Mending Horses (40 page)

“What sort of friend steals a child from her home and turns her away from her own father?” Fogarty said.

Daniel's lungs finally opened, and the dimness at the edge of his vision receded. He let out a feeble moan to let Fogarty think he was still helpless.

“It was you turned me away, Da, not Daniel or Mr. S. or anybody else. And they didn't steal me. You sold me, remember?”

“They've poisoned your mind against me so you don't know truth from lies. Well, I'm not having it. You fetch up that other horse of yours and we'll away so's I can be setting you straight. Hurry, now, if you're not wanting to see your friend bloodied.” The word
friend
came out of Fogarty's mouth like a curse.

Billy's eyes traveled from her father's face to Daniel's. The set of her shoulders softened in apparent surrender. “All right, Da. I'll go with you, but I can't take the horses. They belong to Daniel.”

“We need those horses.” The fork pressed harder against Daniel's chest. “Don't make me hurt him, love. It's for your own good I'm doing this.”

As Fogarty shifted his weight, Daniel realized that his right hand was only a few inches from Fogarty's feet. Cautiously, he slid his fingers closer to Fogarty's brogans.

Fogarty didn't seem to notice. “Bring me that other horse, lass,” he said. “Then we'll go find Liam and be a family again.”

With his right hand, Daniel grabbed one of Fogarty's ankles and yanked while he thrust his left hand between the tines of the pitchfork and shoved it away from his chest. Fogarty staggered, one arm windmilling to save his balance, the other trying to hang on to the pitchfork as he fell against a stall door. The door shuddered against Fogarty's weight, the horse within kicking and letting out a furious scream.

Daniel rolled away, trying to shout for Billy to run, but the sound came out more wheeze than warning. He thanked God for
the tumblers' training that had him collecting himself almost by instinct. He poised on his haunches and whirled to face Fogarty. The whirling drove his stomach into a somersault and sent his brain reeling.

The horse screamed again. Daniel saw Mr. Warriner's gelding, ears pinned flat against his head, yellow teeth almost glowing as they reached for Fogarty. The next scream was human. The horse sank its teeth into Fogarty's shoulder, lifted him half off his feet, then let him drop. The stall door trembled behind the churning hooves. The gelding lunged again, and Fogarty lurched away from the snapping teeth just in time, staggering backward into the darkness.

Suddenly, Fogarty didn't matter at all to Daniel, for there was something much worse to fear: the smell of burning straw and Ivy's empty stall awash in an orange glow.

Daniel couldn't move, suddenly pulled back half a dozen years, hearing Ma's and Michael's cries, unable to find them in the blaze that scorched his lungs, blistered his skin.

“Sweet Jesus,” he groaned, shaking his head with a fierceness that set his stomach roiling.
No. Not this
. He had a moment's indecision—to fight the fire or get the horses out? If he chose the horses, the fire would grow even as he turned his back on it, grow enough to kill the horses left behind, and perhaps to set alight the tavern as well. The fire had to come first. He staggered toward the closest stall, threw open the door, and grabbed a water bucket, flung open the next door and snatched another bucket. He discovered Billy by his side, trying to help, but he shoved her away and screamed at her to take Pearl to safety and fetch help.

Then he was conscious of nothing but the fire. He emptied his buckets onto the flames, then flung open the other stall doors, dodging frightened horses' hooves and teeth. Two by two he seized the buckets and emptied them on the fire until there were no more buckets left. He paused with the last one in his hand. The fire was smaller now, but that last pail wouldn't be enough to completely douse it. He tore off his woolen frock and crammed it into the bucket, then used the sodden garment to beat the flames down. Behind him, horses screamed and reared, their hooves banging against walls and floors. There were human shouts, too, but he shut them out, forced himself to see and hear only the fire, fought it as if in the killing of it he could get vengeance for that fire of long ago.

Tears and phlegm ran down his face, clogging his nose and
throat. Smoke blinded him so that he could barely see the flames. He grew lightheaded, his lungs screaming for a breath of clean air. Then someone was beside him with more buckets, more water, and another someone tried to drag him away.

“Got to get 'em . . . get 'em out . . .” He sobbed and tried to wrestle free.

“It's all right, boy. The fire's out and the horses are safe.” Somebody shook him and pointed out the chain of men and boys passing buckets one to another. “Thank God it got no farther than the one stall,” the voice said.

Daniel stared numbly at the man's face. Everything seemed a blur of color and darkness, the firefighters mere ghosts behind a curtain of smoke. His legs crumpled beneath him like hay falling under the scythe. Two men hauled him out between them, and he collapsed in the dirt outside the barn, weeping and puking his throat raw. He wanted to curl into a ball until he stopped shaking, but there was something he had to take care of. Something important, only he couldn't think what it was. Perhaps he would remember if his head didn't feel as though it had been laid open with an ax.

He became aware of people and livestock milling about, filling the street and barnyard. Shouting at the onlookers to give way, a group of men hauled an enormous tawny-colored vehicle into the yard with a clatter and clanging of bells. One of the crew directed some of the bucket brigade to fill two troughs in the wagon, while the rest ranged themselves along long bars on either side of the vehicle. Another pair of men hauled a fat hose from the wagon and dragged it toward the barn to soak down the embers.

“You hurt, boy?” somebody asked.

Daniel squinted up at a large man with soot-stained clothes. He wanted to shake his head, but it felt as though it might wobble off his neck if he did. “I—I—I—” was all he could manage.

“Let's get you in the house. Your cousin's fretting like—”

“C-Cousin?” Daniel babbled in confusion.

A yellow-haired child broke through the crowd, screaming his name. The child flung his arms around Daniel's neck, and—No,
her
arms, Daniel realized, finally able to locate himself in place and time. “You're all right?” Billy shouted, her cry half question, half exclamation.

