Mending Horses (3 page)

“What's the charge, Chester?” snapped a sharp-nosed, silver-haired man who sat in an upholstered chair behind the table. He held a candlestick, which he periodically rapped on the table to silence the crowd. From the man's attitude and the deference everyone showed him, Daniel guessed him to be the justice of the peace.

The constable showed none of the older man's poise. Dressed in sweat-dampened work clothes, he slouched in a wooden chair next to the justice. He stared balefully at the goods strewn across his table. He rubbed his eyes and seemed disappointed that neither goods nor crowd had disappeared when he put his hands down. “Damned if I know,” he muttered. “So what is it, Jake?” he said, a little louder. “This fella's stolen something from you?”

“Not yet.” The blacksmith stepped forward and crossed his burly arms over his chest. “I never gave him the chance.” The crowd mumbled its approval.

“Then why in blazes did you haul all these people into my parlor?” the constable demanded.

“He stole these goods from someone, that's why.” The smith grabbed a shirt and waved it under Daniel's nose. “Now tell me how a boy like you comes to have goods like this?”

The justice's and the constable's stares felt like an ox yoke across Daniel's shoulders. “Th-they're mine,” was all the answer he could blurt out.

The blacksmith picked up the books: the fat little volume of Shakespeare the peddler had given him and Sir Walter Scott's
Ivanhoe
—a parting gift from Lizzie, the Lymans' dairymaid. Daniel cringed at the sooty marks the blacksmith made on
Ivanhoe
's pages as he riffled through them. “I suppose these are his, too?” The blacksmith sniffed. “I doubt the brute can even read.”

Daniel choked back a retort. Whether dealing with powerful men like George Lyman, his former master, or schoolyard bullies like Joshua Ward and his mates, it had always been safest to
be mute and passive. But now it was time to say something, anything, and he didn't know what to say. “They're m-mine, too,” he stammered.

The room burst into contemptuous laughter. “Yours?” the blacksmith said, echoed by half a dozen others.
“Yours?”

His mind began to retreat into that safe place inside himself that he'd built when he'd learned that the way to end trouble was to submit and endure. The rapping of the justice's candlestick pulled him away from the temptation to withdraw and give up.

He cursed himself for an idiot. His defense was right there in front of him. He'd just been too daft with panic to tell them about the papers Lyman's son Silas had given him. “I got papers.” He gestured toward the table. “Bills of sale. References. They're all there in that pocketbook.”

The blacksmith grabbed the small leather case. He let the papers spill to the floor and trod on them. “Forged, no doubt.”

Daniel felt as if the blacksmith's boot heel had ground into his chest. “And how would I be forging 'em, then, if I can't read?”

A corner of the constable's mouth twitched up before the man hid it behind his hand. The blacksmith's face flushed, and he looked as if he wanted to strike Daniel. “Stolen, then,” the blacksmith said. “How do we know you haven't killed this fellow and stole his goods and his papers?”

“Of course I didn't kill him. He's me.”

“And what proof do you have?” the justice of the peace demanded, rapping the candlestick against the table. The constable winced as the metal knocked the polished surface.

“Is there anyone who can vouch for you, boy?” The constable's voice was almost gentle. The justice of the peace looked disgruntled that the constable had taken over the hearing—if the hubbub could be called a hearing—but the constable continued, “Anyone at all who knows you?”

Daniel shook his head. Ivy was the only one who knew him. She could show them all she pleased that nobody else had a right to her, but they'd only see her as stolen goods.

The constable massaged his forehead, then his temples. He
looked almost as miserable as Daniel felt. “So you have no proof you're who you say you are. And you, Jacob”—he pointed to the blacksmith—“have no proof he isn't. And I have no grounds for a warrant.”

Somebody at the back of the room shouted, “But we know he's a thief!”

