Mending Horses (8 page)

On the final morning of his journey, Walter traveled the least-trodden paths of Chauncey to reach the constable's house. He knew he'd become the town's laughingstock, but humiliation was the least of his worries. That foreigner wasn't likely to see much humor in having been detained for the better part of a week. Were Walter in the stranger's place, he'd thrash the cause of his misfortune into a bloody pulp.

It was close on noon when Walter reached the constable's house. He slid from the accursed horse's back and, rehearsing his tale in his head, knocked at the door. But all he'd planned to say dissolved to mush when the door opened and Walter looked into the sitting room. There at the constable's table, with the constable's very own wife serving him a slice of meat pie, was that red-haired, shifty-eyed foreigner.

The dew-soaked grass chilled Daniel's bare feet. Patches of morning mist settled in the hollows, giving the pasture an eerie, dreamlike quality. A pulse moved through the earth and up through his body. It quickened and grew from a vibration to a sound, drumming in his ears. He turned toward it, arms outstretched to greet the mare. She whinnied and reared, inches from running him down, then bounded circles around him, kicking up her heels like an unbroken filly. Daniel lunged toward her, sent her whirling away, then backed off and let her chase after him. He skipped aside and let her pass, retreated and let her lead the game. He spun himself dizzy, feinting one way and another in a wild dance. Her hooves beat the rhythm and birdsongs served as the chorus for the teasing game of catch-me-if-you-can that was their morning ritual.

Closer and closer she circled him, near enough to touch. He caught a handful of coarse mane, and in a moment was on her
back, hugging her with legs and arms, laying his face along her neck and breathing in the sweet, dusty smell of her. He settled into her canter, the rhythm of her body easing his soul, reassuring him that she was safely his.

He rode until the sun burned the dew from the grass, and the rumbles in his stomach and Ivy's drove them toward the constable's house for morning chores and breakfast. He walked her to cool her down, heat rising from her body in steamy wisps.

Releasing her into the barnyard, he groaned when the first thing she did was roll in the dust, grunting happily as she ground the dirt into her sweaty hide. “Don't be doing that, love,” he said, though he laughed as she rose and shook herself, showering him in dust, sweat, and slobber. Her lips quested against his pockets for a treat. Her breath warmed his fingers, her muzzle velvet soft against his calloused palm. With the other hand he stirred up the dirt that clouded her neck. “You look a fright. We can't be having that.” She pressed her nose against his chest and made a rumbling noise that vibrated deep into his heart.

“Hate to misillusion you, son, but her looking a fright is exactly what you want.” The peddler was perched on the top fence rail as if he'd conjured himself there.

Daniel's face grew hot. How long had the peddler been watching? The mare twitched her ears forward and greeted the little man with a cheerful whinny.

Mr. Stocking smiled, a peculiar combination of horsey teeth and turtle-like eyes. “Sorry, there, darling, but vanity'll cost you and your Irish prince awful dear in this world.”

“Vanity?” Daniel raised an eyebrow. The only reason a lass would look him over more than once would be to find something new to laugh at. “That's one sin I don't fancy I'm likely to fall into.” He fetched a coarse brush from the barn and began working the dust out of the mare's coat.

“A man ain't always vain for his own sake.”

Daniel's hands followed the slope of muscle down Ivy's neck, tracing the graceful arc that disguised the strength underneath. “Ah, well, any man'd be vain of such a grand lass.”

“Maybe any man could afford to be. But not you.”

Daniel swirled the brush lightly over the bony points of Ivy's withers. “I'm not such a dab hand at riddling, sir. Why don't you just tell me plain what you're about?”

“I'm about peddling just now. It's a trade that can learn you quite a bit about human nature.” The peddler pried a sliver from the fence rail and picked his teeth with it. “You know what makes a good peddler?”

Daniel shrugged. “Sharp talk and fast dealing, I s'pose.”

Mr. Stocking shook his head. “You got to anticipate people's expectations. A boy like you, traveling on your own, can't afford to give 'em any surprises.”

“Could you p'raps be a bit plainer?”

