Firehorse (9781442403352) (9 page)

Her words smacked me in the face nearly as hard as the mare had. Why was she talking about dying? And doing it as if she looked forward to dying? I should say something, set her right. My mind raced. My mouth opened … and closed. And, just as I had proved useless in the carriage shed, I ended up waiting slack-shouldered beside her and only watching her work.

Odd ingredients from the spice packets were carefully shaken into the funnel and down into the bottle: powdered gingerroot, cayenne pepper, licorice. She added five raw eggs, cracking them one after another into the funnel, and then removing it to shake
the bottle vigorously. When she held it up to the lamp for inspection, my throat tightened. Surely this was no cure for a horse.

Reciting something to herself, she sprinkled in a bit more pepper and added a pinch of something white and powdery. As the parlor clock began chiming a quarter past six, Grandmother wiped her hands. She gave me a curt nod. “Let's go. You bring the lantern.”

It was a short walk, no more than thirty steps, from the kitchen's door to the carriage shed. If it had been longer maybe I could have broached the subject more eloquently. Instead, I charged in with, “Why do you talk so much about dying?”

“Because I'm tired,” Grandmother snapped. A bird shot skyward and the crickets in the courtyard damped their evensong. Gathering herself, she laid a hand on my arm. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. In a gentler tone, but purposely looking away from me, she said, “And I miss your grandfather. It's been too long.”

“Oh.” The two of us proceeded into the shadowy quiet of the carriage shed. The Girl lifted her head to watch. “Boston's a big city,” I offered, clumsily trying to bandage her ache. “Maybe you'll make friends here, meet someone new.”

No, completely wrong. Even I had to groan at such an empty bromide.

Grandmother was more generous. “Thank you, Rachel,” she replied, patting my hand. “You've a kind heart. But that's not likely to happen. Boston's as hardened a place as any in the world—and it's a world I no longer want to be a part of.”

The Governor's Girl listened to us, one ear flicking forward and back. The lantern's flame was reflected in her suspicious eyes, and I wondered if she was more concerned with our approach or with that slim bit of fire coming so near her.

“And from reading the newspapers,” Grandmother continued, “it's also a wicked place.” She was at her pulpit now and there was no stopping her. “Why, right on the front page-including the front page of your father's newspaper—are sordid accounts of murder and thievery and all manner of uncleanness.” She shook her head wearily. “I'm too old for such and I'm too
tired
. I know my days are numbered and … well, I'm ready. I'm ready for my wings.” With a stubborn upturn of her jaw, she shocked me by adding, “And if the good Lord can't see fit to give them to me soon, I'm prepared to get them myself.”

“I must be late.” Mr. Stead, satchel in hand, surprised us by stepping into the carriage shed. Politely he doffed his bowler hat. “Didn't know the sermon had started,” he apologized, “and me not even in my pew.” He hung his head in mock shame.

Grandmother put on her welcoming smile, though I knew she'd been caught off guard. I made the introductions, suddenly wishing I'd had the forethought to change into a clean dress. Odd, since I never thought about my appearance. Mr. Stead didn't seem to notice. In his calm manner, he pulled his apron over his head, took the cotton rope from its hook and ducked under the stall's bar. The Girl pinned her ears but he ignored them, smoothly slipping the loop over her head and adjusting it to rest on an area that wasn't burned. When she tried to pull
away, he simply held the loop tight. With his free hand, he lifted her lip and pressed a thumb against her gum. After motioning for me to hold the lantern high, he released his thumb and we silently watched the gum hold pale a second before flushing pink.

“By the way,” he asked, moving his examination to the Girl's eyes, “what's the topic?”

“The sins of this world,” Grandmother stated defiantly.

“The end of this world,” I muttered under my breath.

“One will bring about the other,” she warned. “Are you a believer, Mr. Stead?”

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning shyly. “I'm a believer in avoiding the topics of religion and politics.” Noticing the bottle in Grandmother's hands, he asked, “What do you have there?”

