Matthew's eyes shifted briefly toward the porch, then back to George. "I came about your gray stallion."
George blinked. "The gray? The Parker horse? Oh. Right. Of course."
Rachel lowered her head over the halter. Matthew had asked about that bloodline on the road. George waved him toward the barn.
"Rachel keeps most of the breeding notes. She can show you."
That was not what George usually said. Normally it was, "I've got the records." Rachel wondered if he had simply forgotten which story he told which man. Matthew entered the barn.
His shoulders seemed even broader beneath the low rafters. "Miss Hart."
"Mr. Hail."
"Hand healing?"
Rachel flexed the palm he had bandaged at Crow Creek. "Fine."
He nodded toward the halter. "You repair all your tack?"
"Most of it."
"Why?"
"Because new leather costs money."
Matthew looked at the stitching. "And because you do it well."
Rachel's fingers paused. She resumed work. "The stallion's in the west paddock."
They walked out together. From the kitchen window, Lillian was watching. Rachel noticed. Matthew did not appear to.
The gray stallion stood near the fence with frost crusted along his mane. Rachel leaned her forearms on the top rail. "He throws good shoulders. Better temperament than his sire."
Matthew rested one hand against the post. "What about feet?"
"Strong. If the mare's line is clean, you wouldn't breed him to the red mare."
Rachel looked at him. "Which red mare?"
"Small blaze. White hind sock. Saw her here last fall."
Rachel stared a second longer than she meant to. "No."
"Why?"
"Front pasterns are too soft."
Matthew nodded. "That's what I thought."
She studied him. "Then why ask?"
"Wanted to know if you thought so too."
Rachel's mouth tightened. "That sounds suspiciously like testing me."
"It wasn't."
"What was it?"
Matthew looked toward the stallion. "Conversation."
She almost laughed. He stayed nearly an hour. When he left, George followed him all the way to the gate.
That evening, George was in an excellent mood. "Good man, Hail."
Rachel washed supper plates. Lillian sat at the table brushing crumbs from her skirt. George continued.
"Knows horses, apparently. Asked about Sunday service."
Rachel turned slightly. Lillian looked up. George smiled.
"Didn't say why."
Lillian's expression changed by the smallest amount. Rachel saw that too. The following Sunday, Matthew attended church in Cedar Ridge. He sat three rows behind the Harts.
Rachel did not turn around during the sermon, though she was aware of him in the ridiculous way one is aware of a clock ticking after somebody mentions it. Afterward, families gathered in the churchyard among patches of dirty snow. George found Mr. Patterson. Lillian found three women her age.
Rachel headed toward the hitching rail.