the bay through the gate.
At a canter, they wound through the green pasture dotted with wildflowers and splashed through a small stream to enter the sugar bush, thick with maple trees. A solid canopy of leaves intertwined overhead as Molly set a twisting course through the trees, dodging branches that threatened to whack the unwary.
As the trees began to thin out, a crumbling stone wall stood in their way. Bridget started to slow the sorrel, but Molly didn’t check her mount, setting the bay at the low wall. Gracefully, the Morgan soared over the obstacle with easily a foot to spare. There was a lump of pride in Bridget’s throat at her daughter’s skilled horsemanship. She too urged her mount to the wall and jumped it cleanly.
Molly had reined in on the other side to wait, the bay mare snorting and blowing, still fresh to go many a mile more, but docilely waiting for the command. Bridget saw the breathless exhilaration on Molly’s face and guessed that her own expression matched it.
Molly grinned. “Are you glad you came?”
“What do you think?” Bridget laughed, reining in the sorrel next to her daughter. “How long have you been jumping Satin?”
“Grandpa and I have been schooling her since early spring. I wanted to surprise you, though,” Molly beamed.
“You sure did!” It had all happened too quickly for Bridget to feel more than brief alarm.
“Grandpa says she’s a natural jumper, but then Satin can do anything.” Molly stroked the mare’s neck.
“Almost anything,” Bridget cautioned.
“Almost,” Molly conceded, wrinkling her nose as qualification. “I might start showing her next summer. Of course, we’ll need a horse trailer.”
“A minor, inexpensive item,” Bridget teased.
“Can we afford it?” The little girl was suddenly serious.
“Oh, we might be able to buy a couple of wheels and a crate. We’ll see.”
“Honestly, Mom. Grandpa said—”
“So you had to mention it to your grandfather.” Bridget sighed. She preferred to manage on her own without running to her parents for loans.
“I was talking about showing Satin,” Molly said. “He said he might be able to find a used trailer that we could fix up.”
“You mean that your grandfather would fix up.” Bridget nudged the sorrel into a walk, trying to estimate how much a used horse van might cost and how much she could risk spending out of her savings.
“We really should buy it this summer so it could be all ready to go next year,” Molly offered hesitantly.
“We’ll have to see how much they cost first. I really don’t know.”
“Should I ask Grandpa to look for one on Craigslist or the ads in the paper?” Molly eyed her mother hopefully.
“I’ll talk to him about it,” Bridget promised.
“When?”
“We’re going to have dinner with them tonight. Is that soon enough?” Her laughing hazel eyes gleamed brightly at the widened look of delight rounding Molly’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Molly breathed.
As they trotted their horses through a small stand of trees, sunlight streamed through the branches to dapple the ground. Last year’s autumn leaves made a pleasant rustling sound beneath the horse’s hooves. Overhead, a jay called raucously, flitting from limb to limb to follow them.
“He sure didn’t waste any time,” Molly muttered.
“What?” Bridget glanced blankly at her daughter.
“Putting up new signs to post his property.” Molly gestured to a new white signboard nailed to a tree near the fence line. NO HUNTING AND NO TRESPASSING, the sign read.
Bridget paled, realizing that they were riding through Jonas’s land. Boundary lines had never been observed in the past. They had always ridden this way since she was a young girl. The only difference this time had been that they had jumped the stone wall instead of using the gate.
Mr. Hanson had posted No Trespassing signs too, but he’d let them weather over the years to the point where the paint was flaking off and he hadn’t ever intended his neighbors to be intimidated. Bridget doubted if Jonas did, but the circumstances weren’t the same.
“Yikes! There he is!” Molly exclaimed in a low hiss. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go before he catches up to us.”
Bridget barely had time to lift her gaze to the hill rising on their right and identify Jonas sitting tall on a rangy bay horse. A new acquisition, she figured, like his house. He hadn’t been keeping a horse in New York City. Suddenly Molly was digging her heels into her horse. The eager mare bounded forward.
“Molly!” Bridget tried to call her back, for an instant checking the attempt of her own mount to follow.
She was more anxious than her daughter to avoid meeting Jonas, but it was silly to run, silly and childish. But Molly was gone. Despite her daughter’s natural skill, Bridget couldn’t let her ride headlong over the rolling terrain alone.
