Firehorse (9781442403352)

by Wilson, Diane Lee

Little by little, with her stout gray legs braced against the tub, she sagged over its rim and stretched toward the water. I heard the double gulp, watched her throat ripple as it delivered the coolness to her massive body. That probably brought no more relief than a drop of water cast upon a raging fire. Nonetheless, swallow followed swallow until, finally, she raised her neck. For an even longer time she stood motionless, and I worried again that she was going to fall over and die right in front of me. It took a slackened hip to show that she was dozing. I didn’t dare move for fear of awakening her. I just sat, still as could be, and imagined what it was to be trapped inside a skin caught on fire.

  I’m sure that at least an hour passed. When the Girl awoke with a shudder, as if from a bad dream, the first thing she did was turn her head stiffly, looking, I thought, to see if I was still there. I smiled. “Hello,” I murmured.

  I don’t know what I expected her to do, but when she made a great, heaving effort to move closer to me, my heart thumped wildly. This time when she stood looking down at me, she wasn’t so much considering me as she was ordering me. As if she’d spoken the very words, I came to realize that she was hungry. That was a wonderful sign! She wanted to live! I jumped to my feet and … what? What could I do? Everyone had said she was dangerous. And I’d promised James not to go near her.

  But she lived by her own rules, it seemed. Unconcerned by my pledge, she stubbornly kept staring at me … and staring at me.

  There was nothing else I could do. I had to go to her.

  With my heart beating at a thoroughly guilty tempo, I climbed under the rail.

  Standing beside the mare was a little frightening; she was even bigger than I’d thought. All she had to do was snort and I jumped. Second thoughts filled my head. Maybe I’d imagined her command; maybe it would be better if I scrambled right back under that rail. But other, less cautious thoughts prevailed. Schooling myself to calm, I sidled toward the trough. Her black eyes rolled, watching my every move. Slowly I scooped some grain into my hands, crept back beside her, and cupped the offering beneath her mouth.

  Her swollen tongue was still pushed past her teeth, and the purplish-red color of her muzzle was only slightly darker than the raw flesh surrounding her eyes. When I looked into the black depths of those eyes I saw a sharp hurt; she thought I was playing a cruel joke. Of course she couldn’t eat; she could hardly open her mouth to drink. I should be horsewhipped.

  An image of Peaches came to mind. There was a time, last October, when she had been sick and stopped eating. The veterinary had examined her and, finding no specific ailment, had recommended feeding her a warm bran mash. Because it was as soft as porridge, I’d been able to spoon-feed it to her. Maybe, just maybe, I could do the same with this mare. I let the grain dribble through my fingers. “I’ll be right back,” I promised, and cautiously climbed under the rail. The moment I was outside the shed, I ran to the kitchen to light the stove.

  The house was quiet as I set a pot of water to boil. Mother hadn’t yet returned, and Grandmother must have still been resting in her room.

  Worried and anxious, I paced. My thoughts wandered soberly from fires to firebugs, to galloping and God, to newspapers and Father. How was I going to tell Father about her? I dreaded doing that. Maybe James could. After all, he was her official caretaker. He’d actually arranged the deal. I conveniently ignored the fact that he’d done it for me.

  The water was taking forever. When it finally sent up its first few bubbles, I dumped in two cups of bran, stirred, and waited some more. By the time I was lugging the small iron pot of mash to the shed, the shadows were lengthening across the yard.

  The Governor’s Girl looked distressed. With shameful pride, I wondered if it was because she’d missed me. The moment I ducked under the bar, however, I was humbled. She pinned her ears and grunted like some wild creature from the woods.

  “Easy now,” I murmured, as much to myself as to her. “There’s no reason to be frightened.”

  She grunted and squealed and made ghastly, unhorselike sounds. I’d never heard such before, but I understood their warning. My knees began trembling. There were only two choices now: stay or leave. I screwed up my courage and inched toward her.

  “This is just a simple old bran mash,” I soothed in a singsong voice. “As soft as pudding and as sweet as molasses. Try it and you’ll be as good as new in no time.” Even I could hear the utter lack of confidence in my voice. The Girl waggled her head menacingly.