He winced and shushed her. The shushing felt as though it opened another fissure in his skull. “I har-hardly know,” he said.

Gingerly, Daniel shook his head at the glass of rum the landlord's wife offered. “Water,” he croaked. He couldn't tolerate anything that would burn his throat any further.

Mrs. Warriner shrugged dubiously. “Water's none too good here,” she said. “Ale?”

“Aye, that'll do.” He slumped on the settle and closed his eyes. He'd barely had the strength to assure himself that Ivy and Pearl were safe before allowing himself to be led inside. All he wanted to do was shut his eyes and drift away into his safe green place. But not just yet. “Billy?” he said, opening one eye a crack.

“He's fetching your ale,” Mrs. Warriner said.

“Alone?” Daniel said, both eyes opening. Who knew where her da might be lurking? He half rose from the settle, then sank back down again.

“He's helping the girls,” the landlady said. “You're not the only one who'll be needing a drink. Food, too, I imagine.” Her nod toward the front windows took in all the men still out in the barn and the yard, sorting out the horses and making sure the fire was vanquished. “There'll be a lot of—” Her words were cut off by a commotion at the door. “What in the world?” A group of men carried a body into the taproom. “Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed.

“Lay him here,” Mr. Warriner said, directing his companions to place their burden on one of the long tables. The burden stirred and groaned feebly.

“What's happened, Jerry?” the landlord's wife asked, her face drawn with concern.

“We found him lying just outside the back door of the barn,” said Mr. Warriner.

“Sweet Jesus,” Daniel whispered. He clutched the arm of the settle and forced himself to stand. He didn't know whether his
stomach curdled from the effort of rising or from the look of the man lying on the table. Fogarty's left arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and one side of his face was dark with blood.

“I've sent Luther for the doctor,” the landlord said. “Not sure if it'll do him any good, though. Seems like he's hurt worst right here.” His hand fluttered over Fogarty's breast, which moved jerkily with each breath, as if his heart and lungs pained him. “He keeps mumbling something about a horse. He must've tried to help get 'em out and got kicked.”

Daniel ground his teeth at the idea of Fogarty trying to help anyone but himself.

“The poor soul!” Mrs. Warriner exclaimed. She disappeared behind the bar and returned with a basin of water and a rag and began to clean Fogarty's face. “Who is he?” she asked.

“Looks familiar, but I can't place him,” the landlord replied.

“Found this, too,” said one of the men. He laid a scorched clay pipe on the bar. “In the stall where the fire was. I'll wager that's what started it.”

Mr. Warriner cast a glance at Daniel. “You see anyone smoking in my barn, boy?” Although there was no accusation in his words, the undercurrent of suspicion in his voice reminded Daniel that, Mr. Stocking's friend or no, he was still Irish and therefore the first suspect when anything went wrong.

“It's not my pipe,” Daniel said. “It's his.” He pointed toward the man on the table.

Mr. Warriner ran an anxious hand through his hair. “Damn it all if I'm not tempted to throw the worthless mongrel back out into the yard.”

Fogarty coughed, a thin ribbon of blood trickling from his mouth. His good arm clutched at his chest, his hand opening and closing with each spasm of breath. “G-God's s-sake, have pity,” he gasped. “P-Pity on a dying man.”

“He's not dying,” said a voice from the back of the taproom. “It's just another one of his lies.” Billy stood behind the bar, a pitcher and mug in her hands. Behind her were Mr. Warriner's nieces and hired girls, laden with food and drink. Billy slammed
pitcher and mug down on the bar so hard that ale sloshed over the lip of the pitcher, and the handle snapped off the mug.

“P-Pity's sake,” Fogarty murmured, his voice barely audible.

“Pity?” Billy snapped. “Aye, the same pity you showed to Jimmy and Mick and Liam, when you left 'em to die.” She stormed toward the table where Fogarty lay. “The same pity you showed Daniel when you tried to—” When she saw her father's face, she stopped cold.

“Billy, come away,” Daniel said. “Come away from there.”

Mr. Warriner peered more closely at Fogarty's face. “Now I know where I've seen him. This fella's your pa, isn't he?” he asked, glancing up at Billy. “That fella that sold you to Jonny. Sold you, set my barn afire . . . Wonder what else he's done. Wonder why I shouldn't just pitch him out into the road.”

“Because he might be dying,” Mrs. Warriner said sharply. She waved a hand at the men who'd brought Fogarty into the tavern. “Here, take him into the bedchamber off the kitchen.” The landlord's wife bustled away, followed by one of her nieces and the men carrying Fogarty.

“Don't fret, son. I didn't mean that, about pitching him out,” Mr. Warriner said, putting a hand on Billy's shoulder to keep her from joining the procession. “The ladies will take good care of him. You get yourself some rest, and we'll call you when you can see him.” Billy shrugged him aside and turned toward Daniel.

He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and leave things be. Leave Fogarty to whatever awaited him. Leave Billy to decide for herself what was to be done with him. He leaned on a chair and bowed his head. Rest, God, he needed to rest. But those voices in his head wouldn't let him—voices that sounded like Mr. Stocking and Ma and Mr. Sharp, saying,
You have to be better than that
. He cursed the voices and told them to let him lie down and sleep. Let Fogarty die and be done with it, for it was all that he deserved. But the voices would not be still. He looked about for Billy, saw her still standing in the middle of the room, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Where's that ale you were fetching?” Daniel asked.

“Oh. Sorry.” She returned to the counter and poured out some ale into the damaged mug and brought it to him. Her eyes met his and they winced together as he took the mug in his blistered hand. The cool pottery felt good against his scorched skin.

“You think he really is . . . you know . . . ,” Billy whispered.