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O phelia practically floated through the kitchen door and into the hallway.

She could feel the quiet warmth of the house embrace her and was glad of it.

Her heart still thudded against her ribs and she didn’t let herself think overmuch about kissing Silas yet.

She took a seat in the empty kitchen, turning the chair to rest her feet against the stove’s still-warm front.

All the adrenaline seemed to leak out of her; she felt shaky, as though she wanted to laugh.

It had been so much lovelier than she’d imagined, his lips warm and firm, the scrape of his stubble a perfect rasp against her palms. She could still feel the press of his hands on the skin and muscles of her arms, the taste of him on her lips.

God, did she ever want to do it again, and soon.

She sat, lost in reverie until her backside began to go to sleep.

She needed to check the horses quickly before she made her way to bed.

The increased workload had made them hungry, and she had taken to bringing them extra hay each night.

She slipped across the barn yard and moved through the now twilit barn.

Ophelia’s stomach fell when she saw Samson’s stall door ajar.

In her own stall, Delilah paced irritably, her tail swishing as she moved.

Rushing forward, Ophelia threw the door open, but the stall was empty, Samson nowhere to be seen.

Ophelia’s heart beat wildly against her ribs, fear sizzling through her like heat lightning as she hurried back out the barn door.

Samson was a clever horse and prone to fiddling with latches and chains, but she had always been careful to latch his stall properly.

Could it have slipped her mind this afternoon?

God, if anything’s happened to him, I’ll never forgive myself.

Then it occurred to her that Samson might have escaped the farm entirely, and she felt the tears begin to trickle down her cheeks.

She swiped them away angrily and burst out into the courtyard.

There was no sign of the big gelding there, so she continued around the house toward the top field, calling his name softly, not ready to alert the others to her mistake.

To her right, Ophelia heard a sound, perhaps a rustle?

She skirted Mrs. Darling’s kitchen and hurried along a path leading down a hill to Mr. Bone’s lower pasture where he had sowed an early crop of alfalfa.

There, almost to his knees in lush green, stood Samson.

Relief slammed into Ophelia, and she bent double to catch her breath, tears now running down her face in earnest.

“Easy, boy, easy,” she said, straightening and approaching the big bay. “How did you find yourself all the way here, then, hey?”

She waded through the thick, green plants, their tiny leaves like clover all around her.

Ophelia hoped they might bring her some luck; Samson could be funny about being caught, and she realised too late she had run out of the barn with only his lead rope.

For the love of God, she thought, can anything else go wrong tonight?

Moving slowly toward Samson, she crooned and murmured to him, “Good, beautiful boy. Come now.” Slipping the rope around his neck, she secured it in a loop with a loose knot and prepared to lead him home.

She ran a hand down his dark neck and was surprised to find her hand damp, the coat under it cool and wet with sweat.

In her panic, she hadn’t registered the odd cant of the gelding’s hips; he stood awkwardly, his belly distended, his rump tucked in discomfort.

Ophelia moved toward his head and noted his glassy stare, the short, panting breaths coming from his wide nostrils.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she chattered, her thoughts scattering like leaves before a wind. “What’s the matter, Sam? What’s happened?”

The horse gave no answer, but swung his head toward his belly, butting against it repeatedly.

Ophelia felt like she ought to remember something from her training, anything at all, but her mind was a terrible blank.

Samson kicked forward with a hind leg, pulling the rope out of her hand when he swung toward his belly again.

Ophelia remembered a horse of her father’s who had acted in a similar manner, and her stomach slithered with fear.

The groom had been inexperienced and left a mare too long in the new spring grass where she had eaten herself sick.

Ophelia had come running when she heard her father bellowing, just in time to see the writhing mare sink to her knees.

She remembered the rolling eyes and the long legs flailing at her belly.

“Oh God,” she moaned. “Please don’t let it be colic ... please, please, please,” she begged aloud.

She focused on Samson and tried to remember anything at all about colic and how to respond to it.

The gelding kicked a leg up at his belly again, his neck and withers dark with sweat.

She remembered the groom tugging on the mare’s halter to keep her standing, and her father’s shout when she went down.

Don’t let the horse lay down, she thought.

That’s important and ... keep it moving, her brain provided.

Right! Movement helped horses digest. I definitely remember that from training.

I’ll get him out of the field and up to the barn, then I can walk him along the lane.

I can get Samson back in his stall before anyone knows what’s happened.

She knew she had followed all her usual routines, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was responsible, had endangered the animals who relied on her care.

She thought of how relieved Mrs. Darling had been at Silas’s arrival.

A real farmer, she had said. Real farmers didn’t make these kinds of errors.

She pulled at the rope around Samson’s neck, urging him forward. They needed to get back to the barn.

Samson had no intention of moving from his spot.

His splayed hind legs stayed rooted and he regarded Ophelia with blank, shuttered eyes.

She imagined he had a fatalistic air. Absolutely not, she told herself.

Get this horse moving, or everything will come down around your ears.

All the things you’ve learned mean nothing if you are stupid enough to leave a gate unchecked and have a horse die on your watch.

God! How could she face Mrs. Darling and admit her utter failure?

The tears began again, and she pulled desperately at Samson’s rope, not managing to budge him an inch.

Be gentle, she reminded herself, Samson doesn’t like a lot of commotion.

She let the lead fall from her hands and turned away to have a really good sob before pushing the heels of her hands into her swollen eyes and sniffing loudly.

Okay, Ophelia. You’ve had your cry, now figure out how to get him moving .

Blowing out a long breath to calm herself, she faced the gelding once more and forced her shoulders to relax, trying for a soft smile as she approached.

“There’s a good lad, Samson. We’ll get home all in good time, won’t we? Delilah will be waiting for you, and Mrs. Darling for me, no doubt. Let’s try a small circle, shall we?”

Her voice was as low and calm as she could make it, and she made sure to move quietly and slowly to his side.

Taking up the lead once again, she began to move the horse’s head from side to side in an effort to get him to turn a little.

Finally, his weight began to shift to one side, and Ophelia was able to get him to move one foot a little to the left.

She crooned and petted his neck, scratching gently at his favourite spot behind his ears.

Eventually, he grudgingly stepped forward, his hind end obviously still uncomfortable.

His ears were plastered against his head, and every so often he swung his head around toward her, teeth bared.

Dodging his mouth, Ophelia kept up the pressure, knowing he was lashing out in pain.

They made their way toward the edge of the field, the progress agonisingly slow.

It was now fully dark, and Ophelia could see nothing but the faintest line of the sunset fading along the horizon.

The cool of the night was seeping through her tunic, and she felt still colder as the initial burst of adrenaline left her body.

Her teeth began to chatter, and she felt the drag of her breeches against her legs as they gathered dew.

Pulling Samson forward felt impossible, but she feared stopping, even to change direction.

“Come on, love,” she quavered to the horse. “Let’s try to get up to the barn, shall we?”

She chivvied and pulled until she could tell by the lack of alfalfa that they were near the opening of the path.

Samson’s breath was laboured and he resisted every step, but Ophelia’s desperation made her strong and determined, and she pulled them forward.

Just as she thought they might make it to the path, Samson decided he had gone as far as he was willing and planted his feet firmly, pulling back against her paltry weight.

She didn’t know how long she had been walking him, but her arms shook with fatigue, and her mind spun in frantic loops.

I need to keep going. The only thing that matters is keeping Samson safe until the colic passes. God, please let it pass .