Seabrook State Park, as Ryan informed Amy during his rolling commentary, was a three-thousand-acre forest dominated by Douglas firs, cedars, and red alders. There were nine creeks and tributaries, thirteen sub-varieties of trees, and numerous types of wildflowers carpeting the forest floor. Although deforestation and two major fires had decimated much of the area during the 1920s and ’30s, the resulting replanting efforts allowed for the inclusion of a network of trails, forty-seven miles in total length, one of which they were traversing right now.

Only a short distance into the ride, Amy could already tell that Ryan was a most accomplished guide. His breezy narration, which she suspected had been delivered countless times before, illuminated points of interest along the way, as well as facts about the area’s history. He was showing himself to be thoughtful and kind too, pausing on more than one occasion to ask whether she was comfortable, if the saddle was in need of adjustment, whether she needed to take a break, and if she had any questions.

Amy found herself both charmed and intrigued. Was he this attentive with everyone he rode with, she wondered, or was it because he still harbored some lingering awkwardness over last night? Maybe this was his way of defusing any perceived tension? But there existed another possibility: that this was just the type of person he was, old-fashioned and polite. Compared to the guys she knew back in the city, the ones obsessed with football and fraternity life, Ryan might have come from a whole different world.

Amy mused on these thoughts as she cast her gaze into the forest, and as Ryan continued with his commentary, describing with enthusiasm paradoxical to the topic (some 1935 agreement between the state and the county that had resulted in the area being declared a protected woodland park), she realized that she was having a good time, that she was remarkably at ease in her guide’s company, and that she held not the slightest hint of regret about agreeing to come along.

Meanwhile, Ryan, who was riding next to her, no more than three feet away, was becoming increasingly conscious of the tiring effect his narration might be having on his guest. He had started reciting from his script only as a means to spark conversation, expecting they would soon branch off into more interesting topics, but what he hadn’t counted on was Amy’s conspicuous silence. They were over a mile into the trail and he was still rambling on about the not-so-scintillating subject of parkland politics.

“I’m boring you half to death, aren’t I?”

“What?” She turned and looked straight at him, lifting her chin, her green eyes lighting up from beneath the brim of her hat. “No,” she hastened to add, but with what sounded to him like mock sincerity. “Of course you’re not.”