Firehorse (9781442403352) (2 page)

“No!” I jumped up and shouted the word so vehemently that she actually blanched a shade paler, which I instantly felt bad about. After all, she was merely the messenger.

She reached the brush toward my hair. I took a step back, shaking my head.

“Well, if you'd promise to use the sidesaddle,” she cajoled, “maybe your father would consider letting… and if you'd promise to wear shoes and gloves, too. Why, just look at what those leather reins are doing to your hands.” She lifted them by their stained fingertips and made a face. “Honestly, Rachel, you're fifteen years old. Can't you
please
ride like a lady,” she begged, “because … well, there's really no other way to put it: The way you're tearing around—astride,” she whispered the word dramatically, “with your limbs showing—well, people are calling it indecent.”

Indecent.

That plopped me back down on the chair. I'd always thought that indecent was the way Mrs. Winnow flirted with our minister, whose wife was deathly ill but not yet passed. Or the way two of our church elders raised their hands and swore not to let alcohol pass their lips, yet were happy to pass the cider jug at the fall plowing match. I thought indecent was leaving a dog tied to a tree day in and day out, for its whole miserable life. But just like that, she threw me into the same sinful category. She sewed a scarlet letter onto me. She and Father and Mr. Jude. When all I'd done was gallop.

That had been three months ago, but the word still rang in my ears:
indecent
. So as I was sitting there on Peaches with my
stomach rumbling, I got to thinking about eating an apple—just one—to spite Mr. Jude and his lies.

That's when I heard them coming: the boys. Farther on past the orchard, I saw them, four abreast. Riding into town and to their summer work at the granary and the livery and the slaughterhouse. Riding with their hard boots and their harsh words and their heavy hands. We'd met before.

The road was narrow along this stretch and fenced on both sides. I had no choice if I wanted to avoid them. Angling Peaches toward the orchard gate, which was slightly lower than its fence and situated between us and the approaching boys, I pressed my heels into her sides. She understood at once. With her ears pointed toward the top rail, she picked up a canter. I felt her hindquarters gather beneath me and, with each powerful stride, her withers lifted higher. The boys hooted with glee, thinking we were mounting a foolhardy charge at them. I gritted my teeth and focused on the hurdle ahead. At the critical moment, when there was only freedom or crashing failure, Peaches left the ground and we were flying. For one breathless instant the earth couldn't hold us.

As we swooped down inside, the boys came galloping up to the gate to hurl some jeers over it. I ignored them, as I always had. They had nothing I wanted or needed.

Peaches kept cantering smoothly between the tidy rows. I stroked her neck with gratitude. The coarse voices behind us faded, then fragmented in a sudden flurry of hoofbeats. And we were left alone.

Pulling Peaches to a walk, I let myself fall under the
orchard's spell. It was so quiet among the trees—a private, sun-dappled world that locked out the injustices of everyday life. A low humming lulled us as we ambled along. The ground gently sank and swelled, and I could swear I heard it breathing. Lacy white flowers arced in abundance, their honeyed fragrance seeming to grow sweeter in the warming sun. I reined Peaches down a different row, and then another and another, just wandering. My mouth watered at the thousands of hard, glossy green orbs, but the apples weren't ripe yet and there was no use in biting into even one.

After a time, we found ourselves back at the gate. No need to risk our necks again, so I slid off and led Peaches through, then climbed onto the fence and onto her back. The sun was even higher in the sky, and I knew the chickens wouldn't be the only ones squawking at home.

Sweat had glued my dress to my skin by then, and it was all I could do to keep from wading into the shallows of the Gilead River for a quick dip. The waters sparkled invitation, but I kept Peaches pointed straight and we clip-clopped across the planked bridge.

Turning onto Bell Road, we hurried into a trot to get past the Stokeses' farm. Not only because we were late, but because I couldn't bear to look at their slatted barn with its string of orange fox pelts nailed in cruciform beneath the eaves. It seemed there was always a price to pay for crossing someone's boundaries. Always a price. But what place did death have on a morning as glorious as this?

TWO

A
S SOON AS
I
RODE ONTO OUR PLACE
, I
SLID OFF
P
EACHES
and tied her in the barn. I didn't see Mother anywhere, so I rushed into the chicken pen, slowing just enough to keep them from squawking alarm, and quickly gathered up a dozen eggs in the waiting basket. I realized I was holding my breath. I ran to the house, opened the back door, and peeked inside. The kitchen was empty. I set the basket on the table and hurried back to the barn. I gulped another breath. Pausing at the doorway, I yanked up some handfuls of thick-stemmed weeds and heaved them into a conspicuous pile in the sunlight. I glanced around again, then dived into the cool barn and exhaled in a whoosh. My chest heaved. Finally I could breathe.

In Mr. Moore's science class we'd learned that all of Earth's creatures need oxygen to survive. In a process called respiration, we breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. Creatures that live on land get their oxygen from the air. Creatures that live underwater get theirs from dissolved oxygen. Well, I got my
oxygen from horses. From riding them and touching them and listening to them and learning from them.

Having bought a little time, I belatedly began grooming Peaches, my fleet-footed racehorse, my winner. I pulled the burrs out of her fetlock hairs and scratched her underbelly and combed her mane until it lay as smooth and silky as the fringe on Grandmother's shawl. I gently traced the whorled hairs on her forehead and wiped the dust from the velvet plain beneath her eyes. She consented to my fussing for only so long before shaking her head free and snorting with the force of the west wind.

Coated in a sticky mist, I laughed and snorted myself. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so very much. Well, if you've had enough grooming, your ladyship, let's have a look at your feet.”

