All The Dark Places

3. Broken Windows

 The horses passed through shallow creeks and mossy embankments. The day had been long, and the afternoon took its toll on Rosalind in the most exquisite way. She rode for hours, exploring miles of trails that wound through the forested expanse of parkland behind the castle property. The property itself was comprised of many acres of land, a private lake, several ponds and a small waterfall. It felt good to be riding again with the deliciously warm ache in her thighs and the sunshine on her back. She hoped to go riding alone, but Martin invited himself along, though it was painfully obvious that he was a beginner and had no business being in a saddle. She tempered her ride with him at her side for fear he might try to gallop alongside her to keep up. She took every opportunity to hint that she would rather ride alone, but Martin did not seem to have a clue. Eventually, she lost patience with him and his inappropriately doting attention. She understood it was not something he thought of as inappropriate. Martin was a strange man, a pure creative spirit. He was in love with her art, she reminded herself, not her.

    "I'm going to ride ahead," she said, her tone clipped. "Alone." 

    "Oh. Yes, well... all right. Um... which is the way back?" 

The man looked like a hurt puppy.

    "Stay on the trail and take the left-hand path."

    He looked flustered for a moment and then seemed to gather his wits and nodded, looking spurned. Knowing Martin for a year, his attentions were innocent. He never made a pass at her. He approached creative projects and creative people with the unabashed enthusiasm of a child. He fell in love with his projects and his adoration for creativity poured out with little thought to how it might look like more than innocent admiration. 

He lavished similar attention on her husband, but then again, Tess Yearling never saw that. She felt bad but then again she wanted no part of being suspected of being a home wrecker. She wanted to gallop and feel the wind on her face. At the commune in Oregon, went riding every day, galloping horses across an open field, and it was Heaven. 

In San Francisco, the only places to ride were stables outside the city. She frequented a stable in Marin, resenting having to cross the bridge to get there. It was not the same. It felt controlled and came with expectations. She preferred the open country of rural Oregon. She felt free at that commune, the beeping and blinking gadgets of modern life left behind. She considered staying. They asked her to stay, and she deeply considered it, but in the end, she could not expect her husband, Charlie, to live that way.

A stable-hand named Jory met her near the entrance and took the horse. Max, Jory's Irish wolfhound, curled up next to the stables; a lazy sentinel. He raised his massive head up to receive scratches behind his ears. Rosalind admired the beautiful dog who was the size of a small pony and wondered if Jory wouldn't mind if she took him for a walk some time.

   "How was the ride, Miss?" the young man asked. 

He was a dark haired young man in his early twenties, and she decided that she instantly liked him for calling her Miss instead of Ma'am, which always made her feel old. He was an attractive young man, maybe a bit too attractive, with the kind of perfectly shaped bone structure, wavy chestnut hair and smoldering eyes that the movie people -and anyone with a pulse- would likely notice. Rosalind already heard the gossip that the grounds keeper's wild-child daughter was in love with him, much to her father's dismay. 

    "That was fantastic. Desmond is a great horse. I would love to take him out again in the morning."

   "I'll have him ready, Miss. He likes you," he said as he began unstrapping the saddle. "Mr. Yearling's wife was asking his whereabouts. I remained... vague."