Daniel stared at the papers at the blacksmith's feet—the papers Silas had worked so hard to gather. If they wouldn't believe Silas's papers, surely they'd believe the man himself. “Send word to Silas Lyman in Farmington—Farmington, Massachusetts, that is. He'll speak for me. I used to work for his father, George Lyman.”

“And how will he do that with his throat cut?” snarled the blacksmith.

“C-Cut?” Daniel clutched at his own neck. It couldn't be true, and yet it made all too much sense. It must have been an unforgivable betrayal for Silas to turn against his father and help Daniel to freedom. It wasn't hard to imagine the elder Lyman slitting Silas's throat in revenge. What better vengeance than to place all the blame on the Irish lad who'd just left town?

“What—what's become of himself, then?” He barely managed to choke out the question.

“Himself?”

“His da. Silas's da, I mean. George Lyman.”

The slight man stepped forward, shoving at Daniel's shoulder. “Don't pretend you don't know. You're the one that killed them all.”

“All? They're all of 'em dead?” Lyman had seemed subdued and shaken the last time Daniel had seen him, but mad? Insane enough to kill his whole family and himself?

“All—killed in their sleep,” called a voice from the crowd.

The accusations grew louder around him. The justice of the peace and constable shouted for order, and the justice rapped the table, but everything melted into a sea of angry faces, a whirlwind of frenzied voices confirming the death of every last Lyman.

Daniel's knees gave way underneath him. His stomach
rolled and pushed up into his throat. He cradled his head in his arms. “Oh, God, oh, God. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

A massive hand grabbed his collar and hauled him upright. “There, you see?” The blacksmith's voice boomed in his ear. “There's guilt written all over him.”

“Mr. S.?”

“Mmm-hmm?” Jonathan Stocking peered through his spectacles at the collection of tousled yellow hair, rumpled clothes, and dirty feet and hands perched next to him on the wagon seat. Hadn't he cleaned the child the last time they'd stopped to water Phizzy? How could a body get so disordered just riding in a wagon?

“There's something queer about this town,” Billy said.

“Queer?” Jonathan said. “How do you mean?” He was less concerned about the answer than the child's clothes and hair. Blast that hair, couldn't it stay combed for five minutes?

Billy gestured at the house they'd just passed. “There's no one about. All the houses are shut up tight like it was winter.”

“Put your shoes and stockings on.” Jonathan pulled out his handkerchief, spat into it, and handed it to Billy. “And wipe that smudge off your chin. There's prob'ly just some doin's down to the common. A fair, maybe, or town meeting or training day.”

After scrubbing away the smudge, Billy wrestled grubby toes into grayish socks. The shoes went on next, accompanied by a pained grimace.

“Don't you be making faces like that to my cousin Sophie, now,” Jonathan warned. “We're depending on her hospitality.”

“If there's a fair, can we go see?” Billy's blue eyes sparkled at the prospect.

“We won't be going that way. Where's your hat?” Jonathan yanked the rumpled blue cap out from under Billy's rump. “Why do you always have to be sitting on it?” He whacked the cap on his
arm a few times to beat the dust out of it, then settled the cap on Billy's head. He stuffed as much of the unruly blond hair under the hat as he could and tugged the visor straight. “In case you've forgot, Eldad pays our wages. If we make Sophie happy, then we make Eldad happy. So
if
there's a fair, and
if
you make your manners nice to Sophie, then
maybe
you can go.” Billy rewarded the peddler with half a smile. “Anyway, here we are,” Jonathan added, as the familiar white house and flower-filled dooryard came into view. Phizzy let out a cheerful whicker and stopped at the front gate.

Jonathan climbed stiffly down from the wagon. He brushed the dust from his jacket and trousers, polished his coat buttons with his cuffs, tugged vest and jacket and collar into place. He wasn't much cleaner than Billy, but then again, Sophie wouldn't expect tidiness from him. As for Billy, well, she wasn't expecting Billy at all.

“How's that?” He glanced up at Billy, still perched on the wagon seat.

