Firehorse (9781442403352) (12 page)

Surely I was a sinner, the way I was always galloping away from the path. And such a wicked one that I couldn't even see what was wrong with blazing my own trail.

The minister pounded the pulpit with his fist, and I jumped as if it were a lightning bolt straight from the heavens. James slid a bemused glance at me, which I ignored. Flames and damnation, the man thundered. Hooves beat louder in my head. Sin and salvation. Sweat rolled down my face. I thought of the Girl and incongruously pictured myself on her back galloping through walls of fire. Then a black void stretched before us. Death? I couldn't see what was ahead, but she gathered herself and we leaped and—

“Amen,” the minister said. “Amen,” the congregation echoed. We rose to leave.

ELEVEN

A
LTHOUGH IT WAS
S
UNDAY
, F
ATHER DECIDED TO GO INTO
his newspaper office after church. Mother meekly reminded him of the fourth commandment, the one about abstaining from work on the Sabbath and keeping it holy, but he brushed her away with a wave of his hand. Work
was
Father's religion, I thought. As for the rest of us, we were happy to be freed from it. For me that meant no dishes, no laundry, and especially no sewing! And no having to tell Father—yet—about the burned horse in our carriage shed. I had the whole blessed afternoon to spend with her.

It was going to be an extremely quiet afternoon; I could see that when I tiptoed through the doorway. The Girl was dozing heavily, the early-morning battle with James and Mr. Lee having exhausted her. Some very unholy thoughts went through my head as to what I'd like to do to each of them.

Swarms of blackflies crawled across and through the sores along her back and neck. That made my own skin twitch, but
she was beyond noticing, it seemed, or caring. The cramped quarters reeked almost to suffocation with the sickly odor of weeping flesh, and I remembered the warning words I'd read just last night. Was this place too small for her? I shouldered the shed's doors wider, startling her awake. My efforts proved useless, though; there was no breeze to dry the sweat that darkened her chest.

Picking up one of the discarded bandages, I fashioned a sort of rag-tailed fan and began manufacturing my own breeze. At least that chased the flies from her wounds. A small act, but it was something. When Mr. Stead came, he'd do something more for her.

So, as the minutes ticked by and I fought to ignore my aching arms, I eagerly watched for the veterinary's arrival out of the corner of my eye. My heart skipped whenever a sound resembled a footstep, but my arms gave out before he showed.

James came to watch us for a bit. He went through the motions of warning me to be careful, but finding the Girl and I standing agreeably side by side, he gave up and returned to the house. Grandmother came out too, carrying a pot of bran mash that she'd cooked up. “Less salt,” she said with a smile. And with her holding the pot and me the spoon, we did manage to get a little sustenance into the mare.

But all too soon the shadows were stretching longer and longer and then the day disappeared and Mr. Stead still hadn't shown. Reluctantly I went in for supper—I mean, dinner—but the food I put into my mouth did nothing to fill my emptiness.
When I climbed the stairs to my room afterward, I was dusty and itchy and feeling strangely unsettled.

That night was as sleepless as the last. Even though I twice checked that the lamp was turned off, I tossed and turned for hours. The parlor clock chimed my wakefulness in fifteen-minute intervals, and somewhere between four thirty and a quarter till five I found myself staring wide-eyed into the darkness. My heart was pumping too fast; it was climbing right up my throat. I swallowed it, tried to breathe slowly, tried to relax. But the blood that was rushing to the ends of my fingers and to the tips of my toes was setting them atingle. The prickly sensation circled my ankles, skipped up my shins, and gave my kneecaps a hard jerk. I wadded the sheets in my fists. Something was about to happen.

Two sudden bangs, like gunshots, split the darkness: hooves striking wood. I recognized the sound at once. That was followed by a frantic staccato of thuds and strangled screams. In the next heartbeat I was out of my bed and tearing down the stairs.

Doors were being flung open in the hallway. Mother was fumbling to light a lantern beside Father, who, without his spectacles, was squinting as blindly as a mole into the dark courtyard below. “What's all that damned racket?” he shouted.

The flame jumped to life and ensnared me in its yellow glow. Pausing just long enough to reply, “It's a horse,” I fled past him.

Mother tried to explain. “We didn't wish to disturb you with the news earlier, so—”

The jangle of a fire alarm cut her short. All over the
neighborhood, dogs began barking. Out in the shed, a board snapped in two.

“What in …?” Father barreled down the stairs, overtaking me in the front hall and shoving his way past. James followed in his wake, his face shot with worry.

In the kitchen we came near to piling one on top of the other because the back door was sticking. Father tugged on the metal knob with one hand and then the other, his temper ratcheting ever higher. Exploding in frustration, he kicked at it with his slippered foot and shouted an oath that made even James wince. With his leg braced on the frame, Father gave the knob a two-fisted yank—and the door began ripping away from its rusted hinges. “Confound it!” he swore as he wrestled with the toppling weight.

A few blocks away I heard the clatter of the firehorses gathering into their harness.
That's
what was wrong with the Governor's Girl: She was trying to go with them. She'd known the alarm was going to ring even before it did, and she'd tried to break out of her stall.

“What's happening?” Grandmother called from upstairs. “Is someone hurt? Hello?” Mother rushed off, carrying the lantern with her and unmindfully plunging us into total darkness.

“Get another light,” Father ordered as he struggled to prop the damaged door against the wall. While James began searching out match and lantern, Father kicked open the screen door and stormed into the still-black morning. I was right behind him. We rushed into the shed together.

To my horror, the gray mare was feverishly heaving her weight from side to side like some berserk shuttle on a weaver's loom. Even in the darkness I could see that the bar at the front of her stall was splintered almost in two.

