“Is everything well with your position?” she asked as she pulled her horse alongside his.
“Your concern for my position is somewhat late,” he said with a lift of his eyebrow. His glance barely skimmed her face before he nudged his horse forward to see to the gate that would let them out of the fenced paddock.
She rode Poseidon through the opening. “You alone extended the job offer. How was I to know you would answer to someone else for the decision?”
“Fair.” He gave a nod as he closed the gate but didn’t look at her. Nor did he say anything else as he turned and rode on.
That was okay. She didn’t need him to talk to her. He was providing her with a chance to demonstrate her abilities, a place to stay, money for the future, and, hopefully, enough food for both her and Jonas.
Expecting him to converse with her was asking too much.
The silence was nearly unbearable, and there were dozens of things she could have happily commented on. She’d ridden across miles and miles of countryside in the past two years, but the Heath was more marvelous than any of it. Perhaps it was because hope rolled across the expanse along with the sea of grass.
Everything looked bright, new, and fascinating. Even the horse beneath her, with movements that were far different from Rhiannon’s, was giving her a sense of newness.
The last time she could remember feeling like this was standing in the bow of the boat that had taken them from Ireland to England. Despite the turmoil they’d left behind, she’d thought that this country would bring bright new opportunities.
She’d been wrong then. She wouldn’t be wrong this time.
This time, she would create those opportunities instead of simply looking for them.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”
Sophia jerked in the saddle, startling the horse beneath her into a rapid sidestep. She’d entirely forgotten about her companion as she’d watched a cluster of horses run along a distant ridge. “Pardon?”
He nodded toward a low, shadowy building in the distance. “That weigh house. Let’s see who gets there first.”
A race. He was proposing a race.
Her hands gripped the reins tighter, and the horse shook his head. She’d come here to do this—had expected to be racing this morning—but she still felt woefully unprepared for the moment.
Mr. Whitworth’s stoic face didn’t ease her sudden nerves. He didn’t intend to count this as her trial race, did he? That would certainly be a handy loophole. They’d ridden no faster than a brisk walk so far, and despite his claims, the horse she was on might be slower than a mule.
She could call him on it, but his honor was the only thing keeping her here. She would simply have to focus on winning. And pray that God kept him honest.
Both would be preferable.
“Who will call the start?” She shifted her weight, squeezing her right leg tightly against the pommel to ensure she didn’t end up in the mud the moment Poseidon started running.
“I’ll give you the advantage.” Mr. Whitworth lined up his horse beside hers, face devoid of any telling expression. “When you’re ready.”
She took a deep breath, resettled her seat, and called the start, nudging the horse with her foot as she yelled.
Wind filled her face and hair, whipping pins from their moorings and pulling tears from her eyes. Poseidon surged forward, legs eating up the ground at a pace Sophia had never experienced. His head bobbed with the rhythm of his stride, pulling against the tight hold she had on the reins and forcing her to hold them looser than she did when working with Rhiannon.
His smooth, supple movements didn’t prevent little tremors from passing through her body each time a hoof impacted the ground.
It was glorious.
She glanced to and fro across the ground in front of them, searching for obstacles or more advantageous pathways. A blur loomed to her left, creeping into the corner of her vision. Mr. Whitworth’s mount was close, but he hadn’t yet pulled ahead.
Afraid to push her foot deeper into the stirrup and knock the saddle aside, she shifted her hip and gripped the pommel tighter. She leaned forward and molded herself to the back of the animal as much as possible, focusing on moving with him—even breathing with him.
The weigh house loomed larger, becoming a building instead of a blur. Almost there. Did the horse have any more? Was there a last surge of effort in those muscles that could push them to victory?
If there was, she didn’t know how to find it. Train a horse to step elegantly and follow nearly invisible commands from talented riders? She was confident she could stand with the best of them. Urge an already galloping horse to go faster? She hadn’t a clue.
Mr. Whitworth did, though. As they approached the building, the haze at the edge of her vision turned into a horse and rider. He passed the edge of the weigh house with Sophia and Poseidon right on his tail but most definitely behind.
They eased the horses down slowly, until both were plodding along, sides heaving, heads slightly drooped.
She’d lost the impromptu race, but what did that mean? She was proud of her first run. Had she done well enough to impress him?
What if she saw disappointment when she turned to look at him? What if his mouth was pressed into a thin line and his face was covered in resignation, knowing she was going to lose the race and take both of their reputations down with her?
She knew she didn’t exactly belong here, but she desperately wanted the reason to be because she was female and not because she lacked ability. Her riding skills were all she had. If he wasn’t impressed with those . . .
Mr. Whitworth cleared his throat and pulled his horse in front of hers before stopping.
Poseidon stopped as well, giving Sophia no choice but to look up into Mr. Whitworth’s stony visage.
His expression seemed much the same as it had when he’d grudgingly agreed to honor her employment, but there was something different about it now, something she couldn’t put into words. Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but despite the fact that the man clearly knew how to keep his emotions a secret from his face, she thought maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite so resentful of her presence.
Or was he?
She dearly hoped he learned how to speak at some point in this endeavor. She also hoped she’d become immune to the urge to squirm under his quiet, steady gaze. The way he seemed to know things just by looking at her, as if he could see beneath the surface, made her feel vulnerable.
Clearing her throat, she looked over her shoulder at the stretch of land they’d just run across. “I’ve never done anything like that before.” As she swung her face back toward Mr. Whitworth, she couldn’t suppress a wide grin. “It was incredible.”
His eyes softened at the corners. If she hadn’t been staring at him, trying to read him the way he seemed to be reading her, she’d have missed it.
He nodded and turned his horse to start walking again. This time he kept up a running, if dry, commentary. They rode past the training yards that bordered the Heath, with their small stables and individual training rings. He pointed out landmarks as the horses plodded closer to the town. Grass gave way to lanes and buildings. Taller roofs indicating the main street of town could be seen to her left.
When there were no more horse-related areas to indicate, he lapsed into silence.