The woman had golden hair tied in a bun and a look of concern on her pretty face. She looked in her early thirties, at least a few years younger than the man.
Then it dawned on me. I didn’t know his name. Nor he mine. He halted his horse just short of the porch. I grew nervous. The woman stared at me as the man helped me down.
As we approached her, I dropped my head.
“I found her out near the herd,” he told the woman.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asked me, her shock softening. But she looked me over quizzically.
“Yes, ma’am,” I near squeaked.
“Let’s go inside,” the man said.
My feet were relieved to climb cooler, wood steps onto their dusty porch. We walked through the front door that smelt of cedar, I think.
It was darker inside than I anticipated. As my eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, I made out a long, wooden table framed by two benches and Windsor end chairs.
I heard the ticking of a clock and found it: a cuckoo hanging beside a rugged hutch filled with beautiful, blue and white- patterned China trimmed with red berries (Lingonberries, I’m told).
A stone fireplace interrupts the house, smack in the center, with two black (horse hair!) chairs and sofa before it. The house extends beyond the hearth to a kitchen area where I noticed a home-made counter with an iron pump and wall shelves holding can goods and jars of pickled green beans and other vegetables. Dried red peppers, sage, other herbs and wild flowers, ironware and kitchen utensils hung on the walls.
Three open doorways branched off behind the long table. Bedrooms, I presumed. It was all rather cozy.
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