Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage by Cathy Woodman

as far as I’m concerned, she isn’t my biological mother. She’s Dad’s second wife. I don’t remember my birth mother. I don’t know if that’s because I was too young, or because I don’t want to remember her. She walked out when I was eighteen months old.’ He bites his lip before continuing, ‘People say she must have had her reasons, that she must have been deeply depressed or desperate to abandon her own child, but I’ll never understand how she could do it.
    â€˜When I remember how small and vulnerable Maisie was when she was the same age, I couldn’t have abandoned her. It’s incomprehensible to me, and cruel.’
    â€˜You don’t have to talk about it.’
    â€˜It’s all right. It’s ancient history. I’m over it.’ A shadow crosses his eyes and I wonder if it really is something that you can recover from. ‘Next weekend is Easter. Let’s ride out on the Sunday if you’re free. If it’s a nice day, we can take the horses down to the river. I know where the water’s deep enough for them to swim.’
    â€˜Won’t it be too cold?’
    â€˜The forecast is for warmer weather, a mini-heatwave.’
    â€˜Okay, that sounds fun. Brilliant.’
    â€˜How about I meet you here at ten?’
    â€˜That’s perfect.’ I want to say that any time’s fine with me, but I don’t want to sound too keen.
    I watch him drive away in a hurry to get back to his daughter. I spend an hour looking after Rafa. I turn him out, scrub the water trough until I’d be happy to drink from it myself, and make his day-bed, as I call it, ready for the morning. When I go indoors, I have the house to myself. Louise has left a note telling me to help myself to the fish pie that’s in the fridge. She and Ashley have gone to her parents’ for the evening. Mel has survived the op to fuse the bones in his spine and is in recovery. She’s put the chickens to bed. Smiley face.
    It’s very quiet, too quiet for me. I Skype Sarah on my iPad, but she can only chat for ten minutes because her hubby has dinner ready on the table.
    â€˜He’s such a hero,’ she sighs. ‘He’s spoiling me to bits. I’m planning to be pregnant for ever.’
    â€˜You’re incredibly lucky.’ I watch her stroke her baby bump. She’s tall, slim and elegant, with shoulder-length dark hair and hazel eyes. Her white embroidered loose-fitting shirt contrasts with her tan.
    â€˜I know.’ She frowns. ‘This sounds bad, but I’m glad it didn’t work out between you and Ryan. You weren’t right for each other.’ She cocks her head. ‘David’s brother is back on the market …’
    â€˜Oh no.’ I met him at their wedding. I made a horseshoe especially for Sarah and David, a good-luck charm decorated with ribbons and flowers. David’s brother is decidedly geeky and wouldn’t know one end of a horse from the other.
    â€˜You aren’t going to let one bad experience hold you back for the rest of your life? I know it’s made you wary of men, but you can’t let it go on for ever. I hate the idea that you’re letting Ryan win.’
    â€˜It isn’t about winning and losing.’
    â€˜I think it is. He’s made you lose your self-confidence – when it comes to men, I mean, not in general.’
    â€˜He’s made me question my judgement. Ryan took me for a ride, so to speak, and I’m not prepared to let that happen for a second time.’
    â€˜David’s brother is a lovely man.’
    â€˜I’m sure he’s very sweet, but he isn’t my type.’
    â€˜Remind me, Flick. What is your “type”?’
    An image of Robbie Salterton on a big black stallion comes galloping into my head, sending my ex-boyfriends, including Ryan, running for cover. I wonder how good the picture is at Sarah’s end, if she