"Sure. We'll be in after a little bit."
She was putting supper on the table when she glanced out the window and noticed Giddon riding Diablo back into the yard. His ride had taken almost an hour. Where did he go? The day she met him he had been riding on the road. Was he going somewhere or simply exercising the horse? Again she felt an urge to explore the hills . . . especially that path. If it was so dangerous out there in the woods, why did Giddon feel so safe? Only one reason came to mind - because it wasn't dangerous. It was simply a ruse to keep her from exploring that path and what lay beyond. And that would be . . .?
He dismounted in one graceful movement and started unsaddling Diablo. He was unusually coordinated for such a large man, at least any she had seen up to now. Graceful, coordinated and a pleasure to watch. He gave the horse an affectionate slap on the flank and hefted the saddle and bridle to his shoulder. Stepping around the horse, he disappeared down that mysterious pathway.
Lisa stared after him; unsure which was more intriguing, the man or the path. Maybe that pathway merely led to a barn. But why wouldn't he want her to see the barn, and why would he build it so far from the house? On the other hand, who wanted the odors of animals drifting through their house all the time? And maybe he wasn't trying to keep her from seeing the barn. Maybe he was merely overprotective. Sure, that sounded possible . . . if he didn't spend every day at the barn. So, what was down that path? She sighed. There was only one way to find out . . . well, maybe two, but asking Sarah or Giddon was probably wasted effort.
After supper, they all spent their usual evening in the family room. Giddon immediately became absorbed in a book, and Sarah worked on a sweater she was crocheting. Tammy was watching a children's show on television and Lisa was on the couch, trying to concentrate on her writing. She chewed on the end of her pencil, absently gazing at a painting. Even from a distance, she could read the scrawling signature. It was one of her favorite artists, Andy Gordon. She had admired his work as long as she could remember. His paintings were so unique as to require no signature for identification. His style of combining grace and sophistication with bold colors was a popular contrast. There was no such thing as a cheap painting by Andy Gordon. They were all originals, upwards of $20,000 each. It was another subtle indication of her employer's wealth. Had he inherited the fortune, and if not, what did he do in the woods that would support such a lavish lifestyle?