Trading the brush for a hoof pick, I sidled up to her near foreleg. Peaches responded to my pinch by agreeably lifting her foot, which I balanced across my knee. She'd had a bout with thrush the past few weeks, but as I bent close and sniffed, I couldn't smell any of the black rot. I couldn't see any either. I scraped each side of the V-shaped crevice and went on to the other three hooves, finding lingering signs of thrush in only the off hind one. Dutifully I soaked a small rag in the turpentine I'd bought at the hardware store and packed it into the questionable hoof. Then I led Peaches to the rain barrel for a long, slobbery drink and returned her to her stall. While she munched her hay, I took up a pitchfork and combed through the straw bedding until it was clean and dry enough for any human guest.

When she was finished, Peaches gave a good shake and cocked one hip in preparation for a nap. I didn't want to leave, not yet, and rested my forehead against hers. “Tell me what you're thinking,” I whispered.

That I love you
, I imagined her nickered response.
That you bring me everything I need
.

I stroked her cheeks and tugged on her nostrils and braided and unbraided her thin red forelock. With swallows flitting in and out of the wide door, swirling the dust motes suspended in the golden air, Peaches and I shared the silence and each other's company.

There's no better place than a stable, I've found. It's the only place with solid footing. When I'm standing beside a horse, I feel that I'm neither girl nor boy, child nor adult, strong nor weak. I'm accepted just as I am. And there, and only there, I can breathe.

For the rest of the day I tore through enough chores to keep Mother from heaving any of her sighs, at least in front of me. I even managed to mend and wash out my chemise, and I ironed my sash for church. The day was clear blue sailing. Until supper brought a rumbling of thunder.

James had returned from making deliveries for Mr. Hubbard's feed store, taking his seat just before we said grace. Even though he'd stopped to wash up at the kitchen sink, he still smelled warmly of sweat and dust and hay. A burnt redness tinged his nose and cheekbones. His easy, lopsided smile spilled across his face like sunshine. One eyebrow rose with mischief. “Did you have a good ride this morning?” he asked.

I took the plate of boiled carrots he was passing me. His expression said he knew something. Was it my tardiness? Or my trespassing into Mr. Jude's orchard? And why was he raising the subject in Father's presence? “Yes, we did,” I answered cautiously. “We rode out past the Murdocks' and came home by way of Gilead Creek.” I sneaked a glance at Father. He'd not mentioned my riding in the past months, even after Mr. Jude's visit. To be honest, I don't think he had any idea how often I rode, or how far.

“Some of the Murdocks' cows got out night before last,” was all Father said. His eyes, neatly framed by the gold rims of his spectacles, narrowed to black pinpoints of disapproval. “She's not keeping the place up.” What he wasn't saying was that Mrs. Murdock, a recent widow, should have sold her husband's farm and moved in with her sister's family. Father didn't hold with female self-reliance. It wasn't natural.

“Well, it doesn't look like rain,” Mother said with an effort at cheeriness. “There'll be some nice weather for getting fences mended. Or for traveling.”

Traveling? My ears pricked. Who'd said anything about traveling?

She poked at the fricasseed chicken on her plate, her face smooth and emotionless.

“I almost forgot,” James said, still addressing me. “William asked about you today. And Nathaniel did as well.”

What was he up to?

“Something about … apples.” He gazed at the ceiling,
tapping his chin with feigned thoughtfulness. “Oh, that's it. They wanted to know if you'll be
sharing
any of your apples.”

I would have kicked him if I'd been able to reach him. Instead I impulsively tossed my napkin, hitting him square in the face.

“Rachel!” Mother exclaimed.

“That'll be enough of that!” Father warned.

James wadded the napkin in his fist and laughed. “Don't blame her. You can see she's a sorrel-top through and through, and you know how temperamental they are.”

It was another poke in the ribs, but I couldn't help grinning. Unlike most girls with copper-colored hair, I took pride in mine. That's because horses with red coats—be they chestnuts or sorrels or roans—were known to be high-spirited. Dangerous. Some people even refused to own them. How often I'd imagined someone trying to smash a bit against my teeth and my striking out in refusal. No one was going to own me.

Still, I changed the subject. In an effort to placate Mother, I asked, “Isn't Grandmother feeling well?”

Her mother ate with us most evenings, but tonight, for some reason, she'd stayed in town. Mother shot an inscrutable look at Father before fixing her gaze on her plate and softly replying, “I think she's feeling a little uprooted is all.” Somehow that put a damper on things. The atmosphere in the dining room took on that peculiar itchy quality you feel on hot summer evenings when the sky is empty but the air is so thick and heavy you just know a storm's on the horizon. I
glanced from face to face, finding them all veiled with secrets. James stopped his teasing and spooned food into his mouth with a voraciousness unusual even for him. Father cleared his throat and reached for the bread. I self-consciously drained my goblet of milk, trying not to gurgle under Mother's pensive gaze. We finished our meal to the sound of scraping forks and the weighty silence of something left unsaid. Really, the air pressed on us—or on me, anyway—like an iron. So as soon as the table was cleared, and the leftovers returned to the icebox, and the dishes washed, dried, and stacked, I hurried upstairs. Each of us, in fact, settled in solitude into some part of the house: Father to pore over his newspapers (he was editor of the local one, the
Plowman's Dispatch);
Mother to embroider her apron; James to black his boots; and I to curl up with my favorite book of the past six months,
The Reliable Horse Care Manual for American Owners
. They could have their secrets; I had some of my own.

“Rapturous” was the only word to describe my horse care manual. It was two inches thick, its gilt-edged pages bound in mahogany leather and embossed with three Arabian horse heads in brilliant gold, not the least bit dulled for the fingering they'd endured since last Christmas. That's when James had given the book to me. It was an extravagant present and must have cost him nearly a week's wages. My pulse quickened each time I lifted it onto my lap.