"I'm terrible hard on clothes, Madam," Guaire said. "Sometimes I have to leave them behind--can't carry clothes if you're a horse--so it's foolish for me to yearn after fine garb."
A kitchen maid came in with a tea tray but stopped when she saw Guaire. Mother Hawkes sent her packing with instructions to set another place at the table. A moment later Guaire was seated, casting a skeptical eye on the tea pot.
Mother Hawkes began ask him questions, some of which were ones Imogen hadn't dared. She supposed it was the privilege of age. She would have felt compelled to bargain for every one.
And she fretted suddenly, seeing Guaire as her mother-in-law must see him. He didn't have a jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to hide the fact that they were too long. Henry's trousers were too large on him, and Imogen realized she'd never once asked if the boots fit. She had no idea if he had any socks on.
When the maid brought bowls of steaming onion soup, he eyed it with such relish that she felt ashamed that she'd not once offered him food. He had food in his stall, but that couldn't be considered the same.
Imogen watched him eat, feeling her heart sink into her stomach. After a time he cast her a questioning look. She just shook her head, not wanting to explain in front of Mother Hawkes.
"I'm sorry," she told him as he settled next to her in the buggy. "I haven't even thought about your meals, or much about your clothes, for that matter."
"I haven't asked," he said. "I haven't gone hungry."
She dared a glance at his face, hoping his lack of resentment was genuine. She didn't want him to think her inhospitable. "I mean food like that, Guaire, not oats in a stall. What am I thinking? You shouldn't be staying in a stall in the first place."
He laughed. "Ginny, I've been a horse for so long I hardly remember what this is like. I'll probably be colicky later from eating that. My belly's not used to it."
She'd never considered the ramifications of what one's stomach endured when shifting between horse-form and human-form.
"And you shouldn't be talking to me," he added. "That man over there is looking at you like you've gone mad."
Imogen followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw William Hammersly striding along the cobbles on the edge of the road toward the buggy. She groaned inwardly. She'd hoped that the previous day's meeting would have made her feelings clear. But the traffic along Broadway had slowed to a crawl, so she couldn't avoid him without making a scene.
When Hammersly set a gloved hand on the frame of the buggy, she drew to a stop, reins clenched in her fingers. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkes," he said. "Are you quite well? I believe you were talking to yourself."
She turned her eyes on him, keeping her expression neutral. "I was simply discussing with myself what I need to tell my trainer when I get back to the farm, Mr. Hammersly. I assure you there's no need for concern."
He smiled up at her. "Ah, good. I saw that you've entered the Special."
Imogen wondered what he was actually after this time. That wasn't a secret. Anyone could go to the racing association and get that information. "Yes. If you'll excuse me, I need to be getting back."
The buggy stuck behind her began to try to edge around her unmoving vehicle. Imogen waved apologetically and when her head was turned, Hammersly's hand moved from the frame of the buggy. Under the edges of her skirt, she felt his fingers touch her stockinged leg, just above the top of her half-boot. Imogen froze, her jaw clenched.
"Have you considered my offer?" he asked.
The buggy swayed as Guaire jumped down, and Hammersly--possibly out of surprise--wrapped his hand around Imogen's ankle as if to steady her.
Imogen felt a warm tingling along her skin, coupled with a sensation that could only be described as yearning--surely not a natural response to a man she disliked so much. She wondered if that was what had caused Mrs. Menges to react so oddly to the man. She shook her head to dismiss the reaction and glared down Hammersly, furious.
"Get your hand off me."
He regarded her with an expression caught between disbelief and irritation. His eyes narrowed, and his gloved fingers stroked her leg. "Don't you think you should reconsider my offer, Imogen?"
Guaire walked around the buggy and stood behind him, brows drawn together as if contemplating what manner of injury he intended to inflict. And if anything inexplicable happened, Imogen realized, Hammersly would blame her. She flipped the reins over in her hand. The ends snapped toward Hammersly's face and struck his cheek with a sharp snap.
The hand around her ankle abruptly withdrew.
