Free Firehorse (9781442403352) by Diane Lee Wilson

he’d done it for me.
    The water was taking forever. When it finally sent up its first few bubbles, I dumped in two cups of bran, stirred, and waited some more. By the time I was lugging the small iron pot of mash to the shed, the shadows were lengthening across the yard.
    The Governor’s Girl looked distressed. With shameful pride, I wondered if it was because she’d missed me. The moment I ducked under the bar, however, I was humbled. She pinned her ears and grunted like some wild creature from the woods.
    â€œEasy now,” I murmured, as much to myself as to her. “There’s no reason to be frightened.”
    She grunted and squealed and made ghastly, unhorselike sounds. I’d never heard such before, but I understood their warning. My knees began trembling. There were only two choices now: stay or leave. I screwed up my courage and inched toward her.
    â€œThis is just a simple old bran mash,” I soothed in a singsong voice. “As soft as pudding and as sweet as molasses. Try it and you’ll be as good as new in no time.” Even I couldhear the utter lack of confidence in my voice. The Girl waggled her head menacingly.
    My hands shook as I dug the wooden spoon into the pot. Lifting it high, I shoved it in the direction of her mouth. She flung her head defiantly, and the warm, pasty mush splattered across my bodice. Too late, I realized I was still in my good white dress. Mother would howl blue murder for certain.
    Well, so be it. I was going to finish this job. Mustering my courage again, I inched closer, eyed the least ulcerated spot on her mouth, and pushed another spoonful of bran at her. Just as deliberately, the Girl swung her head again. Only this time, instead of just knocking away the spoon, she hit me across the cheek. Bone cracked loudly upon bone. I staggered backward. Everything was flooding to blackness as I reeled out of the stall and crawled toward the quilt. The inside of my head felt like a smashed egg, a jellylike confusion of yellow and white.
    â€œGracious, girl!”
    I nearly jumped out of my skin. Grandmother again. Her unexpected appearances were going to be the death of me, if this mare wasn’t.
    â€œWhat’s happened? Are you all right?” Not getting an immediate answer, she talked louder. “Rachel! Are you all right?”
    â€œYes.” Queasy and hot-faced, I braced myself against the quilt’s undulating support.
    â€œThat horse do this?”
    I managed a painful nod, which set the yellow, eggy bits to dancing.
    â€œYour mother’s going to raise the roof when she gets a sight of your dress.”
    I knew she was right. “She can’t eat her grain,” I explained, gingerly testing my jaw. “I was trying to give her a bran mash.”
    â€œDoesn’t appear that she wanted it.” Grandmother actually chuckled. “You know, you do have a tendency to add too much salt.”
    An unplanned laugh burst out of me, making my head shriek.
    â€œCome along to the kitchen,” she said. “If you’re having trouble with her appetite, I’ll show you how to stir up a wondrous tonic. She’ll lap it up like a kitten does a bowl of cream.”
    â€œMaybe we should wait for the veterinary,” I cautioned. “Or James.”
    â€œNonsense.” She was already on her way back to the house. “Men don’t know a thimbleful about how to treat people or animals. That’s up to the women. Are you sure you’re all right?” she called over her shoulder.
    â€œYes, I’m fine.” A lie. My head was throbbing fiercely. Steadying it between my palms, I studied the mare. She was still staring at me, her eyes burning with emotion. Had I misunderstood what she wanted? She’d just taught me a lesson, I knew. A lesson about us. But did it mean that our relationship had ended … or just begun?

EIGHT
    G RANDMOTHER CALLED FROM THE CELLAR AS SOON AS THE screen door