Billy's nose wrinkled. “Better, I s'pose.” Billy jumped down and applied a whisk broom to Jonathan's elbows, lapels, and backside. “There.” Billy gave the peddler a satisfied nod.

Jonathan fluffed Billy's cravat into a fat bow. He tugged the blue jacket straight, brushed the road dust from the child's shoulders, and set them square. “Now, you mind your manners in front of Sophie. Just 'cause she's my cousin don't mean she ain't a lady.” Jonathan licked the tips of his fingers and plastered an unruly curl down under Billy's cap. “Best foot forward, remember?”

“Yessir.” Billy's right foot moved smartly forward.

They looked down at Billy's dusty shoes, then at Jonathan's, which were equally filthy. They shared a shrug and polished the toes of their shoes on the backs of their trouser legs. The result was more smear than shine.

A curtain stirred at one of the windows. He heard a muffled squeal, and the door flew open. “Jonny! Oh, Jonny, we didn't think to see you for weeks yet!” A plump, blue-eyed woman dashed down the path and squeezed Jonathan in a lavender-scented hug.

“Now, Soph, don't go bruising the goods.” Jonathan kissed his cousin on the cheek.

“And who's this?” Sophie eyed Billy.

“A—um—a business associate, you might say.”

“William James Michael Fogarty at your service, ma'am.” Billy bowed. A stray curl escaped the cap and drooped over one blue eye.

A smile washed over Sophie's apple-round face. She reached out one finger, captured the wayward curl, and tucked it back in. “Sophronia Elizabeth Bartholomew Taylor.” She bobbed in a little curtsy. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. Although I fancy you'd be more delighted to make the acquaintance of a peach pie and a cup of tea.”

Billy searched the peddler's face for a cue. Jonathan nodded. “She's only asking us to tea, son, not the governor's ball.”

“I—uh, yes, please, thank you, ma'am,” Billy blurted.

Sophie tucked one hand under Billy's arm and the other under Jonathan's, but Billy pulled away, face stricken with a spasm of guilt. “Phizzy!” Billy said, glancing at the floppy-eared gray gelding who nodded sleepily at the gate. “I got to see to Phizzy first. It's me job.” Billy's cheeks flushed with shame.

“I'm sure Phizzy will excuse you for a bit,” Sophie said.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but you see Phizzy
needs
me.” Billy broke away to rush back to the horse. Jonathan caught bits of murmured Irish apologies as Billy caressed Phizzy's nose.

Jonathan started to apologize for Billy's breach of manners, but Sophie cut him off with a laugh. “Let the boy be. It looks like he loves that old horse as much as you do.”

“Where's Eldad?” Jonathan asked.

“There was some hubbub down to Chester Ainesworth's. He went to see what the to-do was all about. He should be back soon.” Sophie nudged her cousin's elbow. “Go show your boy where to put Phizzy. I'll have tea ready when you come in.”

Jonathan and Billy led Phizzy to the wagon shed and backed the wagon in. They'd just finished unhitching the gelding when
a long shadow loomed in the doorway and a gruff voice boomed, “There'd better not be any tin left in that thing.”

Jonathan spun around to greet the tall, gray-haired man. “Eldad! Ain't you a sight!” He gave his cousin's husband a strong handshake and a hearty thump on the back. “So what's this Sophie said about you chasing down some hullabaloo in town?”

“Chasing down a lot of gossip, is more like it.” Eldad's hooked nose wrinkled with his scowl. “Seems Jacob Fairley caught himself a thief and a murderer.”

“A murderer in Chauncey? Now that does beat all.” Jonathan returned to Phizzy, looping the gelding's reins through an iron ring while Billy fetched his halter.

Eldad leaned his long frame against the doorjamb and watched the two work. “The story is he came out bold as brass, looking to get his horse shod. But Jake said he could tell it was stolen, just from the looks of this fella. Foreign, I guess, and shifty-eyed.”

Jonathan paused in the middle of trading bridle for halter. “The fella or the horse?”