Imogen shook the reins, and the horse started off at a brisk walk. She didn't look back but felt relieved when Guaire caught up and heaved himself into the moving vehicle. "What were you thinking?" she asked.
He ignored her question. "Ginny, you lied to me."
"What?" She glanced around surreptitiously, but they'd gotten far enough down Broadway that the traffic had thinned. No one would notice her talking to the air. She made the turn onto Lake Road. "I never lied to you."
"You told me he wants your land," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "I'd say that's not what he's really after."
She kept her eyes on the road. "If he had to pick, he'd take the land."
"Oh, and is that why he had his hand on your leg?"
"He was trying to frighten me, Guaire. I don't frighten that easily." She snapped the reins again and the horse settled to a trot.
"It felt like he was trying to charm you," Guaire said, "although it clearly didn't work."
"Obviously not." Imogen cast a perplexed look in his direction. She did not count charm among Hammersly's personal traits. Then she realized she'd misunderstood. "Oh, you mean a charm, like magic?"
"Just so. He wants to break you," Guaire said. "You haven't buckled under, so he means to force you to his hand. I suspect that the land is secondary, darling."
She didn't answer.
"I know the sort," he said. "Men like that don't take losing well. I might..."
"Please don't do anything to him. They'll blame it on me. They'll say I've put a curse on him or something else foolish. I don't need people talking behind my back more than they already do."
"They'll think you're the witch? With that mother-in-law of yours?"
"No one would ever call Mother Hawkes a witch," she said sharply. "She reads tea-leaves, that's all. She is highly respected hereabouts."
"And you aren't?" he asked.
She spared him a glance out of one corner of her eye, wondering if he joked at her expense, but decided he simply couldn't see it. "Because I'm cold. And unnatural. Everyone says that behind my back."
Guaire roared with laughter. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and said, "Now that just shows they don't know you well."
She felt her cheeks warming again, that odd feeling that must be a blush. Her relationship with Guaire hadn't been like hers with other men--but then again, he wasn't a man. "Things happen when I'm upset. Things fall apart."
"Like the seat of Hammersly's trousers?" he asked. "Will he blame you when they split?"
She cast a horrified glance at him. "You didn't."
Guaire shrugged. "I might have, darling. It's second nature for us, you know, to do such things."
Imogen pressed her lips together, wishing furtively she could be there to see Hammersly's embarrassment.
"Ah, you almost smiled," Guaire said. "I'll get you to do so, yet."
She shook her head. "I didn't know," she admitted. "About Mother Hawkes, I mean."
"She has the sight," he said. "That's why she saw me. And make no mistake, she knows what you are, too."
That gave Imogen pause. If she did, Mother Hawkes had never let on. In the years of her marriage to Henry, Imogen had rarely seen his mother, as Henry kept his distance. It was only after Henry's death that Imogen had begun to cultivate her acquaintance with the woman who had, in her childhood, seemed a distant benefactress. Even so, in the course of their regular luncheons t
hey had stuck primarily to the business of running the farm. They'd never strayed into personal matters.
It made no difference anyway, Imogen decided. Save for the apparent exception of Mothers Hawkes, few believed in the Fair Folk in this country. No one would believe that proper Imogen Hawkes had been fathered by a puca...or was sitting next to one at the moment. It wasn't reasonable, therefore it couldn't be.
***
Imogen looked over Paddy's list of times for Blue Streak that afternoon. They'd improved dramatically. The two-year-old had a good shot at winning now.
While Tommy walked Faithful back to the stables, Imogen watched Paddy check Blue Streak's hooves.
"Looks sound," he pronounced. He patted her kindly on the shoulder and took the horse's reins to walk him back. "I'm impressed with all the work you've done in the west meadow," he said. "I didn't think a girl could do that much in just a week."
That was, she supposed, his way of prying. Imogen fell in behind him and said, "It's almost done. I had a bit of help, as I suspect you know."
He glanced sharply at her. "Damned horse. What did you promise him, girl?"
Imogen sighed. "It's my concern, Paddy."
