Free The Scottish Prisoner by Diana Gabaldon Page B

really … well … all right,” she said weakly. “Just … just for a bit.” Turning, she shuffled hastily off.
    Looking after her, he murmured, “Poor woman.” At the same time, he hoped that her difficulties would detain her for some while, and asked a quick forgiveness from God for the thought.
    “Poo ooman,” Willie echoed solemnly, and pressed his knees to Jamie’s ears. “Go!”
    They went. The mash tub was in the tack room, and he parked William on a stool and reached down a bridle with a snaffle for the boy to play with, clicking the jointed bit to make a noise.
    “D’ye remember the names of the horses, then?” he asked, measuring out the grain into the tub with the wooden scoop. William frowned, pausing in his clicking.
    “Mo.”
    “Oh, aye, ye do. Bella? Ye ken Bella fine; ye rode on her back.”
    “Bella!”
    “Aye, see? And what about Phil—he’s the sweet lad that let ye hug his nose.”
    “Pill!”
    “That’s right. And next to Phil, there’s …” They worked their way verbally down both sides of the aisle, stall by stall, Jamie saying the names and William repeating them, while Jamie poured the molasses, thick and black as tar and nearly as pungent, into the grain.
    “I’m going to fetch the hot water,” he told Willie. “You stay just there—dinna move about—and I’ll be with ye in a moment.”
    Willie, engaged in an unsuccessful effort to get the bit into his own mouth, ignored this but made no move to follow him.
    Jamie took a bucket and put his head into the factor’s office, where Mr. Grieves was talking to Mr. Lowens, a farmer whose land abutted that of Dunsany’s estate. Grieves nodded to him,and he came in, going to dip hot water from the cauldron kept simmering in the back of the hearth. The factor’s office was the only warm place in the stable block, so was often a gathering place for visitors.
    He made his way back, careful with the heavy, steaming bucket, and found Willie still sitting on his stool but having now succeeded in entangling his head and arms in the bridle, which he’d evidently tried to put on.
    “Elp!” Willie said, thrashing wildly. “Elp, elp, elp!”
    “Aye, I’ll help ye, ye wee gomerel. Here, then.” Jamie set down the bucket and went to assist, thanking his guardian angel that Willie hadn’t managed to strangle himself. No wonder the little fiend required two nursemaids to watch him.
    He patiently untangled the bridle—how could a child who couldn’t dress himself tie knots like that?—and hung it up, then, with an admonition to Willie to keep well back, poured the hot water into the bran tub.
    “Ye want to help stir?” He held out the big worn paddle—which was roughly as tall as Willie—and they stirred the mash, Willie clinging earnestly to the lower part of the handle, Jamie to the upper. The mix was stiff, though, and Willie gave up after a moment, leaving Jamie to finish the job.
    He’d just about finished ladling the mash into buckets for distribution to the mangers when he noticed that William had something in his mouth.
    “What’s that ye’ve got in your mouth?”
    Willie opened his mouth and picked out a wet horseshoe nail, which he regarded with interest. Jamie imagined in a split second what would have happened if the lad had swallowed it, and panic made him speak more roughly than he might have.
    “Give it here!”
    “Mo!” Willie jerked his hand away and glowered at Jamie under wispy brows that nonetheless were well marked.
    “Nnnnn,” Jamie said, leaning down close and glowering in his turn. “Nnnnno.”
    Willie looked suspicious and uncertain.
    “Mo,” he repeated, but with less surety.
    “It’s ‘no,’ believe me,” Jamie assured him, straightening up and pulling the bucket of mash closer. “Ye’ve heard your auntie Isobel say it, have ye not?” He
hoped
Isobel—or someone—said it to Willie on occasion. Not often enough, he was sure of that.
    Willie appeared to be thinking this