Free Paxton Pride by Kerry Newcomb

cloth awning protecting his racks of fruit. So closely were they packed together there was not even room for the owner to re-enter his shop. Karen caught a final glimpse as the carriage rounded the corner. Several of the children were beaming happily, cheeks puffed out and jaws chewing, obviously delighted and thoroughly enjoying their pilfered gains.
    The carriage increased in speed as the rain fell faster. Lightning flashed in dramatic bursts of brilliance. Suddenly they swerved violently to the right and skidded. Karen had time for a brief, muffled scream as the carriage teetered crazily to one side then partially righted itself and settled at a drunken angle to the road. Hermann looped the reins around the brake lever and leaped from his seat into the ankle-deep mud and water. The trouble was readily apparent. The right rear wheel had hit a pothole and sunk axle deep, leaving the left rear wheel in the air. The coachman knew he’d never be able to get them out alone. He sloshed to the carriage door and knocked. Barrett’s face, appearing for all the world like an angry ghost, peered through the fogged-up glass.
    â€œI’ll be needing to find some help, sir. I’m afraid we’re stuck.”
    The face shook sideways, indicating Barrett couldn’t hear, then disappeared. A moment later the door opened and Barrett, misjudging the steepness of the angle of the coach, almost fell onto Hermann, who had put out a hand to steady him and unceremoniously shove him back into the carriage. “What’s that?” he yelled at Hermann.
    â€œWe’re stuck. I’ll have to get some help.” As close as he was, the steady hiss of rain and the driving wind, accompanied by an almost constant rumble of thunder, plucked the words from his mouth and made them nearly incomprehensible.
    Barrett shouted back, “Damn it, man. Hurry up. Do what you must, but hurry up.”
    Hermann, his drawn-out face especially morose in the dim light, touched his fingers to his hat in a small salute. The gesture loosed from the brim of his hat a small torrent of water which cascaded down his startled face and disappeared under his slicker. He shook his head woefully, slammed the door and started out for a nearby tavern, pushed by the wind at his back and soon hidden by a thick curtain of rain.
    Karen looked out her window. The wind, full force, howled around the side of the carriage and drove streaming sheets of water against the pane. A sudden curiosity to see what the storm really looked like seized her and she released the latch and pushed the door slightly ajar. The fiercely driving water stung her fingers and cheek and she released her hold, allowing the wind to slam the door shut again.
    â€œDamn it, what are you doing?” Barrett grumbled at her furiously. “Leave the door shut.”
    â€œI was just.…”
    â€œDon’t ‘I was just’ me, young lady. I’ve eaten at your cafe, ruined my hat, broken my carriage, probably, and gotten wet in the bargain, to say nothing of the delay. We could have been safe and dry, quietly and serenely sitting at the bar over a decent glass of port had I not been so affable. Now I am beyond affability. Leave the door shut,” he roared, striking his cane on the floor in emphasis.
    The carriage soon grew quite stuffy. Barrett suffered the most for he refused to shed his coat. Karen’s dress was light so she suffered to a lesser degree. Indeed, the wait was more boring than uncomfortable, the only diversion being a glance cast now and again toward her father who was desperately trying to sit up straight in spite of the angle of the seat. There was one consolation: the delay would keep them from the House, hopefully until too late. Seen in those terms, the ordeal became more than bearable.
    A rap on the door broke the stiff silence. Barrett opened it again to find Hermann, quite drenched to the skin. The driver touched his hat carefully and bowed