in his and started rubbing them briskly.
“Why are you out here?” He sounded angry and his hands rubbed harder in concert to his harsh words. My tears flowed faster.
“I take piano lessons every afternoon from Mrs. Grimaldi. She lives at the top of Tuckaway Hill.” I didn’t tell him how I had gotten carried away in the music and rolled down the hill.
“How did you end up on your hands and knees half frozen to death?” He barked out incredulously.
“I slipped,” I said defiantly, pulling my hands from his and wiping the tears from my icy cheeks. Samuel yanked his gloves off and grabbed my hands back insistently. Forcing my hands into the gloves he rose to his feet and reached down for me, lifting me to my feet.
“Can you walk at all if I help you?” His voice was a little less confrontational now, and I tried to take a step forward. It was like someone took an ice pick and rammed it into my leg. I fell in a heap at Samuel’s feet. The pain made me nauseous and the contents of my stomach rose up in rebellion and I retched just to the right of Samuels’s work boots. Luckily I’d had only an apple and half of a sandwich for lunch many hours ago and there wasn’t much left to throw up, but puking with an audience was worse than the pain in my ankle, by far. I moaned in mortification as Samuel kicked snow over the steaming remains of my lunch and squatted down beside me again. He handed me a handful of snow to clean my mouth and I thankfully wiped and “rinsed” my mouth, my hands shaking.
“Did you say you rode your bike here?” Samuel’s voice was gentle.
“It’s at the base of the hill, back there.” My voice wobbled dangerously and I stopped speaking abruptly, not wanting to disgrace myself any further.
Samuel stood and walked away from me, in the direction that I’d come. A few minutes later he was back, pushing my bike beside him.
“I’m going to help you get on-”
“I can’t push the pedals, Samuel,” I interrupted, my voice cracking again as the swell of tears clogged my throat.
“I know,” Samuel replied calmly. “But the seat is long. I can ride behind you and pedal.”
The bike was fine for me, but Samuel was over 6’0. This was going to be interesting. Samuel held the bike with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. Moving the bike close to where I was teetering, he straddled the bike and helped me climb on in front of him.
“Can you put your feet up in front of you?” The bars made a big U shape providing a good spot for my feet when I wanted to coast. Samuel helped me raise my hurt leg and I gingerly scooted as far forward on the seat as I could as he braced the bike with me on it. With a little shove, grunt, and a wobble we were off. The bike wove precariously, snow and gravel making it extremely treacherous. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the yelp that escaped. Samuel used his legs to propel us forward until we established enough forward motion for an attempt at pedaling.
“What about the sheep?” I said suddenly, having forgotten about my partner in peril.
“Gus will get him home. At this rate, they might get there before we do.” I looked behind us, peering carefully over Samuel’s shoulder as to not disturb the equilibrium of the bike. Sure enough, the sheep was waddling down the road, Gus nipping at his heels.
I relaxed as well as I could, my head resting in the curve of Samuel’s shoulder as his arms and legs braced me from falling off the narrow seat. I couldn’t comfortably reach the handlebars with my legs out in front of me, so I loosely held onto his arms just above the elbow. The silly song about a bicycle meant for two jumped into my head. We won’t have a stylish marriage; I can’t afford a carriage . . .
When the gravel road finally joined the black top, I felt Samuel relax a little. The ride was suddenly made much smoother. Still, he couldn’t be comfortable. I imagined how we must look, riding down the moonlit road,
“Why are you out here?” He sounded angry and his hands rubbed harder in concert to his harsh words. My tears flowed faster.
“I take piano lessons every afternoon from Mrs. Grimaldi. She lives at the top of Tuckaway Hill.” I didn’t tell him how I had gotten carried away in the music and rolled down the hill.
“How did you end up on your hands and knees half frozen to death?” He barked out incredulously.
“I slipped,” I said defiantly, pulling my hands from his and wiping the tears from my icy cheeks. Samuel yanked his gloves off and grabbed my hands back insistently. Forcing my hands into the gloves he rose to his feet and reached down for me, lifting me to my feet.
“Can you walk at all if I help you?” His voice was a little less confrontational now, and I tried to take a step forward. It was like someone took an ice pick and rammed it into my leg. I fell in a heap at Samuel’s feet. The pain made me nauseous and the contents of my stomach rose up in rebellion and I retched just to the right of Samuels’s work boots. Luckily I’d had only an apple and half of a sandwich for lunch many hours ago and there wasn’t much left to throw up, but puking with an audience was worse than the pain in my ankle, by far. I moaned in mortification as Samuel kicked snow over the steaming remains of my lunch and squatted down beside me again. He handed me a handful of snow to clean my mouth and I thankfully wiped and “rinsed” my mouth, my hands shaking.
“Did you say you rode your bike here?” Samuel’s voice was gentle.
“It’s at the base of the hill, back there.” My voice wobbled dangerously and I stopped speaking abruptly, not wanting to disgrace myself any further.
Samuel stood and walked away from me, in the direction that I’d come. A few minutes later he was back, pushing my bike beside him.
“I’m going to help you get on-”
“I can’t push the pedals, Samuel,” I interrupted, my voice cracking again as the swell of tears clogged my throat.
“I know,” Samuel replied calmly. “But the seat is long. I can ride behind you and pedal.”
The bike was fine for me, but Samuel was over 6’0. This was going to be interesting. Samuel held the bike with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. Moving the bike close to where I was teetering, he straddled the bike and helped me climb on in front of him.
“Can you put your feet up in front of you?” The bars made a big U shape providing a good spot for my feet when I wanted to coast. Samuel helped me raise my hurt leg and I gingerly scooted as far forward on the seat as I could as he braced the bike with me on it. With a little shove, grunt, and a wobble we were off. The bike wove precariously, snow and gravel making it extremely treacherous. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the yelp that escaped. Samuel used his legs to propel us forward until we established enough forward motion for an attempt at pedaling.
“What about the sheep?” I said suddenly, having forgotten about my partner in peril.
“Gus will get him home. At this rate, they might get there before we do.” I looked behind us, peering carefully over Samuel’s shoulder as to not disturb the equilibrium of the bike. Sure enough, the sheep was waddling down the road, Gus nipping at his heels.
I relaxed as well as I could, my head resting in the curve of Samuel’s shoulder as his arms and legs braced me from falling off the narrow seat. I couldn’t comfortably reach the handlebars with my legs out in front of me, so I loosely held onto his arms just above the elbow. The silly song about a bicycle meant for two jumped into my head. We won’t have a stylish marriage; I can’t afford a carriage . . .
When the gravel road finally joined the black top, I felt Samuel relax a little. The ride was suddenly made much smoother. Still, he couldn’t be comfortable. I imagined how we must look, riding down the moonlit road,
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