Free Gabriel's Horses by Alison Hart Page A

war times.” Leaning forward in his chair, Jackson rests his elbows on his knees and goes on with his story. “A town called Saratoga, where the streets are lit with gas lamps and the hotels have five stories of rooms. All the famous jockeys like Abe Hawkins will be riding there.” He straightens. “Sounds like a place where a good jockey can make his fortune. I’ll leave in a couple of days.”
    Suddenly, the berries taste as sour as Jackson’s news. I spit the last bite on the floor. “First Pa left. Now you!”
    Jackson pokes at the blackberries in his bowl ’cause he can’t meet my eyes.
    â€œNow, Gabriel.” Ma tries to put a comforting arm around my shoulder, but I push it away.
    â€œThen take me with you, Jackson. I’m a good rider. I can make my fortune, too.”
    â€œYou’re too young, Gabriel. ’Sides, who’d care for your Ma? Who’d watch over the horses?”
    I don’t have an answer. My lower lip trembles. I glance around the room. Jackson, Annabelle, Ma, Cook Nancy, Old Uncle—they’re all looking at me, sorrow in their eyes.
    Furious, I jump off the stool. “Leave then, Jackson.
Leave!
’Cause I don’t care!” I shout. I stomp out the door and race through the kitchen garden and into the orchard. The evening sun’s falling behind a cloud, casting a dusky gray light over the fields. I need another hiding place, this time to grieve. First Pa. Now Jackson. How can they just up and leave?
    Head hanging, heart heavy, I aim for Old Uncle’s cabin in the slave quarters where no one will find me.
    ***
    Old Uncle doesn’t say a word to me when he comes in. He settles into his bed, quilt pulled to his chin. When night falls, I slip from the cabin and close the door to his snores, which rattle the room like a gourd drum. It’s late, and the quarters are mostly quiet. A few field hands sit on their stoops, enjoying the warm night breeze, and pipe smoke drifts through the air.
    I stop for a moment, listening to their urgent whispers. It seems that Newcastle wasn’t satisfied with beating Aristo. Now, whip in hand, he’s out hunting for me. Silent as a thieving raccoon, I sneak from the quarters carrying a stub of candle.
    I’d be safer staying in Old Uncle’s Cabin, but I have to check on Aristo.
    As I dart down the path, I jump at leaves rustling in the underbrush. Could be Newcastle crouched in the shadows cast by the moon. Could be the witch who leads men astray at night.
    Heart thumping, I race across the hay field, palm cupping my candle flame. The training barn’s dark. Jase and Tandy sleep in the stalls, so I shield the light as I tiptoe down the aisle. Stretching tall, I peer over Aristo’s half door. The colt’s hiding in the corner.
    I make a soft kissing noise. He flicks an ear. One hind hoof is cocked like he don’t want company. I hold the candle high, trying to see how bad Newcastle hurt him.
    â€œâ€™Risto, it’s me,” I whisper as I open the stall door. I blow out the candle, afraid of setting the straw on fire. There’s enough moonlight coming through the stall window to see the colt. When I step closer, he shies sideways.
    â€œIt’s me, horse,” I croon. Placing my palm on his neck, I scratch under his mane, then stroke him from withers to flank. He blows a happy sound, and his ears fall limp. But when I touch his chest, he shudders and moves away.
    â€œI ain’t going to hurt you. I just want to see what Newcastle’s done.” My fingers lightly graze his chest muscles, and I feel thin, crusted-over scars where the lash must have fallen. Newcastle’s beat the horse between his front legs, hoping to hide the marks. Hate fills me. The man had no right!
    A noise outside the stall makes me tense. Lantern light fills the barn, and heavy footsteps trod down the aisle. The hair prickles on the back of my neck.
    Newcastle!
    I