Firehorse (9781442403352) (5 page)

J
AMES COULD BE THE MOST WONDERFUL BROTHER ON ONE
day and complete provocation the next. That morning he was beyond wonderful.

It had to be provoking for him, then, that I was at my clumsiest. The stiff new shoes that Mother had bought me, and that she made sure I was wearing before we left the house, were a cobbler's curse. In just stepping over the doorsill, one blocky heel adopted a mind of its own, caught the raised edge, and sent me tumbling into thin air. If James hadn't grabbed me by the arm, I would have landed bottom side up on the pavement below. Such a Boston debut might have killed Mother, I think.

Sheepishly I righted myself and tottered down the stairs, safely supported by both James and the wrought-iron railing. When we reached the pavement with no further mishaps and turned down the street, though, he held his arm rigid, keeping me pulled close. Strangers smiled and glanced away, assuming we were sweethearts. That made my face burn all the more.

Still, I was outside. After two days holed up in my tower, I needed some fresh air, as Grandmother had suggested. Only the air wasn't fresh. Sodden odors of turpentine and coal and cabbage assaulted my nose. A damp, iron gray sky weighed on us and on the maze of buildings surrounding us. For as far as I could see, red brick townhouses just as narrow as ours stood braced together like so many books on a shelf. Bulbous facades and steep stairs spilled onto the pavement as if bursting from the books' seams. Crowding us on the other side was the nonstop traffic. Although we lived on a smallish street, it already bustled that morning with delivery wagons and flashy carriages and pedestrians blithely zigzagging their way through the chaos. I shook my head.

“What?” James asked.

“It's not Wesleydale, is it?”

The hot look that sparked in his eyes caught me by surprise. “It certainly isn't. It's different through and through. It even smells different.” He sucked in the manufactured air and exhaled a happy sigh. “Intoxicating!” Lengthening his stride, he rattled on. “Think of it! At this very moment, all around us, businesses are being born, fortunes are being made, women are being wooed, men are—”

“Women are being
wooed?”

James grinned. “Well, someone has to do it. Now, that's a job I could hire on for.”

We rounded the corner and as soon as we did so, he pointed out the fire station, another block and a half down the street. I
didn't see any horses on display. Maybe they were still inside. “How many do they keep?” I asked. “Horses, I mean.”

He frowned, thinking. “I don't know for sure. Let's see, there'd be three to pull the steam engine, I suppose, and a pair for the ladder, if they have one. At least one more for the hose cart.” He was counting on his fingers. “And the chief probably keeps one for his own buggy. That's seven. I guess it all depends on how much equipment they have. There could be more.”

“And you'll drive a team?”

“You sound like Father,” he responded nonchalantly, though he looked pleased. “I'm just going to see if the chief will take me on as an apprentice. I've heard there's a lot of brass polishing before they hand you any reins.”

“Oh, they'll let you drive once they see you go,” I replied with confidence, all the while staring at the huge, double-wide entry. I half expected a team to come rushing out of it at any moment, and a delicious shiver of excitement skipped up my spine. “What else do you know about the firehorses? I suppose they're all geldings.”

“Of course they are; it's heavy work. And you can't very well use some flighty mare that's going to bolt at the first sight of fire.”

I yanked my arm free. “Peaches wouldn't have bolted,” I argued. “Why, I could stand her nose-to-nose with any locomotive, even with all the smoke and sparks and—”

“No, you couldn't.”

“Yes, I could. And I did.”

“Where?”

“At the water tower outside Hinckley.”

“Hinckley! What were you doing all the way out there? It's not a safe place. Good Lord, Rachel, that was pure foolishness!”

“It wasn't foolishness. Peaches would never have done anything to hurt me. She was very sensible.”

“She was still a mare and you're still a girl and if Father ever found out—”

“You wouldn't dare!”

He grinned like the devil but said, “No, you know I wouldn't. Besides, the topic is immaterial now, since you don't have—” The hurt that must have shown on my face was instantly reflected in his. “I'm sorry. That was stupid of me.”

I bit my lip and blinked fast.

