She’d never seen the letters, but she could guess at their contents. Her late husband and Lester had been more than close, although any physical relationship was short-lived. Rigidly self-disciplined, they had behaved with total propriety to ensure nobody knew of the alliance, her own suspicions unspoken until long after Johnny’s death. Raised in an era when homosexuality was illegal and belonging to a society from which its discovery would have ostracised them as surely as her open adultery did her, the two men had coexisted in deep denial for years.

Lester would no more speak of it now than he would cut off an arm, but he trusted Ronnie to set aside personal feelings, find these letters and store them safely. She knew she must spare Pax the awfulness of discovering the truth about her father by accidentally stumbling upon them, but the fact that she was still covering up for Johnny years later infuriated Ronnie, to still be the one who had been judged, whose infidelity had broken a family apart. It maddened her yet more that Lester had painted a gothic tragedy when nobody really knew the truth of Johnny’s poor dead mother. It was criminally irresponsible to suggest to a young, grieving Pax that the grandmother she so closely resembled had topped herself after losing her own newborn.

‘Lester has his own theories on many things,’ was all she could say, her relentless need to jolly up and move on already at full gallop. ‘He finds it terribly hard to call me by my first name, have you noticed?’ She edged along the range rail as Pax returned to press her hands to its warmth. ‘He starts saying “Mrs Ledwell” then stops and changes it. I’ve been “Mrs Le—Ronnie” for months.’

The haunted eyes flickered with amusement.

Ronnie tried to hold her gaze. ‘You should visit him, Pax.’

‘I’ll wait till he’s stronger.’

She’s worried that Lester will judge her because her marriage has failed like mine, thought Ronnie. ‘I know he seems old-fashioned, but he’s a lot more forgiving than you think, Pax. He’s seen a lot.’

Pax leaned back against the rail beside her mother, tilting her head closer. ‘I remember when I was a little girl, one of the mares had a stillborn foal out in the top pasture. I’d tagged along with Daddy and Lester to check over the herd, and there she was, standing over this lifeless bundle she’d just licked clean, protecting him, nudging him. It was the first time I’d seen anything like that. I can’t have been much older than Kes, six or seven maybe. Daddy wanted to call the kennel man, but Lester insisted we should leave them together for a few hours, “field grief”, he called it. She stayed with her foal all morning, grazing alongside him – just long enough for a soul to leave, Lester said – then quietly moved on. I thought about that day a lot after we lost Oliver; I used to close my eyes and imagine I was a mare, galloping away from all that pain, all that feeling. I galloped for miles, for years; I still do. I close my eyes and I gallop.’