Spring Blossom by Jill Metcalf

with Hunter following on her heels.
“I had Maribelle saddled for you, Margaret,” she called, smiling
and hoping it would encourage her sister to do the same.
    “Maribelle is lame.”
    “No she’s not,” Jennifer returned. “I saw
you ride her earlier.”
    Margaret glared at the girl and then raised
her hands in resignation, letting them fall to slap her thighs
before rushing out the door.
    Hunter chuckled softly as he came around to
the side of the little roan. “Leg up?” he offered.
    Maggie shook her head and, without a word,
led her horse over to the mounting block where she climbed the
three steps and settled herself astride the mare.
    Hunter had almost become accustomed to her
garb and had decided the fitted shirt and britches held some merit.
His Maggie might act like an aged aunt at the ripe old age of
eighteen, but that outfit accented beautifully the maturing curves
of a woman.
    Jennifer was dressed in breeches and a
matching jacket and was not so reluctant to accept hunter’s offer
of a leg up. He easily raised her high while she swung her right
leg over the saddle, then smiled her thanks at him while she
gathered her pony’s reins loosely in her hands.
    “Could be please not trot?” she asked. “My
pony jiggles my insides when we trot.”
    Hunter laughed as he moved off and mounted
the horse he had chosen.
    “Jennifer!” Margaret admonished, shocked by
the girl’s vulgarity.
    The young girl frowned. “Well, he does.”
    “Don’t say things like that.”
    “Why not?” Jennifer asked, perplexed.
“That’s what happens.”
    “She has a point there,” Hunter teased and
led them off down the nearest lane.
    Margaret did not appreciate his interference
and decided the best way to survive this outing was probably to
remain silent. But it was difficult not to speak when the man was
so damned vexing!
    They rode past row upon row of drying sheds,
which would not be filled with tobacco leaves for several more
weeks. At least Hunter hoped that was the case in the southern part
of the state, for he wanted to be home well before the start of
harvest.
    He noticed as they rode that Alastair had
left several fields to fallow. He pulled back, slowing his mount
until Margaret was beside him. “Are these fields played out?”
    Margaret looked around her. “I wouldn’t have
thought so,” she said and then shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps
Papa decided to leave them for another year.”
    Hunter was surprised that Maggie lacked the
knowledge to answer his question. Although the horses appeared to
be her primary area of responsibility, he would think that Alastair
would discuss the workings of the farm with her, even in casual
conversation. It also surprised him that his host had not chosen an
alternative crop that would be easier on depleted soil. Few
planters could afford to leave fields lying fallow for many years.
And then Jennifer drew up beside him.
    Hunter slowed his horse to match the pace of
the pony while the girl chattered on about several topics. His
thoughts, however, remained a few paces behind…with Margaret.
    Soon they left the fields behind and were
riding through a pretty forest that smelled of evergreen and sweet
damp earth and wildflowers that grew in patches where the
over-story of the trees did not blot out the sun. When they emerged
from the trees, Hunter suddenly recognized the location.
    “I remember this pond!” he said, smiling as
he turned to look at Margaret. “You must remember as well.”
    “Why?” Jennifer asked, looking from one to
the other.
    “It was one of Mother’s favorite places,”
Margaret said carefully.
    Hunter laughed. “Your sister and I took a
little dip in this pond.”
    Jennifer’s eyes widened with shock. “You
went swimming?” she demanded. “Together?”
    Margaret began fidgeting with her reins, not
wanting to remember that afternoon when she had cried as only a
foolish child could cry. She knotted the end of the reins, picking
at the leather to