With the relaxing of the pressure holding it back, her sorrel needed no second urging to race after the other horse. The thunder of hooves pounding the grassy sod drowned out all other sounds.
There was no time to look back to see if Jonas was following. At this pace, Bridget had to focus her attention on what lay ahead. She was certain he had seen them, and she could guess his amusement at their flight.
A hundred yards from their starting point, a white board fence, the wood chipped and graying, blocked their access to the public road. As they neared it, Bridget turned her horse toward the gate only a few yards farther up from the point of approach, slowing the sorrel. But Molly didn’t alter her course, only checking her mount to set it for the jump.
“No!” Bridget shouted. “Molly, no!”
It was too late. The horse and rider were already arching over the fence. They landed cleanly on the other side, only to have a road ditch yawn before them. Bridget heard an approaching truck and yelled a panicked warning.
She didn’t think Molly had heard her. Either way it didn’t matter because the mare’s impetus would carry them into the road, the Morgan gallantly collecting itself to leap the ditch.
The horse landed on the graveled shoulder at the same instant that the pickup truck topped the small knoll. Bridget saw Molly sawing frantically on the reins to stop the horse and the driver swerving to the opposite ditch to avoid hitting them.
The Morgan attempted a sharp turn, lost its footing in the loose gravel and fell. Bridget heard her daughter’s cry of fear as she was thrown from the saddle and someone screaming Molly’s name over and over, unaware the scream came from her own throat.
Driven by the desperate need to reach her daughter, Bridget abandoned caution, jumping the sorrel over the fence gate where a wide culvert covered with packed earth topped the open ditch. Molly lay motionless along the edge of the ditch as Bridget rode up, dismounting almost before the sorrel had stopped.
The battered pickup had stopped several yards down the road. The driver, gaunt and aging, came huffing up the small incline, his fear showing in the graying color beneath his suntan.
“She just came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry,” he said in a thin voice as Bridget knelt beside her daughter. “Is she badly hurt?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice throbbed with fear. She reached for the unconscious girl. “Molly?”
“Don’t move her!” a familiar voice barked a second before a pair of strong hands pushed Bridget out of the way.
Bridget was too shaken by the sight of Molly’s white face and closed eyes to protest as Jonas assumed control. Dazed, she didn’t question his right. Her hands were clasped tightly together in a silent prayer that Molly was not seriously hurt.
“Is there something I can do?” The elderly man hovered above them, watching anxiously as Jonas examined Molly as best he could without lifting or turning her. His calm demeanor and professionalism impressed Bridget, despite her fear. If he hadn’t been here … she didn’t want to think about that.
“Call an ambulance.” Jonas pulled his cell phone out of his shirt pocket and held it up, not looking at Bridget or the driver of the pickup truck. He was concentrating entirely on Molly, whose eyes were still closed. “She has a concussion at the very least—and she may also have a neck or spine injury. Internally, I don’t know what’s going on. She’ll need to be stabilized on a backboard and we’ve got to get her to a good hospital with a trauma specialist.”
Terrified, Bridget managed to think of the name of the nearest big hospital as the 911 operator came on the line, pinpointed their location through the cell phone, and said an ambulance was on the way.
Molly’s eyelids fluttered open and she looked at her mother, then at Jonas. “What happened?” she murmured. “Where’s Satin? Is she all right?” She made a move to sit up and then settled down again, breathing shallowly. “Did she break a leg? I don’t think I did—Mom, don’t cry.”
“Oh my God—she’s conscious—and she can talk. That’s good, isn’t it?” Bridget asked frantically as she took her daughter’s hand. “Stay still, sweetie. Jonas, what do you think?”
He held Molly’s small wrist and started taking her pulse, then ran his other hand lightly over her middle. “She still needs to go to a hospital. Head injuries are unpredictable and as I said, there may be other things going on. But she’s not flinching. I don’t think she broke any ribs.” He looked into Molly’s eyes. “Close your eyes, Molly. Now open them.”
The little girl obeyed his calm commands without arguing.
“Her pupils are responding normally. Good.”
Of course he knew what to do—he was a doctor—but Bridget was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Gratitude. Fear. Above all, love for her daughter. You never knew how fragile—and how plucky—a child could be until one got hurt, Bridget thought miserably.
