Blood rushed through her veins. Her heart pounded. Fear, excitement, and anticipation flooded her body in equal measures.
This was it. She was about to embark on her future. Within a few hours she might find the treasure her father had intended to take care of his family. Take care of Harriet’s future, and that of her younger brother. See that Mama was comfortable in her declining years.
They headed out to the street, following the direction the serving woman had given. The narrow, twisting streets were crowded with pedestrians as well as sedan chairs, hand carts, and other horses, so they went at a stately walk, which gave Harriet the chance to get used to her mount’s gait, stretching and using muscles she didn’t ordinarily use. And what a fabulous view from this high up!
Traffic thinned as they turned several times, wending their way through town, and eventually they found themselves on a road between rolling fields that had probably grown wheat but now lay fallow for the coming winter. Sheffield led and Jonesy was just behind Harriet, occasionally exchanging comments with Sheffield as they navigated.
Harriet tried to pay attention to the lovely countryside, the rugged hills in the distance, groves of gnarled olive trees, and houses with white-washed walls and red-tiled roofs, so different from the thatched roofs back home in Brixham, but much of her concentration was still focused on staying in the saddle. She paid close attention to Sheffield’s body on his horse, noting the subtle motions of his legs and shifting of his weight as he guided his mount, and how those movements differed from those she would have made riding on a sidesaddle.
As traffic thinned further, Sheffield stepped up the pace to a trot. Her horse snorted, clearly eager for a gallop. Harriet wasn’t sure she could stay on for that. Maybe later, she silently said as she patted the gelding’s shoulder. His gait was smooth enough she soon felt confident enough to start experimenting with mimicking the movement Sheffield made, rising slightly from the saddle in time with the horse’s strides, and discovered riding that way took less effort than sitting still.
She was so busy, time passed quickly. A church loomed in the distance, a Gothic structure with a high bell tower. Fields gave way to outbuildings including a barn and byre, and modest houses. Soon they could see people tending to animals, hear chickens clucking. Three mules meandered in a paddock, along with a horse.
Harriet’s heart raced. Could this be it? Could the man in long robes wielding a hammer repairing the fence by the gate be Father Miguel? Could their search really be over this easily?
“Olá,” Sheffield called as he halted his horse and dismounted—not entirely gracefully, Harriet noted with a silent chuckle. The sailor took a while to get used to another mode of transportation.
“Olá,” the priest replied, a wary question in his voice at the sight of three newcomers.
Jonesy rode up alongside Harriet. They exchanged glances, then turned their attention back to Sheffield.
His gait steadied as he walked a few paces. He spoke to the priest in Portuguese, and they went back and forth in rapid conversation.
Harriet’s hopes began to fall as the priest shook his head, then pointed farther up the road.
Sheffield approached them, leading his horse. “The only Father Miguel he knows died a decade ago, at the age of ninety. And he never owned a horse.”
It took all of Harriet’s control not to slump.
“There is, however, another igreja farm a little farther along this road, one with a horse to pull their plow instead of a cranky mule who kicks the gate when he gets annoyed.” Sheffield stuck a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the padre still working to repair the gate. “It’s maybe a half hour’s ride. I think we can get there and back to the ship before dark if we don’t dawdle. We’re welcome to water our horses and get a drink from the pump before we go.”
“I wouldn’t mind washing down some of this dust.” Jonesy nudged his horse over to the trough.
Harriet followed, Sheffield leading his horse beside her. While the men were busy with their horses, Harriet swung her leg up and over the saddle and jumped down to the ground … and kept going down as her rubbery legs refused to support her weight. She grabbed the stirrup with one hand, trying not to grunt as she prepared to get off her knees, and suddenly Sheffield was there catching her free hand, lifting her up.
She started to feel embarrassed, then recalled his less than graceful dismount just minutes ago, and they exchanged knowing smiles.
“Obrigada,” she said, trying to imitate the native pronunciation.
“De nada,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a hint of a smile.
Their horses drank from the trough while the humans took turns getting a drink from the pump and walking around, stretching their legs. Once they finished, Jonesy pumped more water to refill the trough.
Holding the reins with one hand, Harriet looked around the yard for a mounting block or something similar so she could get back up on the giant horse. No way was she getting her foot in the stirrup without help; the metal loop was even higher than her stomach.
Sheffield was back at her side. His eyes twinkling, he cupped his hands and bent down.
After a moment’s hesitation, Harriet rested one hand on his shoulder—his broad, muscular shoulder—lifted her foot into his hands, and he boosted her up. He didn’t even grunt from the effort, though she might have done so while getting properly settled in the saddle.
“Thank you,” she said, definitely not staring at his shoulder.
He patted her knee and climbed up on his own horse, and they were back on the road. Again with the patting of her knee. She wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or insulted.
Sheffield set a teeth-rattling pace, and they arrived at the next igreja during evening chores. They dismounted in the deserted yard, tied up their mounts at the fence, and followed the sound of singing—a solo tenor voice raised in a song of gratitude, if she guessed the tune correctly—into the barn, where the padre was milking a goat. More goats milled around, impatiently waiting their turn to be milked and fed, as Harriet had learned from Bessie and Daisy.
“Olá,” Sheffield called.
The padre looked up and returned a greeting without pausing in his milking.