Mr. Stocking pushed his hat back, the sun winking off his glasses. “It's not me that needs to be plainer, but you.” He pointed a stubby finger at Ivy. “And her.”

“She'll no more be plain than I'll be an Irish prince.”

The peddler shook his head. “Then you'll have trouble wherever you go.”

“Trouble,” Daniel repeated, the word sitting in his throat like a lump. “I thought I was done being knocked about after I left Lyman's.” Mr. Stocking and the blacksmith's lad had cleared his name in Chauncey, but what about the next town and the next after that?

“I'm afraid the likes of you and me ain't never done being knocked about, son.”

“Don't we never get to do any of the knocking?”

“Chester tells me he gave you the chance to knock back, but you didn't take it.”

The constable had spent the better part of a morning explaining how Daniel could bring charges against the blacksmith and the other men. “Aye, well, I'd have to stay here and see it out, now, wouldn't I? And who knows how long that'd take?” Daniel said. He wasn't sure which weighed on him more: the prospect of trying to convince a justice of the peace or a court to take the
side of an Irishman, or the idea that he'd be setting the Ainesworths against their neighbors. The constable and his wife had been more than kind; they'd even offered Daniel a job on their farm, but he couldn't see staying in Chauncey, daily facing the blacksmith and his friends.

The peddler leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I got some heartless things to learn you, if you want to get by.” He nodded toward Ivy. “You got to give up your idea of what she ought to be, just for a bit, anyway. And you got to make yourself what people expect you to be.” He chewed the end of his toothpick thoughtfully.

“I tried to look a gentleman, and they thought me a thief, never mind all them papers Silas give me.”

Mr. Stocking pointed the sliver at Daniel. “There's your mistake. You wear your old clothes, let the mare go ragged, ride her bareback with a rope halter, and all folks'll see is a farm boy and his nag. But put on your best duds and slick up your horse, and they'll see a boy with fine things he's got no right to. Once you open your mouth and let some of that Irish talk out—”

“—I'm a thief.” Daniel turned away from the peddler and scratched Ivy's ears. He couldn't let her coat go shaggy and her tail and mane full of burrs, let her be less than perfect.

“I'm not saying you should be neglectful, son.” The peddler came down from the fence and stood by his side. The little man pulled a scrap of biscuit from his pocket and let Ivy nibble it. “Just put her light under a bushel for a little while.” He brushed his hands off on the seat of his trousers. “Anyway, no point gathering troubles. Your name's cleared, you got a fine horse to ride and the world ahead of you.”

Daniel pressed his lips together, taking a long time to respond. “Aye, the whole world, and I haven't a clue what to do with it. All me life I've known naught but to obey orders. Now I'm free to be me own man, and I scarce know where to begin, or how.”

The peddler smiled and held out his hand. “You can try beginning with us.”

Daniel stared down at the offered hand.

“I don't s'pose it was happenstance brought you here, was it, son?”

Daniel squirmed and ducked the peddler's gaze. “I—well, I remembered you telling Ethan you had kin down here. I wanted to ask you about—about heading west.”

Mr. Stocking squinted into the sun. He licked his finger and held it up as if to test the wind. “West . . . hmmm . . . I think it's . . . that way.” He pointed in a vaguely northeasterly direction.

Daniel bit back a snappish retort when he noticed a corner of the peddler's mouth twitch.

Mr. Stocking clapped Daniel on the shoulder. “No, I didn't s'pose you trailed me all the way down here to ask me what the sun could tell you. Me and Billy still got a fair bit of peddling to do before winter sets in. We'll be leaving next week, after we replenish our stocks and settle accounts with Eldad. You're welcome to come along.”

“I don't know naught about peddling,” Daniel protested, but he already imagined riding alongside the peddler's cart, and the idea stirred something warm and homey inside him.

“Don't worry, son. We'll make sure you pull your weight.”

We
. Aye, there was the peddler's lad to consider. The peddler's lad who'd mocked Daniel's Irish. Since waking in the constable's house, Daniel had seen the lad often, but the yellow-haired boy kept his distance, staring at Daniel as if he were an animal in a menagerie. “Your lad'll not be minding, then?”

