Kate Bridges - The Proposition

“They’ve got names, don’t they?” Jessica repeated.

“My broodmares do. But the Mountie workhorses, the ones we’re riding, don’t. There’s too many to name.” He yanked on his large left glove, opening and closing his fingers. He seemed so slow with this horse compared to how he’d been with the others. And his face was flushed. “The one you’re leading, the roan,” he said, nodding behind her shoulder, “is called Seagrass. My Clydesdale goes by Coal Dust.”

“Ah, because of her black color. And this one?”

She noticed a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. “…Independence.”

“Independence.” Jessica stood in awe at the size of her. “May I help you with her?”

His expression changed. His white sleeves rustled in the wind, outlining the muscles beneath. “She’s got a burr in her mane. If you put on your gloves, you could comb through it with your fingers and then I wouldn’t have to…. Much obliged.”

“I…I don’t mean to sit idle.” She tugged on her brown-leather gloves. “It’s just that I’m unsure how to help.”

He nodded and heaved a saddle blanket on top of Independence.

She grabbed the other side. They worked tranquilly together. She was making headway with him, Jessica thought, and wondered if and when she should tell him some of her allegations against Dr. Finch.

“What happened to the perfume you always used to wear?”

Her responding smile came gently.

His mouth tugged upward in kind.

That wasn’t so hard, she thought, was it? He looked much better in a smile than a scowl.

“I didn’t think the horses would appreciate it.”

“That showed good judgment.”

“Go ahead and say it. It’s the only good judgment I’ve used today.”

He inclined his dark head. The brim of his hat concealed his eyes. “Not the only. Your choice of shoes was good. Unlike your friend over there.” He motioned to Mr. Merriweather, who was massaging his sock feet. “Will he be all right?”

“Sure.”

“What about his back?”

“He’s…he’s not used to riding. It uses a lot of muscles you forget you have.”

“I’ve seen him pull out those binoculars a few times. What’s he looking at?”

With his mouth open in amazement, the butler had his collapsible binoculars aimed above the fir trees.

“A rusty-colored hawk,” she answered. “See it circling? It’s got a wingspan of four-and-a-half feet. The largest hawk in North America, they tell me.”

“They?”

She turned back to Travis. “He’s the president of the Birdwatchers Society.”

Travis grumbled. “I suppose that’s harmless enough. But it better not get in the way of anything I’m doing.”

Spoken like the controlling man he was.

Jessica reached out and timidly patted Independence’s shoulder. The mare stirred and took a step backward.

“Easy,” Travis said to her. “She senses your fear.”

“Sorry. I’m trying to maintain contact.” Summoning her courage, she plunged forward and grabbed the horse’s mane where she saw the cluster of burs.

The horse startled at the jab.

“Whoa,” Travis warned her.

Jessica gulped. “Just this one last burr.” When she yanked on the hairs, the horse lifted its hind leg.

“Be careful,” said Travis, looking somewhat overwhelmed. He gripped the bridle and the mare settled.

“But she seems so mild mannered.”

He peered down at her, eyebrows drawn together, facial muscles tensed. “You still need to be careful.”

His mood shifted to one of stormy anger. What on earth had she done to cause it?

“You need to be gentle on her.” His eyes sparked with a stab of emotion. Whatever was bothering him, it seemed to suddenly deepen. “She’s in foal. The mare’s…pregnant?”

“How far along?” she whispered.

The mare didn’t look pregnant. With a shiny coat, she had just enough fat on her so her ribs were slightly visible.

His voice rumbled as he turned away, she swore to hide his face. “About two months.”

“How do you know when it’s not visible on the mare?”

“A good breeder keeps track of dates when his mares are bred. And I also did a thorough manual examination.”

He nodded, lowering his eyes to the saddle.

Her hand fell to rest on the horse’s neck. With a moan of empathy, Jessica recalled her own months of confinement in the Montreal house, stepping out for fresh air to trim the backyard hedges, watching her figure grow while in a torrent of mixed emotions. Then feeling the first tiny kick in excited anticipation with no one to share it with, only to have lost it all.

“The last time you were in Calgary, you were rumored to be engaged to that Englishman. Victor Sterling, was that his name?”

The personal nature of Travis’s question and the sudden vibrancy to his voice unnerved Jessica.

Standing in an ocean of green prairie grass and dwarfed by her horse, she tried to untangle the leather straps from her saddle. As they made camp, last remnants of fading light silhouetted the mountain peaks and gushing river waters behind Travis. The sky was twilight blue, on the verge of turning black.

In the distance, Mr. Merriweather limped between the trees. He hummed a cowboy tune while collecting firewood.

She dug her boots into parched soil. “That was his name.”

The moon, a glowing yellow ball, skimmed the straight lines of Travis’s shoulders. The quality of lighting was changing on their journey. The general lighting of the vast prairies had washed everything equally but in the rugged foothills, the enclosures cast shadows across his body and face, highlighting his unique stance and the outline of his lips.

He tied a rope between two evergreens, forming a hitching line for the horses.

Irritated by her gloves’ bulkiness, she removed them, turning her back on Travis and hopefully his curiosity.

“What happened to your engagement?”

“It was never really official,” she said with begrudging frankness. “He had to…Victor had to return to England.”

“But I thought—”

“Victor never made it.”

“What do you mean?”

Resentful of the questions and the raw emotions they evoked, she pulled her arms tighter to her chest. Last year when Jessica wrote to his parents to enquire about his whereabouts, thinking that maybe Victor, the natural father of her child, might help her look for their baby, she’d been informed of the horrible news.

She avoided Travis’s cold stare. “Victor’s ship never reached London. It went down in the tail end of a hurricane.” Her despair intensified. “Victor drowned.”

His large hands stopped working on the rope.

Slowly, he turned to face her. His stern attitude dissolved. “I’m sorry.”

Quietness consumed them.

She nodded, looking down at her pack, wishing he’d leave. Then she heard him walk away, leading two mares in the direction of the river. Dry leaves and pine needles crackled beneath the horses’ hooves, while Travis’s spurs echoed between the foliage.

She untied the metal pots from her saddlebags. It bothered her that he apparently assumed it was Victor’s death that’d stopped their marriage. But their relationship had been nothing like Travis and Caroline’s; Travis had cared deeply for his wife.

Victor had been a youthful English professor at Oxford. He’d come to Canada to discuss the possibility of setting up an affiliated university, possibly choosing Toronto, Vancouver or Calgary. As mayor, Jessica’s father was eager for Victor to choose their town, for it would bring financial and social gains to the community. Her father had introduced them. Jessica, an insatiable reader, had shared with Victor her adoration for the romantic poems of William Wordsworth, the travelogues of Mark Twain and the adventures of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales.