Firehorse (9781442403352) (15 page)

Mr. Stead murmured, “I'm sorry.”

I looked up to see tears streaming down Mr. Lauber's stricken face.

“You haven't all given up, have you?” Grandmother rapped on the stall door. “Give him a good rub, now. Go on, you'll see.” She waggled a finger at us. “And pray.”

I repeated my prayer more urgently—
Please, God, please let this colt live—as
Mr. Stead took a towel from his satchel and began rubbing the spindly chest, the ribbed sides, the limp neck. He lifted the head onto his lap and gently wiped out the nostrils and the mouth. Bending over, he blew air into the still body. Nothing. He blew again, and again. Still nothing. He glanced helplessly at Grandmother, who waggled a finger a second time, and he returned to rubbing the foal's sides.

All at once, a shiver rippled the colt's damp body. His eyelids fluttered and he sucked in a little gulp of air. Feebly, he tried to raise his head. Queenie nickered. With an enormous effort, she righted her front end, arced her head toward her tail, and sniffed at her newborn.

Mr. Lauber's face was even wetter now. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “You did it!”

Slowly climbing to his feet, Mr. Stead smiled. “It wasn't all
my
doing,” he said humbly. “I don't make claims to raise the dead.”

The two men quietly exited the stall and joined Grandmother in admiring the newborn. I eased into the corner, awestruck. The perfectly miniature horse was chestnut, with a silvery muzzle and impossibly long legs. The tips of his fuzzy ears curled toward each other like parentheses.

“What a handsome little fellow,” Grandmother said. “I anoint him ‘David' for he is ‘comely in appearance.'”

To my immense surprise, Mr. Lauber agreed. “I like that,” he said. “His mother's Queenie, so it's only fitting she have a king for a son. King David it is, then.”

Although she seemed far too weak for it, Queenie managed to stand. Rocking unsteadily, she began inspecting her colt. She nuzzled his damp back, his ears, his face. Her breath ruffled the fringe of curly mane on his neck. Even though she was trembling as much as he was, she licked him from one end to the other, then began nudging him to stand.

Having no more substance than a sprite, David popped to his spindly legs. He tottered a mad step or two and collapsed in a heap. Queenie whinnied. Her concern was immediately echoed by the whinnies of the other horses in the barn. I wanted to rush over to help him, but Mr. Stead, who must have read my mind, kept me to my place by quietly saying, “He'll learn it. You watch and see.”

So the four of us kept watching, with me digging my
nails into my palm at each of David's tumbling failures. After a while, it seemed that his mother lost interest. She nosed through her hay a little, then stood with her back to us, splay-legged and dozing. David clambered to his feet again, swayed wildly, and crumpled in the straw.

We had to do something! I looked up at Mr. Stead and found, to my blushing surprise, that he'd been watching me. “Why isn't she helping him?” I asked across the stall.

“Because this is something he has to learn to do on his own,” he replied. “God gave him strong legs to stand on; he just has to learn how to use them.”

“Father, is anything wrong?” A young female voice sounded from the end of the carriage house. “What are you watching?”

“Shh!” Mr. Lauber hushed his daughter. “Queenie's had her colt.” He motioned for her to join us.

She arrived without a sound of footsteps, which oddly reminded me of my mother's silent comings and goings. The girl was strikingly pretty, with the porcelain complexion of a china doll, and maybe a year or two older than me. But with no more than a glance over the stall door, she announced, “Mother wants to know—”

“Shh!”
Mr. Lauber shot a warning look at her.

The command came because David had again made it to his feet and was managing to keep his balance this time. He bravely took a step, wobbled, took another one, and was still standing. His mother pricked her ears and nickered
encouragement. He answered in a high-pitched whinny. With innocent determination, he lifted first one spider leg and then another, rushing the sequence until he was tottering … right in front of
me
.