  My hands shook as I dug the wooden spoon into the pot. Lifting it high, I shoved it in the direction of her mouth. She flung her head defiantly, and the warm, pasty mush splattered across my bodice. Too late, I realized I was still in my good white dress. Mother would howl blue murder for certain.

  Well, so be it. I was going to finish this job. Mustering my courage again, I inched closer, eyed the least ulcerated spot on her mouth, and pushed another spoonful of bran at her. Just as deliberately, the Girl swung her head again. Only this time, instead of just knocking away the spoon, she hit me across the cheek. Bone cracked loudly upon bone. I staggered backward. Everything was flooding to blackness as I reeled out of the stall and crawled toward the quilt. The inside of my head felt like a smashed egg, a jellylike confusion of yellow and white.

  “Gracious, girl!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. Grandmother again. Her unexpected appearances were going to be the death of me, if this mare wasn’t.

  “What’s happened? Are you all right?” Not getting an immediate answer, she talked louder. “Rachel! Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Queasy and hot-faced, I braced myself against the quilt’s undulating support.

  “That horse do this?”

  I managed a painful nod, which set the yellow, eggy bits to dancing.

  “Your mother’s going to raise the roof when she gets a sight of your dress.”

  I knew she was right. “She can’t eat her grain,” I explained, gingerly testing my jaw. “I was trying to give her a bran mash.”

  “Doesn’t appear that she wanted it.” Grandmother actually chuckled. “You know, you do have a tendency to add too much salt.”

  An unplanned laugh burst out of me, making my head shriek.

  “Come along to the kitchen,” she said. “If you’re having trouble with her appetite, I’ll show you how to stir up a wondrous tonic. She’ll lap it up like a kitten does a bowl of cream.”

  “Maybe we should wait for the veterinary,” I cautioned. “Or James.”

  “Nonsense.” She was already on her way back to the house. “Men don’t know a thimbleful about how to treat people or animals. That’s up to the women. Are you sure you’re all right?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” A lie. My head was throbbing fiercely. Steadying it between my palms, I studied the mare. She was still staring at me, her eyes burning with emotion. Had I misunderstood what she wanted? She’d just taught me a lesson, I knew. A lesson about us. But did it mean that our relationship had ended … or just begun?

  EIGHT

  GRANDMOTHER CALLED FROM THE CELLAR AS SOON AS THE screen door slammed shut. “Rachel? Find the funnel if you can and an empty bottle—no, don’t bother with that, I see one here.”

  The kitchen wasn’t fully unpacked yet. Mother hadn’t had the time to find a suitable servant girl, and she’d concentrated on putting the front rooms in order first, anticipating the critical eyes of new neighbors. So it wasn’t easy finding anything, let alone a small tin funnel, amidst the haphazardness that was the pantry and the kitchen table and even the floor. To make my task harder, the cramped room, being on the back of the house and having no window of its own, was already shrouded in dusk. I set about lighting the two gas lamps, as well as a lantern, and began my search. Grandmother was climbing the cellar stairs, each wheezy grunt echoed by a squeaky step, before I found the funnel rattling around inside a dented sieve. I plucked it out reluctantly, still unsure about taking the mare’s medication into our own
hands.

  “I don’t know what’s keeping your mother,” Grandmother said upon making it to the top. She gripped the doorjamb with her knobby knuckles, swaying as if holding the mast of a rocking ship. “I hope she’s not lost in this big city.”

  Her armful of clinking jars and bottles was loosed onto the kitchen table, accompanied by several packets of spices. With a wistful smile, she held up one sealed, blue-green jar. “Look at this,” she said. “Last year’s tomato preserves. I didn’t know anybody had cared enough to pack them.” She set the jar down, exhaling a sigh, and slid it toward the wall. “The last taste we’ll have of the garden, I suppose. I wonder what’s become of it.” She seemed to have carried an invisible melancholy from the cellar as well, because the sparkle had left her eyes and the pouches of skin beneath them sagged more. “It’s probably overgrown with weeds by now. Dead.” She balanced the funnel in the neck of a flat-sided brown bottle. “My fate soon enough.” Grimly she began mixing the tonic.

  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 d
on’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.