"Don't take chances." He crossed himself, and then added under his breath, "Like calls to like, I suppose."
They came around the edge of the stables, and in the distance Imogen could see Guaire working in the meadow. She wondered if it were only that--if she felt such a strong attraction to Guaire because he shared her inhuman blood. She stopped and watched him as Paddy walked on.
Don't take chances had always been the motto of her life. She'd been careful not to let anyone know about her mixed blood. She'd never let anyone guess at the wild strain that lay just under her veneer of civility. Guaire had simply bypassed her façade--perhaps because they had blood in common, or perhaps she had just grown so tired of guarding every word and thought that she'd used Guaire's bargains as an excuse to indulge her own wild nature.
A crack sounded to the west, sharp and clear in the unmoving air. Imogen glanced toward the wood, but a scream drew her eyes back to the stable yard. Blue Streak reared up and, with a sickening lurch, tumbled toward the ground. And Paddy, still clutching the reins, fell beneath him.
Blue Streak rolled over Paddy's prone body and back. Paddy cried out, and Imogen raced to where he lay. As Blue Streak thrashed, trying to get to his feet, Imogen grabbed Paddy's jacket and hauled him away from the horse. He yowled as she did so, and she saw his leg turn in a wrong manner.
Tommy darted out and grabbed Blue Streak's reins but the horse now lay on the ground, blowing heavily.
"We need a doctor," Imogen yelled at him. "Take Captain. Go, now!"
Tommy dropped the lax reins and dashed for the stables.
Guaire skidded to a stop before them, cast a worried glance at Imogen and then dropped to his knees at the horse's side. "The shot came from the woods."
She glanced over at him, and then back to a clenched-jawed Paddy. "Can you hold on for a few minutes?"
"See to the horse, girl" he ground out.
Imogen stripped off her jacket and laid it under Paddy's head, and then went to where Guaire knelt. A bullet hole in the horse's side leaked dark blood. Blue Streak continued to blow, his breath coming hard with the strain.
"He's got it bad," Guaire said softly, "in the gut."
Imogen glanced over her shoulder at the distant woods, a prickling feeling reminding her that her back was exposed now. "I'll go get a rifle," was all she said.
Guaire leaned down and whispered into Blue Streak's ear. After a moment the strained breathing eased and the horse's eyes drifted halfway closed. Guaire sat back on his haunches. "Do it before the poor fellow wakes. I can't keep him asleep for long."
Imogen ran to the house and unlocked the gun cabinet. Her skin burned when she touched the rifle's barrel, even though her hands were gloved. She grabbed a handful of bullets and ran back out to the stable yard. Guaire was speaking softly to Blue Streak, some fey magic of his keeping the other horse quiescent. When she stood over them, loading the rifle, Guaire rose and cast a worried glance at her. He opened his mouth, but then apparently thought better of whatever he meant to say.
Imogen sighted down the barrel and fired. The shot echoed through the stable yard, sending horses in the meadow shying away from the fence.
Paddy lay with one arm over his eyes, sobbing. It was then that Imogen saw all the others standing about: the two remaining stable hands near the doors; the maids and the cook huddled together in front of the house, one of the girls weeping into her apron; Tommy riding out to the road on Captain, bareback.
And Imogen wondered if they all knew that their hope of survival lay dead there. Surely they knew. The rifle fell from her burning fingers.
She went to kneel by Paddy's side. "Your leg's broke, Paddy."
He sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his face. "Don't you think I know that, girl?" He took a breath and then groaned in pain. "Think I might have cracked a rib or two as well."
Guaire emerged from the stable with an armload of blankets. Billy and Jack both started in surprise, but jumped when he ordered them to help him. After a few minutes, the three had laid out the blankets and, under Guaire's direction, they transferred Paddy onto them with a minimum of groaning. They carried Paddy into the house and laid him down on the first-floor guest room bed.
"Jack, go cover the body," Imogen said, her voice steady. She had to keep everyone calm. "I don't want it disturbed until the police get here." Which, on a Sunday, could be hours and hours, she reckoned. And it wasn't going to do much good, as she doubted they'd ever find anyone to charge. She turned back to the old stable hand as he headed toward the door. "And keep your head down, just in case."