Holding my breath, I slid down the wall to crouch at his level. His bulging eyes tried to follow the motion. I smiled. With his whiskery chin and bobbling head, he reminded me of a little old man who'd been drenched by an unexpected rainstorm. I extended my hand. Inquisitively he stretched his skinny neck. His damp muzzle tickled my palm. When his lips parted, I felt his rubbery gums bumping against my skin. Such a look of surprise came over him that he jumped back, shook his head, and nearly fell over. I had to stifle a laugh. Queenie nickered again, and this time he found his way directly to her side. Almost by accident, though I suspect it was more by God's hand, he found his mother's teat and began suckling.

Mr. Lauber spoke to Mr. Stead. “Thank you, Harland,” he said, before returning his misty gaze to the mare and foal.

Mr. Stead nodded. Looking back at the new pair, he smiled and said, “My pleasure.”

FOURTEEN

T
HE EXCITEMENT IN THE CARRIAGE HOUSE FADED
gradually, like the last quavery thrumming of a church organ. The other horses returned to their hay, and we walked back down the aisle in contemplative silence.

The spell was broken when we stepped into the sunshine. “Ew!” squealed Mr. Lauber's daughter. “Look at your hands!”

It was the second time that morning my hands had received critical marks. I'd forgotten to scrub them after helping Mr. Stead with the Girl, so now they were doubly mottled with dried sweat and horsehair, and a drop of dried blood crusted one knuckle. The grimy half-moons tipping each fingernail showed even more darkly. Yet I wasn't the least bit embarrassed. I was proud of my hands and the work they'd done, and answered her horror—that same horror I'd seen on Mother's face—with a broad smile. Perplexed, Miss Lauber gathered her skirts a little closer.

Her father, however, frowned. “Mr. Stead, may I have a word with you?” He motioned for them to move a few steps
away. Something in his sudden change of expression pricked my curiosity. Feigning an interest in the manicured bed of roses behind them, I murmured, “How lovely,” and left Grandmother and Miss Lauber to sidle nearer the men.

“It's bad enough that you let her upstage me with my own horse,” Mr. Lauber was complaining, “but what if things hadn't gone as they did? What if she'd been kicked? Queenie's a hot-blooded mare, you know. The girl could have broken a limb—or worse! I don't think it's right.”

“She knows her way around a horse,” Mr. Stead countered. He sounded somewhat irritated himself. “I'm sorry if her presence has disturbed you. I just didn't see any harm in it.”

Grandmother made her way to my side, interrupting my eavesdropping. Bending over a deep red blossom, she whispered, “I've changed my mind. That veterinary of yours is a good man.”

“Um-hmm,” I mumbled, moving to another bush, still pretending interest in the roses while trying to listen to the men.

“Perhaps you're too young to realize this,” Mr. Lauber went on, “but many people consider it unseemly for a girl to witness a birthing.”

I sneaked a glance as Mr. Stead crossed his arms. He was a good head taller than Mr. Lauber and looked down on him with such an unflinching air that, despite his seniority, the older man started rowing backward. “I'm not saying you're not a good veterinary, Harland. You know I have no complaints there.” He ventured a laugh and reached up to clap him on the
shoulder. “Besides, I was a young man once myself. I remember how it was with the fillies. But take my advice: Consider your reputation and keep them separate from your work.” Tipping his head like a bold robin, he took another stab at control. “There's others that will be thinking the way I do,” he warned.

Mr. Stead stiffened. It was ever so slightly, but I saw it, even if no one else did. “Then they have my pity, is what I'm thinking,” he replied. Spinning on his heel, he picked up his satchel and headed for the buggy. Grandmother and I followed.

Mr. Lauber was quick to entwine his daughter's arm in his own and escort us. “I owe you an apology, ladies.” His artificial friendliness reminded me of soured milk; on the surface it seemed all right, but … “I didn't properly introduce you to my daughter, Emilyn. Emilyn, this is …?”

“Mrs. Esther Boon,” Grandmother replied. “And Rachel Selby, my granddaughter.”