The peddler chuckled. “Well, it depends on what you mean by minding.”

“How
could
you?” Billy's face was crimson. “You didn't even ask me!”

Jonathan bit his lip against a smile and pretended that Phizzy's hooves needed tending. “I seem to recollect that this is my goods, my horse, and my wagon. Seems to me I'm the one gets to say who can ride with me.” He peeked discreetly around his shoulder.

With arms crossed, Billy stamped a foot. “He can't come with us. He can't!”

Jonathan moved to Phizzy's hind foot and took his time about studying it. “Seems damned uncharitable of you. The boy could use some company, just like you did once.”

“He has a horse. He has his own goods. He don't need us and we don't need him.”

“You don't have to fret about Dan'l taking your spot. He can't sing to save his life.”

Billy's lower lip jutted out. “He'll ruin everything!” The
everything
was nearly a wail.

Jonathan straightened slowly, feeling his bad knee pop as he eased it into place. “I thought you'd be pleased to have a young fella around to liven things up a bit. Somebody who talks Irish, just like you.”

Billy spat out something in that self-same Irish—something Jonathan was pretty sure was a curse. “He talks Irish no better'n a pig. He'll learn you all wrong.”

“That ain't why I asked him to come.”

Billy hugged Phizzy's muzzle. “We don't need him. Everything's perfect just the way it is.” Billy made Phizzy bob his head in agreement.

Perfect. Traipsing around the countryside with a broken-down old fool and a broken-down old horse, not knowing where you'll sleep or eat next? Stay here at Sophie's another week or two, then you'll know what perfect is, friend
. Jonathan laid one hand on the gelding's neck and the other on Billy's head, tousling the yellow curls. “No, we don't need him, that's true. But maybe he needs us.”

Billy jerked away. “I don't care!”

“What are you afraid of?” Jonathan asked.

“He'll be stupid and rude and nosy. You'll tell him . . . things.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I don't break my promises. He won't be learning your secrets from me.”

“Excuse me, ma'am?”

Sophie started, nearly dropping her book. One hand to her breast, she turned to face the boy standing in the parlor doorway. “Goodness, Billy, you made me jump!”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I only come to ask you a bit of a favor.” Billy tugged at his forelock. “I'm needing me hair cut, if you wouldn't be minding.” He pulled the curl straight so that it came down past the end of his nose. “Short like this, see?” He combed his fingers through his hair and stopped with his hand barely a quarter inch above his scalp.

“Cut all your lovely—” Sophie bit off her intended lament over the loss of Billy's curls. Cooing over the child's hair would only make him want to be rid of it all the more. “All right.”

After she had settled him in a chair with one of her aprons draped about his shoulders, she put her book in his lap. “Here,” she said. “You can read to me while I work.”

Billy carefully sounded out the title. “
O-liv-er Too-wist. Twist
. . . . But why?”

“Why what?” Sophie combed out a tangle at the nape of Billy's neck.

“Why does he twist?”

“It's his name, you goose. The boy in the book.”

Billy opened the book and stared at it for a long time.

“I know it's hard starting in the middle,” Sophie said. “I'll tell you the beginning later, if you like.”

“I wanted to be looking it over a bit first.” Billy glanced over his shoulder at the growing pile of hair. “Are we almost done?” he asked.

“Not even half finished.” Sophie planted a hand on top of the boy's head and made him turn back to the book. “You don't have to like it. Just read it.”

With a defeated sigh, Billy began, sounding out each word letter by letter. It was excruciating to listen to, like watching a wounded bird flutter and fall back to earth over and over again.

Sophie set down her scissors and comb and knelt on the floor in front of the boy. She tipped Billy's chin so he had to look her in the eye. “How old are you, child?”

“Twelve,” he said. “No, thirteen.” He pulled himself straighter, but his eyes darted away from Sophie's.

Twelve, most likely, or maybe eleven, if the boy knew at all, Sophie decided. “What schooling have you had?”

“I know I'm a bit slow at the reading, but I'm getting better, really I am. Mr. S. is learning me,” Billy said brightly.