She would return from a ride, thirsty and invigorated.
He’d come in from the rows of tobacco—gloved and shirtless—and pull the saddle from her panting horse. He’d coax the bit from the mare’s mouth and hang the bridle on its wooden peg. Then he’d turn to find Sarah reclined on the bale of straw—head sideways, as if posing for a portrait, beautifully nonchalant—skirt up to her chest, daring him to have her.