“The nation's best tonic.” There was a challenge in her voice. “Ginger, cayenne, licorice, and eggs. Made by my father before me and his father before him. Guaranteed to restore condition to any sick or injured animal.”

The veterinary started shaking his head and I, for one, was thankful. “I'll have to disagree with you there, Mrs. Boon. Medicine
is
a topic I'm not shy to discuss, and while there's bushels I don't know about it, I do have a certificate from the state of Massachusetts.”

She made no attempt to hide her disdain. “A certificate is no replacement for experience, young man.”

“I agree,” he replied equitably. “But it does have a certain
value in today's world, and with all due respect for your family's recipes, I'll need to insist on my own tonics for this mare.”

“Then you can insist on them by your lonesome,” she cried irritably. Shoving the bottle into my hand, she said, “I'm tired of ignorance. Proverbs One, verse … something or other: ‘Wisdom cries aloud in the street,' but no one is listening.” All in a lather, Grandmother gathered her skirt and stormed back to the house.

Mr. Stead's mouth hung open. His eyes practically bulged in astonishment. “I'm sorry,” he said to me, “I didn't mean to—”

“No,
I'm
sorry,” I interrupted, flushing with embarrassment. “That's just the nature of my family. Someone's always feverish about something: My grandmother has her Bible; my father, his newspaper; my brother … young ladies, I suppose.” I laughed nervously.

He'd dropped the rope and pulled some scissors from his apron pocket. Patiently he began rubbing a wad of gauze along the blades and listened to me, as if he had all evening to do no more than that. “And you, Miss Selby?” he asked. “What brings out the fever in you?”

I blushed again. So many answers came rushing through my mind: horses, of course … and the kind of book you could lose a whole afternoon to … and the freedom to gallop down a dirt road with no one watching … and the thrill of trying something hard, even scary, and doing it … and learning, always learning. Yet I found myself stumbling for an answer: When was the last time anyone had bothered to ask
my
opinion?

“Come on, now,” he cajoled. “There must be something that lights a fire in you.”

That made it easy. “Her,” I murmured, nodding toward the Governor's Girl. I noticed she was watching me now.

“Mmmm.” Mr. Stead pulled some rolled bandaging from his satchel, cut it into long ribbons, and tucked them and the scissors into his apron pocket. “A lover of lost causes, eh?”

My breath caught. “You don't mean—”

“There, there,” he stopped me. “It's back to my turn to apologize. You'll be next, I suppose.” His smile was genial. “I don't mean that she's going to die; she's still standing, which, in her condition, is a lot to be thankful for. What I do mean is: Don't pin your heart on something that you can't … er … perhaps you should set your sights upon something more … oh, confound it! Oratory is not a skill required in veterinary classes.” He gazed through the shed's open door, as if wishing for an escape. “Is your brother, by chance, in the house?”

“No, I think he's still at the fire station.”

“Oh.” Disappointment sounded in his voice.

“Do you need him for some reason?”

“No, no, I guess I can manage without. You see, like your grandmother, I'm planning on getting my own tonic down this mare. I've already mixed up the ingredients. But she's been known to dispense a black eye or two with that hammerhead of hers. She's got a streak of cussedness, to be sure, so I was hoping for an extra hand.”

Gingerly I touched my bruised cheek. I knew what he meant.

“I don't suppose you would consider assisting me?”

The shock must have shown on my face, because Mr. Stead immediately withdrew the proposition. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have—”

“I'll try, if you'd like,” I answered quickly.

He looked at the Girl, then at me, and the frown creasing his forehead suggested he was having second thoughts. I was once again struck by his angular good looks; the serious air that he pulled on like a coat when he was thinking gave him the demeanor of a professor. Then he smiled. It was a smile so warm and confident that I would readily have attested to its power to heal from across a room. “I
would
like that,” he said. “What's more,” he lowered his voice, “I think
she
would like it.” He indicated the mare, who was watching both of us now with heightened suspicion.

