Firehorse (9781442403352) (13 page)

“What about her manure?” he asked, kicking at the straw. His movements alarmed the Girl enough that she began struggling. She lunged wildly, as if she'd been shot, but finally clambered to her unsteady feet. “Easy,” he murmured distractedly. “What about her manure?” he asked again, still searching the bedding. “What's it looked like?”

I'd read about the subject, but I'd never been asked to discuss it. The words wouldn't come.

“This is no time for delicacies,” he said sharply. “If you
want to see this mare live, I need your help. Now, do you remember her passing any manure yesterday, or seeing her do so this morning?”

I tried to recall, but… the past two days and nights were all jumbled in my mind. I shook my head; I was just as useless as I'd been in my dream. The veterinary continued kicking through the straw, easing his way around the Girl. She stood with her sides heaving, watching him guardedly.

“If she's impacted,” he mused, “I'll have to—wait, here's some.” He nudged a clump of straw with his boot, then bent over the dark pile. “See?” he said, as if it were obvious. “Fairly fresh. And moist. That's good. Still …” He gave me a severe appraisal. “I need to perform an examination. I know you helped the other day, but this will involve more than bandages … and additional indelicacies. Will you run along back to the house and send out your brother?”

I shook my head. “I want to help.”

“No,” he answered curtly. “While I appreciate your determination, what I need to do isn't going to be pleasant … for any of us.” He was already donning his apron and rolling up his sleeves, his indifferent attitude dismissing me.

I ducked under the splintered bar and pushed up the sleeves of my robe. “I
have
to help her.”

Irritation flickered across his face, but he didn't argue further. He pointed to his satchel. “There's a small tin of grease inside. If you'll find it, please?”

I fell upon the black leather bag, dug through its myriad
supplies, and handed him the tin. He began slathering the grease over his muscular arms. “Do you think you can get the rope around her head?” Hearing the doubt in his voice set my jaw. I picked up the coiled rope from where Father had dropped it and approached the Girl. I looked her straight in the eye, wanting to let her know that I was trying to help her, but her eyes were black with pain. She wouldn't know me from Adam. Or Eve. Carefully, I fit the rope over her head, settling it on the one patch of mane.

“Ready?”

I swallowed and nodded.

Standing at the mare's back end, Mr. Stead tried to nudge her tail aside with his elbow. She clamped it tight. So, grasping the white hairs with his greased fingers, he forcefully pulled the tail out of the way and pinned it with his elbow. I stared. It was bold and indecent, but I couldn't help it. I'd never seen anything like this before. As his slathered arm began passing under her tail and disappearing inside her body, though, I looked away. I tried to think about something else, anything else—the sound of an early delivery wagon out on the street, the square of graying sky that showed through the window—anything except what was happening right beside me. A buzzing filled my head. When Mr. Stead spoke again, he was wiping his arms.

“No impaction,” he stated. “Some wind has been released, which will bring a modicum of relief. But I'm going to mix her up a drench and bleed her just to be sure.”

“And then she'll be all right?”

He sighed wearily. It suddenly occurred to me that he must hear that same hope-filled question with every sick animal he treated. That wasn't fair; he wasn't God.

“I wish I knew,” he replied in a very tired and very human voice. “I think the sound of the fire alarm overexcited her this morning. I should have thought of that; I just wasn't expecting another fire so soon. We'll stuff some cotton in her ears before I leave. But the excitement, I believe, combined with her already compromised condition, caused the contents of her stomach to sour. Although she could have bots or enteritis, either of which could prove far more serious.”

“How will we know which it is?”

“We
won't.”
The sharpness in his response was immediately reined back by, “At least we won't know for certain. Medicine,” he explained in carefully measured words, “even that applied to horses, doesn't provide black-and-white answers. We look for symptoms, we consult our books, we use our experience and God-given abilities, and—for better or worse—we treat the afflicted animal.” While he talked, he pulled various small bottles from his bag and poured differing amounts into what looked like a very large bottle of oil. After inserting a stopper, he shook it vigorously. “We'll start with this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Spirit of turpentine, laudanum, and linseed oil.” He took an L-shaped metal pipe and a funnel from his satchel. Prying open the Girl's mouth, he quickly shoved the pipe partway down her throat. While she gagged and struggled weakly, the oily
concoction was poured and poured and poured through the funnel.

Finally he set those implements aside and pulled a large white cloth from his satchel.

“What's that for?”

“Her own good,” he answered emotionlessly. He tossed the cloth over the Girl's face, by necessity covering her sticky wounds, and knotted the ends under her jowl. Returning to his satchel, he withdrew a black leather case, and from it, a sharp silver lancet.

I think my mouth fell open. “What are you going to do?”

“Are you in need of a blindfold as well?”

If that was humor, I was numb to it. He cleared his throat. “I'm going to let some blood from her neck,” he explained. “That will take some of the heat from her body. It won't be a lot, and it won't hurt for more than a second. Are you sure you can do this?”

I was still staring at the lancet's deadly point.

“Turn around, Miss Selby.”

“Pardon me?”

“Turn around.” With his free hand, he gripped my shoulder and spun me the other way. “Now, hold her head as steady as you can.” I slid my hand up the rope, took one last look at the blindfolded mare, and closed my own eyes. Mr. Stead took a position at my back, so close that the heat of his body warmed mine. “Ready?” I wasn't, but I nodded anyway. There were two dull thuds, like a fist hitting meat, then silence. The Girl
flinched and grunted, and then, after a few moments, I heard fat, wet drops hitting the straw.