“What in God's name is this animal doing here?” Father demanded. “And what's wrong with it?”

“She's a firehorse,” I began, unsure of how much to tell.

James appeared with the lantern. “From the station,” he added, somewhat breathlessly. “I've made arrangements with the chief to—”

The mare lashed out with a hind leg, cracking another board.

“Enough!” Father shouted, raising his fist. “That will be enough of that!”

The Girl kicked again. Mother and Grandmother joined us, easing their way into the small carriage shed to stare open-mouthed at the commotion. I was stabbed through with worry.

“Get me a halter!” Father demanded. There was none to be had, of course, so he cast around for himself. Spying the cotton rope looped on its hook, he grabbed it and took the lantern from James. He walked right up to the Girl, raised the light in her face, and shouted, “Stop that!” He slapped at her with the rope. “Stop that!” The mare lunged at him, raked her teeth across his arm, and recoiled.

“Goddamn that animal!” Father dropped the lantern. “It bit me!”

Flames instantly sprouted from the oil that spilled across
the dirt floor, and, working as one, James snatched up the lantern while I smothered them with an overturned pail.

Father didn't seem to notice. “Have this horse removed from my property at once!” he said. My heart stopped beating. “I want it gone before daylight, and I don't care if you have to raise the dead to do it!” Clasping his free hand over his injured arm, he strode out of the shed. “Mrs. Selby,” he called back, “I'll be needing your attention.” With a weary
I told you so
look, Mother hurried after him. A moment later Grandmother followed.

The Girl was still weaving from side to side, but she was doing so drunkenly now, near to collapse. I had to do something to keep her from injuring herself further. Even though I'd left the peppermints in my room, I was sure I could—

“You're not going near her,” James said, grabbing my arm roughly. “Not this time. She's obviously gone mad.” He yanked me toward the door. “There's nothing we can do, so come along.”

The Girl came to a dead stop, and I think she looked at me. I was sure of it. She let out a long, exhaling groan and as she did, she seemed to grow fainter, gloomier, just as in my dream. I feared she was going to crumble away.

“James …” I begged.

“No.” He gripped my arm tighter and pushed me toward the house. Suddenly he was very much like Father. “This was all a mistake. I should never have let you talk me into bringing that horse here.” I struggled wildly, blindly: an animal being crushed by a trap. “Stop that!” James ordered. “Stop it now!”
He plowed ahead, dragging me against my will. Resentment boiled inside of me.

The moment we entered the kitchen I shook free of James and he stalked off toward Father's study. That's where Father was, swearing a blue streak while slamming drawers. I assumed Mother was with him. Grandmother turned from the stove to give me a mild look of understanding and sympathy, but she'd obviously chosen to stay out of the fray this time.

Of all things to happen at that hour, an urgent knock sounded on the front door. We both looked toward the hall, but the very oddity froze us to our places. The double knock came again, right away, and more insistent. I, for one, scrambled.

Father got there first, with James in his shadow. He flung open the door and there stood Mr. Stead, his arm poised for another knock. Thank the Lord. I wrapped my arms around myself to stop my trembling.

“Forgive the hour,” he said to Father, doffing his hat. “I was just on my way home from seeing to a sick horse when I heard the fire alarm and … well, I saw your lamps lit and wondered … is the mare all right? Have you seen to her?” His eyes darted past James's to search mine.

“Oh, we've seen to her, all right,” Father interjected. “She nearly took my arm off.” He held up his bandaged limb for evidence. “And if you're the veterinary, you have my permission to put that horse down this minute. She's a danger to society.”

In the orange glow of the hall lamps I could see that Mr. Stead's eyes were rimmed by fatigue. Still, with that endless
patience that so entranced me, he asked, “Would you like me to take a look at your arm?”

“I'm not some damned animal,” Father cried, holding his arm well out of reach. “Just get that vicious horse off my property!” Mother rushed forward in an attempt to soothe him, but he ignored her. Looking at James, he said sternly, “I want to have a talk with you in my study, alone.” Without even excusing themselves, they disappeared into the next room and the door closed behind them.

Mr. Stead didn't appear to take offense. He calmly returned to the matter at hand. “How is she, Miss Selby?”

Whether it was the gentleness in his voice or my utter helplessness or the fear that I was going to lose another horse, I was suddenly and ashamedly so choked with tears that I couldn't answer.

“I'd better go take a look for myself,” he said, nodding politely to Mother. “If you'll lead the way, please, Miss Selby?”

Mother drew herself up tall. “I don't think it's proper that—” she began, but Grandmother appeared in the hallway to interrupt her.

“Let her go, dear. There's been nothing about this morning that's proper by any means.”

Grabbing the lantern, I led the veterinary in a rush through the kitchen and across the courtyard. With every step I breathed a prayer of thanks that he'd arrived. The Girl would be all right now. He'd take care of her.

But the moment we entered the shed, I found we were too
late: She was down. Only her arching white belly rose like a bloated ghost from the bedding. I gasped.

In one smooth motion Mr. Stead was under the bar and kneeling beside her, his ear pressed to her distended stomach. She flicked an ear. “I'm afraid she's colicked,” he said, and my heart skidded to a stop again. Horses could die from colic. The frown on his face made his next words sound like an accusation. “How much has she had to eat?”

I shook my head. “Hardly anything. A few peppermints, some spoonfuls of mash.”

“Are you certain she's had nothing else? We must be certain.”

The urgency in his voice frightened me further. “I'm certain.”

He rose, walked to the water tub, and plunged his hand into it. “Did you give her cold water, after she was heated?”

Fighting the shaking in my knees, I answered, “No … no, it's the same water.”