I didn't want to tell him that she probably would
not
like it, and decided to keep our earlier clash a secret.

“Of course she'd never admit to liking it,” he was going on, “being the strong-minded creature that she is, but I'm thinking that a feminine hand might just be the key to winning her over. That, and a peppermint candy or two.” He dug into his pocket and rustled some paper. One of the mare's ears came forward. When a hard white candy appeared in Mr. Stead's palm, the other ear came forward. He quickly slipped the treat inside the corner of the mare's mouth, then stood back and folded his arms. There was a noticeable softening in the Girl's eyes.

“I didn't know horses liked peppermints!”

He winked. “What girl doesn't like a gentleman caller to bring her sweets?”

I laughed. And blushed again.

“Now that we've made a good impression,” he whispered conspiratorially, “let's move on to the real business. You do exactly as I tell you, and we'll just see if we can't get this old girl tonic'd and rebandaged before she can finish her candy.”

I followed his instructions to hang the lantern from a convenient nail and join him in the stall. A thrill rushed through me. This was dangerous ground, yet I felt rock solid on it. Mr. Stead motioned me closer. He stood near the mare's haunches, then slid his hand down her back leg, past her hock and almost to her ankle. When he pinched her fetlock, she obediently lifted that leg.

“Standing on three legs will keep her mind on her balance,” he explained. “Do you think you're strong enough to hold this one up?”

I nodded and took his place. Even in her weakened condition, the mare's power was evident. My heart beat faster.

Stay calm
, I schooled myself. This was no different from cleaning one of Peaches' back hooves. Hold the leg straight out behind, and she can't kick. Lacing my fingers through the long white hairs, I cradled the bent ankle in my hands. But the instant and brutal reality was that holding up the Girl's leg was akin to supporting an elephant's. My back was already straining.

“Here,” the veterinary said, handing me a cloth, “put this across your dress so you don't get it dirty.”

Wondering how he missed the splatter of mash across my bodice, I shoved the cloth between my white skirt and the thick, feathered ankle. The Girl took advantage of my distraction by trying to jerk her leg away. I gripped her ankle tighter and struggled to hold her leg in place. For a moment there was a seesawing tug-of-war. It took all my strength to keep her iron-rimmed hoof from becoming a weapon.

“Good girl,” Mr. Stead said. My back was to him, so I wasn't certain if he was talking to the mare or to me, but I warmed with pride anyway. I couldn't see what he was doing, so over the next several minutes my understanding of it was related through the mare's grunts, her sudden shifting of weight, and her repeated struggles to free her leg.

“Okay, that's it,” he said at last. “You can let her go.”

The freed leg dropped with a thud. I straightened slowly, my back uncoiling like a rusty spring.

Mr. Stead was nodding with satisfaction, only this time I knew the approval was for me. “Well done,” he said. “You've spent some time around horses, I see.”

I nodded, happy.

He dropped some utensils into his open satchel and took out a rolled cloth. “Most of her bandages seem to be in good condition. I'm just going to change the one along her chest. It's almost impossible to keep anything in place there. Too much movement.”

I winced as he ripped the old bandage from the sticky wounds. The Girl grunted and started swinging her head
menacingly, but he worked quickly, dodging this way and that, and the new bandage was well in place before she could carry out her threat.

Afterward, we stood outside the stall looking at her. “Such a pity,” he said softly. “She's a good horse, the last one that deserves this.”

“But you just said she had a streak of cussedness.”

He chuckled. “That I did, and she does. But she's honest about her cussedness and she's honest about her work. I value that. I'd have her on my team any day.” As he bent to get his satchel, his pocket crackled. He pulled out the peppermints, popped one into his mouth, and handed me the bag. “You'd better keep these,” he said with a smile. “Bribes. Maybe next time you can get more bran in her instead of on you. I'll look forward to seeing the both of you tomorrow, Miss Selby.” Winking, he picked up his satchel, stepped into the night, and was gone.

NINE