Ryah notices and says in a scandalized whisper, “Cale, were you flirting with her?”
I shake my head. “Just amusing myself by winding her up a little. They’ll be a while with the horses. Shall we get some lunch?”
I hold out my hands to Ryah, and she takes them and jumps down from the hay bales. The Land Rover and horse box pulls past us and we follow it out of the farrier’s and down into the village. It’s barely even a village. It doesn’t have a pub, just a general store that’s also a post office and a sandwich bar. We order salad sandwiches and lemonades and eat our lunch on a bench by the green.
Ryah takes a bite of her sandwich and chews thoughtfully. “Does it bother you that people look at you that way?”
I take the caps off both the bottles of lemonade and hand one to her. “What way?”
“Like they can’t figure you out. Like they’re not sure if you’re allowed.”
“Not particularly. They can do as they please as long as they leave me and mine alone.” I study her face for a moment, wondering if she’s asking because it bothers her. “How about you?”
She shrugs. “People don’t even notice me.”
“That’s not true. You’ve got a crumb on your cheek.” I reach out and brush it away, and then tweak her nose. I can’t help myself. She’s too cute.
We eat in silence for several minutes, and I think Ryah’s thoughts have moved elsewhere. Then she says, “It is true. Whenever I’m with you, people are always staring at you.”
Not all of them. Not the men. The farrier’s assistant kept looking up from his work to gaze at Ryah while she was stroking the cat. It was starting to get on my nerves.
“I don’t mind, though,” she continues. “It’s a relief to blend into the background.”
I ball up my sandwich wrapper and lean back on my elbows, enjoying the warm sunshine. I gaze at her with a smile on my face. “Sparkle, you couldn’t blend into the background if you tried.”
Ryah looks back at me, as if wondering if I’m telling the truth. Dancing leaf shadows are dappling her pretty face. I feel so content sitting here with her, that I can’t help myself. I wink.
“Cale,” she says with a roll of her eyes, and shoves my leg with the heel of her hand. Her smile is exasperated, but a little bit pleased. I wasn’t flirting before, but I’m definitely flirting now. I should probably cut that out.
I collect our sandwich wrappers and empty lemonade bottles and throw them in the trash, and we head back to farriers.
An hour later we’re on the road with thirteen newly shod horses. Dandelion needed new shoes, as well. I make sure we head back the right way this time and find the bridle path that runs alongside the fields. I wait at the entrance to the path and hold out the lead ropes to Ryah.
“Want to take them for a bit?”
“Sure.” She leads the horses forward, as confident as if she does this every day. You can tell she grew up around horses.
Jareth and I follow along behind, and it’s nice to be the ones who get to daydream for a change. I’m thinking about our act, which has me thinking about our debut, which has me thinking about Ryah’s svelte body in her costume under the spotlights. It takes me a moment to realize the horses have come to a stop.
Up ahead, Ryah has dismounted and is trying to open a gate into a field that’s barring our way.
“Everything all right?” I call.
“Oh, it’s locked,” Ryah says in dismay, and turns away to mount Dandelion and lead the horses back up the bridle path.
The gate has been secured with a dirty great padlock. Beyond, the field is full of inquisitive young heifers.
“Stay there,” I call to Ryah, and reach into my saddle bag for a pair of bolt cutters. I dismount and march grimly toward the gate.
Her eyes widen. “Cale, we can’t break into private land.”
Am I breaking in? Yes. Is it private land? Not all of it. Not that bridle path, which has been a public right of way for hundreds of years. As I’m lifting the cutters to shear off the padlock, a distant voice shouts across the field.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I pause and lean on the gate, waiting for the farmer to half hobble, half run across the churned-up field. He’s in his fifties and his face is red with anger and exertion.
I may as well start off politely, though I know this is going to nosedive fast. “Good afternoon, sir. This is a public right of way,” I say gesturing across the field with the bolt-cutters. “Perhaps you’re new around here.”