Paddy's eyes narrowed, and she realized he was looking at Guaire. In fact, they'd all seen Guaire. She gestured to Billy. "I want you to saddle up and go to the police station. Tell them that someone tried to kill my trainer."
The young man's mouth fell open. "But they..."
"They're not going to come for a horse," she snapped, "so tell them that. Now go."
The young man bobbed his head and left Imogen alone with Paddy and Guaire. Imogen took the chance to shut the door. "Paddy, can you lie still until the doctor gets here?"
Paddy squinted up at Guaire suspiciously. "Who is this?"
Imogen rubbed her temples. "You know very well who he is, Paddy. His name is Guaire, and he's been helping me with the work down in the meadow."
"And what else has he been helping himself to?" Paddy asked, one hand pressed to his side. "You cannot trust their kind, girl."
Guaire regarded Paddy with a troubled expression. Imogen shook her head. "Paddy, you forget that his kind is partly my kind as well. I think we can trust him. And..."
Guaire's eyebrows rose.
Imogen drew a breath and finished, "...and Mother Hawkes likes him."
Paddy groaned. "Not much of a recommendation if you ask me."
Imogen tried to recall exactly what Mother Hawkes had said at lunch. "In fact, she introduced him as a relative of yours, Paddy."
"Nephew," Guaire said. "She told the kitchen maid I was his nephew."
"Saints preserve me." Paddy laid a hand over his eyes.
Imogen shook her head. "It'll be all over town by now, then, so that's what we'll have to stick with. Sorry, Paddy, you have a nephew now."
Guaire glanced at his new uncle and then turned his eyes back on Imogen. "The shot came from the woods on the other side of the fence, Ginny."
"That's what I thought." She bent over the bed to unlace Paddy's boot, her shaking fingers making it difficult.
"'twould be a difficult shot, the stable yard from there," Guaire said. "Makes me think the bullet was charmed, but I swear it was none of my doing."
She glanced up, startled. "Of course not."
He laid a hand atop hers, and the boot's laces unraveled themselves. "Then who charmed the bullet that killed your
horse?"
Imogen slowly drew off Paddy's boot while Guaire held his ankle steady and Paddy groaned. "We'll just have to find out."
***
The doctor arrived two hours later and, after setting Paddy's thigh bone and splinting it, agreed that he had some ribs cracked at the very least. Fortunately, the ribs hadn't punctured anything, but that meant Paddy couldn't use crutches to get around. He would be captive in his bed for the foreseeable future. Since he'd been active his entire life, Imogen suspected he would make a difficult patient.
The police were slower, arriving near nightfall to survey the scene. When Guaire told them the shot came from the woods on Hammersly's land, the policeman responded that Hammersly had reported poachers in that area just the week before. Imogen kept her mouth closed, frustrated. They were simply looking for a way to get out of dealing with it. Poachers had no reason to shoot at a horse they wouldn't be able to eat.
The officers inspected Blue Streak's body, clucked their tongues over the shameful waste, and shook their heads. They promised to hunt through the trees in the morning. Imogen doubted that would happen. The evening stretched into night as the officers questioned the stable hands and the maids, and Imogen stood watching it all, feeling like her self-control was all that held the farm together. It was nearly midnight when the police left and everyone headed to their beds.
Once in her own bedroom, Imogen tugged off her gloves. Her left palm and trigger finger were red and swollen, marks left by contact with the gun's cold steel. It ached, but wasn't blistered. She stripped off her jacket and shirt, unlaced her boots and took off her stockings.
She couldn't recall when she'd had a day so terrible, not since Henry had died. For a time she simply sat in the chair in front of the dark window, too numb to move. She considered the rarely touched bottle of Port on the bureau, but decided that wouldn't help. It wouldn't solve her problems. With Blue Streak gone, her chance of winning enough money to buy out the mortgage had fled. Hammersly had won, and she would have to pay.
Iron Shoes Page 5