“Well, here we are.”

Directly across the street from us, the fire station rose up three stories, all orange brick and pale granite. It wasn't particularly grand, but it had an air of solidity and order about it. Four pairs of tall windows lined the second story, each trimmed in black paint and discreetly displaying crisp white curtains. Another set of windows, smaller and unadorned, marked the top story. The one ornamental flourish hung above the ground-floor entry in the form of a long black sign that proudly announced in gilt lettering:
ENGINE COMPANY NO
. 8.

But … there still weren't any company firehorses on display. The only horse in sight, in fact, was a plain-looking bay hitched to a buggy, and he appeared to be sound asleep.

James was going on about something or other—the mechanics behind a steam engine, I think—and only now realized that the reason for my visit was missing. He stopped short, looking about him as if the horses might be hidden somewhere. “I don't understand,” he apologized. “I was told that every morning—”

“It's all right.” I smiled to hide my disappointment. “You go on in. I'll wait.”

“Are you sure you'll be okay alone?”

I gave him my most exasperated look.

“I know, I know—just promise me you'll stay away from locomotives.” Dodging a milk wagon, he headed across the street. “I'll be back in a few minutes,” he called over his shoulder.

I watched him hesitate at the station's yawning entrance, take a deep breath, and disappear inside. As soon as he was out of sight, I crossed the street too, simply to wait beside the buggy horse.

The gentlemanly bay was so thoroughly asleep that his lower lip hung slack enough to reveal his yellow teeth. Yet even in such an unguarded posture, he maintained a pleasant appearance. His face was rather slim, his lashes long. A white star sat neatly in the middle of his forehead. With a twinge, I noticed that the whorl of hairs there spun exactly like the one Peaches had. I couldn't help but reach out to touch it.

Immediately the horse awoke. His ears shot forward and his lips wriggled, nudging my hand for a treat.

I laughed. “I'm sorry, but I don't have anything,” I told him. “I'll bring you some sugar next time.” He stopped searching
at once, quite as if he understood. Peaches used to do that too. When his dark eyes gazed into mine with the same confident patience, I had to blink back tears. To staunch them, I set about combing his black mane with my fingers, and braiding his forelock beneath its brow band. I ran my hand underneath his surcingle, scratching away a trace of dried sweat. When he'd been smoothed and groomed to my satisfaction and enjoyment, we just stood, the two of us, enjoying the morning and each other's company. Faint aromas of castile soap and sweet feed and liniment wafted from the station, and I inhaled deeply. James could have his city smells; for me, this was heaven on earth.

As the minutes passed and James didn't return, I assumed he was being considered for the job and happily went on waiting. When time stretched on, though, I began to grow restless. I left the bay to pace the pavement, glancing now and again at the empty station entrance and wondering what was taking him so long. On one of my passes I heard men's voices inside, volleying anger. My heartbeat quickened: Was James in danger? I cocked an ear to listen, wondering what, if anything, I should do. I could make out the word “she” as the subject of the argument, which eased my worries some. But then I heard the word “gun” and curiosity tugged me right up to the station entry to peek inside.

The sight was absolutely horrifying—worse than any of the graphic illustrations in my horse care manual. A dozen or so firemen, outfitted in their blood-red shirts, ringed a wretched gray horse. At least the horse
used
to be gray. A patchwork of sausage-colored blisters blanketed the animal's back now, the
sores swarming right up the neck and exposing its naked ridge. Only tufts of singed hair spiked where a mane had once fallen. The poor horse's head was mostly hairless, too, and such a swollen, misshapen mess I wasn't sure if any eyes could see through those slits. If ever a creature had been burned alive and still breathed, this was the one.

A sourness stung my throat. The morning's porridge burbled threateningly. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I spun away from the entry and pressed myself against the brick for cool relief.

I'd always thought I had a strong stomach. I could pore over the drawings in my horse care manual for hours, and they showed grinning skeletons and flattened nervous systems and dissected hearts. But now I understood that they were only ink on paper. This horse, this bleeding, blistered, skinned horse, was all too real. Even outside the station, the sharp stench of burnt hair mixed with the dank odor of weeping flesh clung to my nostrils. I closed my eyes as my head swam.

