Her Wicked Sin by Sarah Ballance Page A

or shall I send help?”
    He looked to Willard, who had taken to pacing the fence with great interest of the new arrival. “I will not turn down the chance to meet a neighbor,” he said. “Though for the opportunity to converse more so than for help with the fencing.”
    “Do not be stubborn, Henry. I will send the first accessible Goodman to help. It is the way of neighbors.”
    “Very well then. Would you like me to prepare your mount?”
    Lydia studied the bay gelding. “I would prefer to get to know him here before I take him riding.”
    “Not the gelding. Take the oaf before he tears down the fence with his curiosity.”
    Lydia drew her hand to her mouth. “Willard? But he is yours!”
    “As are you, wife. You make a lovely pairing.” He kissed her lightly, then walked to the wagon. “There is a woman’s saddle here, though I fear it may not be wide enough for him.”
    “You purchased a saddle?”
    “I have. But nothing of great expense, for I know the Puritan lifestyle is not one of excess. I wish not to make things difficult, but rather to ease the burden of your travels.”
    “You are a most gracious man.”
    “One who treasures a woman,” he said. “And as for a saddle—”
    “Worry not, for I can ride with a pad.”
    Henry’s brow raised. “Your seat is such?”
    “Trust I won’t end up tangled in the stirrup,” she said, laughing. “And I fear not for my ability to stay seated, but I need not ride. The road to the Bradshaw home is not long.”
    “Perhaps,” Henry said. “But the fence may not make the afternoon with Willard’s pacing. It would be most helpful if you could take him for his exercise.”
    Lydia did not say what she feared most, which was the talk of the village when she arrived on the back of such breeding. The Puritans were modest and of the cloth, and Willard an extravagance. But she could not blame the creature for his beauty, nor judge her guest—her husband —for his taste in horseflesh. But oh, how the goodwives would talk—and the men and children, too!
    “Very well, then,” she said. “If it pleases you, I will take your mount.”
    To this, Henry offered a grand smile. He patted the bay gelding on the nose and went to fetch the stallion, who high-stepped to the gateway and, rather than bully his way through, waited for Henry to offer the bridle. Willard accepted the bit and kept his head low until Henry fixed the leathers, then followed at a docile pace, though he kept fire in his high-kneed step as he craned his head toward the new arrival.
    Lydia waved off Henry’s offer of the reins and fetched the saddle pad, saving Henry the added steps. His limp had already grown more prominent, and though it seemed not to bother him, if he intended to spend the day making repairs she would spare him every step she could.
    “What is the gelding’s name?” she asked when she returned.
    “That is for you to decide,” Henry said, taking the pad and tossing it over Willard’s back. “He is yours.”
    Lydia thought of the mare she had left behind and found herself caught between a surge of sadness and joy swelling in her chest. When she had fled Cambridge she had feared the ability to properly care for the horse. She had also feared that the animal might make her traceable. But from that sorrow… now, her very own horse! She had dared not dream again of such a moment. “I will think of the perfect name,” she said, “but I must be going.”
    “Very well, then.” Henry gave her a leg up and patted Willard’s shoulder. To the horse, he said, “Take care of her.”
    Lydia urged Willard to walk on before Henry could see the moisture gathering in her eyes. She knew not what affected her more—the generosity of his gift or his trusting her with Willard—but the combined affect was profound. And now she was sure to be the talk of the neighbors, and what could she possibly say of her husband? With a start, she realized she knew not his surname…or much else.