“I wish there was something I could do,” the older man mumbled again.
Looking up from Molly for a moment, Jonas made a fast assessment of the pickup’s driver, noting the man’s shock and advanced age. The hard line of his mouth curved briefly into an understanding smile.
“Is there someone who can come get you?” Jonas asked. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
“Yes. My niece.”
“Give Bridget the number and she’ll call for you.” He looked down again at Molly, who gave him a weak smile.
Did her little girl see him as a rescuer? Awash in emotion that was almost too strong to handle, Bridget felt a flash of jealousy and resentment, and told herself to get a grip. Jonas wasn’t playing a hero—he was doing what had to be done, what was best for Molly. She made the call at the old man’s direction, and did her best to reassure his worried niece when she reached her.
Trembling from the effort it took to sound calm, Bridget was startled when Jonas began to give her orders. “Catch the horses and get them off the road. Put them back in the stable.”
“Leave Molly?” she gasped in angered astonishment.
“We don’t need another accident,” he said coolly and returned his attention to Molly, closing the discussion.
Although Bridget recognized the wisdom and logic behind his order, his tone of voice was a spark to her temper. She wanted to disobey even as she rose shakily to her feet to comply, her knees weak and her stomach churning.
The rangy bay Jonas had been riding stood, ground hitched, behind them. Bridget grabbed at the reins and walked across the road to where her sorrel was grazing along the shoulder. For once, the recalcitrant horse allowed Bridget to walk right up to her as if knowing this was not the time to play a game of tag. Molly’s bay mare was standing by the board fence, a knee scraped and bloody but showing no other marks from the fall.
Leading the three horses, Bridget started back to Molly. She stopped short at the sight of her daughter’s hand in Jonas’s. Molly was talking to him quietly about nothing in particular. Bridget knew he was monitoring her daughter without seeming to do so, but she could not shake off an unwelcome resentment at his rapport with Molly. It was as if he had usurped her parental, protective role—and the thought made Bridget feel even more dazed, as if she and not Molly had taken the knock on the head.
She heard the distant wail of the ambulance’s siren gradually grow louder and finally stop as the emergency vehicle came over the hill and stopped where Jonas pointed.
As she watched, feeling helpless and afraid, Jonas and the EMT crew got Molly on the backboard and took her vital signs under Jonas’s close supervision.
Just seeing her daughter’s small body strapped down and a thick cervical collar carefully placed around her neck was enough to make Bridget cry a river of tears. But she didn’t. She signed the forms on a clipboard that a tech handed her without paying much attention, forcing herself to be strong for Molly, when all she wanted to do was puke—or shriek.
“Ma’am?” an EMT guy asked her. “Are you coming to the hospital?” The other two were carefully lifting the backboard into the ambulance, chatting with Molly, who managed to reply. Stricken, Bridget looked at Jonas.
“Your call,” was all he said.
She took a deep breath and came to a decision. Like him, she would do what was best for her daughter. If he rode with her, Molly would have the benefit of a doctor and EMT personnel right at hand. If anything went wrong—anything at all—they would take care of her daughter in a way that she couldn’t And the horses couldn’t be left to find their own way home.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Jonas can ride with her.”
“Take care of Satin, Mommy,” she heard Molly say.
“I will, sweetie. See you as soon as I can.”
Jonas nodded and climbed into the back of the ambulance, sitting next to Molly on the jumpseat that the EMT guy flipped down for him. The driver closed the doors and the ambulance left, seconds before the old man’s niece pulled up to take him home.
To save time, Bridget got all three of the horses put away at Jonas’s house and dashed over to hers. She left a note for her parents who’d gone off somewhere—her father didn’t have a cell phone and her mother couldn’t remember to keep hers charged. She would try to call them from the hospital if she got a chance.
Bridget ran to her car and drove to the hospital in less than an hour. She didn’t remember too much about the journey besides a lot of praying to make amends for all past, present, and future sins, amen, just so long as Molly would be okay.
The ER intake cleric paged a nurse to lead Bridget through the maze of rooms to the one where her daughter was. Molly was sitting up in a railed hospital bed and talking.
Thank God.
Jonas was with her. Bridget felt the same uncomfortable mix of gratefulness and resentment surge up once more.
“Hello, you two,” she said quietly.