A strangled cry, like that of an infant, broke through my fog. It was the horse. I waited, my heart kicking. The cry came again, a lonesome, desperate call that I knew was meant solely for me. I couldn't have defended that belief, but I knew with complete certainty that it was so, and even before my eyes opened, I was pushing away from the wall. Hand to my stomach, quivering like a jelly, I inched back toward the entry. Helplessly mesmerized, I slipped inside and joined the ring of men, unnoticed.

I saw now that the injured horse had a cotton rope looped over a lone patch of mane behind the ears. It was the only sort of harness to be suffered. The man holding the rope was fidgeting from foot to foot, as if the soles of his feet were burning at that very moment.

Betwixt and between elbows, I saw that there was another man standing beside the disfigured animal. He was tall and clean shaven, with chunks of wavy brown hair sweeping back from features that could only be described as hawklike. The assured air of a judge cloaked his square shoulders. His stained apron, on which he was wiping his hands at that moment, was my first clue that he was the veterinary. The bag at his feet, spewing rolled bandages, hinged metal instruments, and various jars of medicine, confirmed it.

The men had stopped their arguing. It seemed everyone was waiting for some sort of decision. All eyes, including my own, rested upon this silent man as he lifted first one hand and then the other, apparently weighing for himself the horse's options. I realized I was holding my breath, like the others in the room, as we grimly awaited the verdict. When the man shook his head, my own cry was lost among the groans.

A door slammed, and the circle respectfully parted for a wiry, gray-haired man wearing the brass-buttoned suit and severe demeanor of a fire chief. A dalmatian trotted obediently at his side, head cocked, awaiting command.

“Harland!” The man's clipped voice matched his brisk pace. “Here it is.” He handed the veterinary what looked, oddly
enough, like a sack of flour. Just as he did so, the dalmatian stopped, one paw lifted. His coal black eyes pinpointed me. With a high-pitched bark and a scrabbling of claws, he charged. Everything blurred. I took a step backward, tripped—on my skirt, I think—and fell. The dog snapped viciously at my feet.

“What in the devil's name-?”

“Rachel!”

“What is
she
doing in here?”

Arms were suddenly all around me, pulling me to my feet and hurrying me outside. The dalmatian was yanked by his collar in the opposite direction. There was a great deal of grumbling. I was shaking. Frantic. Scared for myself, but more so for the horse. As I gathered my wits, I realized I'd been left alone on the pavement with James, who was thoroughly irritated.

“You oughtn't to have come in, Rachel,” he scolded. “In the first place, the public isn't allowed, and in the second place, it's too horrible, especially for a girl.”

“That … that horse,” I stammered. My stomach heaved and I paused to force a swallow. I knew I was only a breath away from fainting. “What happened to that horse?”

James steered me to the brick wall once more, propped me against it, and stepped away. Crossing his arms, he explained tersely, “A burning timber fell on her last night at the fire. One of the horses in the team broke free, but the other two went down and this one that's in there,” he jerked his head toward the station, “she took the brunt of it.”

“She?”

He nodded. “I heard her called the Governor's Girl. She was the middle horse in the engine team.” His wayward glance told me he wanted to be in with the men rather than out here with his meddlesome little sister. But he continued. “When they arrived at the livery fire last night, the driver left them too close to the building. That's where the timber fell—knocked the horses right off their feet. Took so long to cut the harness that that one”—he jerked his head again—“was burned almost to death.”

“What's going to happen to her?”

James shook his head. For one cold instant, my heart stopped.

A lone voice carried from the station: “You can't just shoot her!” There was more shouting, and when James left me to rush back inside, I somehow managed to follow in his wake.

The gray-haired chief was brandishing a pistol and motioning his firemen out of the way. Only the man at the end of the cotton rope was refusing to move. “I won't let you do it!” he bellowed.

“Your concern comes too late, Mr. Lee.” The chief laid the pistol to the mare's temple. “As you can plainly see, she's as good as dead already!”