“How nice to meet you,” Emilyn said coolly.

“I wish I could have shown you both more hospitality than my poor stable has to offer,” Mr. Lauber said, “but I wasn't… expecting you.” He looked pointedly at Mr. Stead's back.

“I've visited homes not nearly as fine as your stable,” Grandmother said. “We enjoyed ourselves.”

I latched on to the buggy horse like he was an old friend. In a way he was, because he was the same horse I'd seen outside the fire station, the one to whom I'd promised a treat. Now, at my approach, he wriggled his lips hopefully. All I could do was pet his neck and murmur, “I'm sorry. I forgot.”

“What's that?” Mr. Stead asked. He nodded for the waiting servant to take hold of the horse's bridle so he could help Grandmother into the buggy.

I blushed; I hadn't planned on human ears hearing me. “I … I promised your horse I would bring him a treat.”

“That humbug! Has he gone to begging again? Balder!” He rattled the whip in its stand. “You're a second-rate scoundrel, you are,” he said to the horse. “Mind your manners.” With a smile and a wink, he handed me up into the buggy and climbed in beside. The servant stepped away. Waving crisply to Mr. Lauber and Emilyn, Mr. Stead clucked to the horse. “Now look lively, Balder, or I'll send you down to the docks for some real work.” The bay moved off, but not before shaking his head and snorting with what was surely indignation. I hunkered down to keep from laughing out loud.

On the drive homeward I took more notice of my surroundings. We were passing through a particularly well-to-do part of Boston, and the streets were lined with one amazing mansion after another. Mr. Stead entertained us with tidbits of gossip about the wealthy occupants, and I felt rather grand just trotting by such luxury, especially when we passed a public horsecar. It was crowded, with people packed together like herrings, either sitting on benches or standing, suspended from leather straps, all of them looking wilted in the heat. I had little reason for pride, I suppose, because the buggy's one seat was nearly as crowded. Jostled between Grandmother and Mr. Stead, I became uncomfortably aware of his leg pressed thigh to ankle
against mine, of his black jacket scratching the fabric of my dress. I tried to pull in my shoulders.

Grandmother leaned across me. “Are you a married man?” she asked bluntly.

That shrunk me some.

“No, Mrs. Selby, I'm not.”

“It's Mrs. Boon, if you'll remember,” Grandmother said. “I'm the mother of Rachel's mother. I'm
not
a Selby.” She flicked a cinder off her skirt. “And why aren't you married?”

Mr. Stead shifted his position, pulling his leg away from mine, though for lack of space it gradually sagged back against it. I sneaked a glance at his face. If he was discomfited by her liberty he didn't show it. He took time clearing his throat, then said, “Well, Mrs. Boon, I'm not married because … Here now!” He jerked on the reins as a fancy trotter pulling a basket phaeton came round the corner at such a reckless clip that they nearly collided with us. Balder snorted, more in disgust than alarm, I thought, and once the reins were loosened proceeded calmly. “What were we talking about? Oh, yes.” Mr. Stead chuckled. “Well, I suppose it's because I'm very busy and”—as he searched for words, an embarrassed grin widened across his face—“and, well, let's just say that my horse has better luck with the ladies than I do.” I shot Grandmother the most injurious of glances, which she blatantly ignored.

“Which church do you attend?”

Mr. Stead looked past us. At first I thought he was seeking escape, until he raised his whip over his head to signal he was
turning. We joined with traffic on a busier street, and when we'd settled in, he answered her question. “I rarely have the time,” he explained. “You see, most of my patients don't recognize the Sabbath as a day of rest. Or at least their owners don't. So I commune with our good Lord when I can. And that's as likely to be right here in my buggy as in a white steeple church.”

That seemed to satisfy Grandmother on that topic, but she was too much the terrier to sit idle for long. Before we'd gone one whole block she had another question. “Did you ever consider becoming a real doctor?”

“Don't I look real?”

“It's a better living.”