Don’t take this the wrong way. You’ve always been a good rider, but ever since Brad’s been gone, something’s changed. You’re more in control of your riding.

My friend Paula looks flushed as she leans forward and strokes her Appaloosa gelding, Jack. The Virginia air is not tinged and fresh this time of year. Oak, hickory, and maple leaves loosen and fall as choreographed. The bridle path is carpeted in a crunchy mosaic of yellow, orange, brown, and red.

Acorns and buckeyes are scattered across the trail like rose petals thrown down the aisle heralding our march. Paula squirms in her brown Wintec saddle, afraid that she has overstepped the boundaries of friendship.

Paula should know better by now about my ex-husband Brad. We’d waited for the ambulance together. The creek, low from the lack of rain, meanders toward the James River.

My liver chestnut, Morgan Green Bay Exeter, blows softly as we cross the wooden bridge, its borge rising and falling in cadence with the gilding hooves. Filtered light creates a strobe-like effect as we ride side-by-side into the hardwood canopy, blinding me momentarily. A mockingbird gifts concert as it lays in wait to battle.