Blood-spattered images colored my mind. I felt a little weak, as if I might faint, but I forced my legs to straighten. I breathed in, deeply, and then out. Over and over. I focused only on my breathing.

“That will do, then.” Mr. Stead's voice pierced the fog. I opened my eyes, swaying slightly. “Give me a moment to clean up and you can turn around.”

The Girl's blindfolded head drooped. Ever so slowly, she began slumping against me. She was sleeping, it seemed. I splayed my feet and pushed back, but I was no match for her weight.

“She's falling,” I cried.

Mr. Stead was at my side in an instant, slapping the mare's chest until she startled and stood straighter. He yanked the cloth from her face. “All right now, step out of the way,” he ordered me. I ducked under his arm so hastily that I slipped on the bloody straw and nearly went down myself. Anxious, I watched him balance the mare as one does a teetering tower of blocks. He stepped back. The Girl swayed on her feet. Though her glazed eyes were open, she still appeared on the verge of sleep. A silver pin, which had been twisted into the skin of her neck, glinted in the first rays of light streaming into the shed. Fresh blood oozed around the fastening. “She'll be all right now, I think,” he said. “We'll just let her rest a while.” He smiled that smile of his. “Rather an admirable job, Miss Selby. Not
many girls in Boston could match your steady nerves, I'd wager. Thank you.”

I smiled back, feeling as if I'd been treated as well, beginning to feel as refreshed as if I'd just awakened from a sound sleep. Until I remembered Father's ranting. “My father won't let us keep her here.”

“Yes, I do remember words to that effect,” he said. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

I shook my head. “You don't know him. Once he's set his mind, he won't budge.”

“Well, I have more peppermints,” he said, patting his pocket. “And I'm not planning on wrestling him, just talking to him. Shall we give it a try?”

TWELVE

T
HE SKY SHIMMERED WITH THE COLORS OF AN OPAL WHEN
we stepped out of the shed. The
clip-clop
and rattle of horses pulling morning delivery wagons had doubled. The air was cool and moist and promised new beginnings. Until I noticed a faint odor of smoke. Shivering, I remembered that that was what had started this morning's rumpus: another fire.

“Cold?” Mr. Stead laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I shook my head. “Just tired.” But it was more than that. What if there were more burned horses out there that needed help? What about the burned one right here? “Are you sure we shouldn't stay with her?” I asked.

His smile showed he understood. “She needs her rest more than she needs us right now.”

There was comfort in his voice, and we walked the few steps to the house without speaking further and not the least bit awkward for it. It was nice being with him. His coat smelled of hay and horses and something musky-sweet, so different from
the nose-wrinkling tobacco and ink odors embedded in Father's clothes. And he'd complimented me once more: “Admirable job,” he'd said. Vain, yes, but if I could press those words into my album, I'd pull them out again and again just to hear them.

Apparently Providence thought I needed some humbling. As we climbed the narrow stairs of the back stoop, Mr. Stead reached past me, in gentlemanly fashion, to open the screen door. I tried edging around it and him, only to lose my footing. Flailing like a whirligig, I teetered toward a bed of withered morning glories. Pride goeth before a fall, indeed.

He pulled me right just in time. “Steady there.”

I mumbled an embarrassed thank-you into the collar of my robe. “I'm sure Father's still in his study,” I said. “Please come in.” Too red-faced to explain the battered door leaning against the wall, I led the way through the kitchen. On the stove was an empty skillet crusted with cornmeal. Beside it, a kettle of hot water simmered just below a whistle. We found Grandmother and Mother huddled over cups of tea in the dining room. A round of cornbread, cut into wedges, sat on a platter.

Mother leaped to her feet. “Mr. Stead! I didn't realize you were still here.” She made a close study of my face, searching for evidence of impropriety.

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat, “things took a mite longer than I expected.”

“Would you care for some tea?” She said it coolly, making no move to offer him a chair or a cup, or even a cold breakfast of cornbread.

The man who had seemed so confident in the shed unraveled a bit. He cleared his throat again and shook his head. “Thank you … but no. It's very kind of you, though, Mrs. Selby,” he stammered. “I was hoping to have a word with your husband. Is he …?” Peering hopefully into the parlor, he searched for an escape.

“He's in his study, with our son and a Captain Torrance Gilmore, who says he's the chief at the fire station. If you'll follow me?”

I wanted to roll my eyes at Mother's formality. Our house was so small that she could just about turn in place and, with a good reach, lay her hand on the doorknob to Father's study. But instead, she made a show of guiding the veterinary around the dining chairs and through the corner of the parlor into the narrow hall, where she halted him with an upraised hand. Laying an ear to the door, she tapped on it. “Mr. Selby?” The men's voices fell silent. Footsteps sounded and then the door opened to reveal Father's annoyed face.

“Mr. Selby, Mr. Stead would-”

“Come in, come in,” Father interrupted. The veterinary was pulled into the heavily draped room. “We were just discussing the merits of—” The door closed in Mother's face with a decisive
click
.

For the briefest of moments she stood there, pale and silent, and my heart squeezed. I knew how she felt. When she turned, though, her face was completely composed. “Goodness, it's been a busy morning,” she said. “Your grandmother and I
have brewed some chamomile tea for its calming effects. You could do with a cup, I imagine.”

Nothing inside of me wanted to be calmed, but I obediently turned to take my seat.

“What have you been doing all this time?” Mother asked as she set a cup and saucer in front of me. “Dressed only in your robe and alone with a stranger?”

She was trying to pour shame along with the tea, and I wanted neither. “Mr. Stead isn't a stranger; he's a very good veterinary and I was helping him.”