Katie and the Mustang #1 (3 page)

Mr. Stevens came to stand beside Hiram. “He surely does, Hiram,” he was saying. “When someone makes him learn.”

I watched him take the whip from Hiram and approach the stall. He leaned over the rail and slashed it across the Mustang’s face. I cried out, but neither of them noticed because the Mustang squealed, a long, high-pitched sound of rage. Then he exploded and lunged forward, teeth bared, slamming against the stall gate.

Mr. Stevens stumbled, his coat sleeve catching for an instant on the splintery rail. Hiram leapt forward and grabbed his collar, dragging him backward. He steadied Mr. Stevens for a second before he let go. He looked disgusted. “And now you teach him that you hit him no matter what he does!”

I watched Mr. Stevens square his shoulders as he faced Hiram. “I taught him to leave my stall rails in one piece; that’s what I taught him,” he said coldly. “The horse trader said a man has to be tough with these wild ones, has to let them know who is boss.”

I watched Hiram, one hand over my mouth to keep from making more noise. Hiram pressed his lips together, his cheeks flushed. He was angry. And he was right. It didn’t make any sense. If the horse was startled with the whip for rearing and then actually
whipped
for standing quietly, how would it ever figure out what Mr. Stevens wanted it to do?

I stared at the Mustang horse. It looked more sad than angry now, standing as far back against the wall as it possibly could. I could see a long whip welt on its neck and another across its muzzle that was bleeding.

“With any luck, he’ll settle until sunrise,” Mr. Stevens said.

Hiram made a sound that could have been taken for anything—yes, no, or maybe so. Mr. Stevens raised the whip high over his head and slapped the lash across the stall rail. “You try to break down my barn like that again, and I’ll show you what for,” he said in a low, threatening voice. The Mustang lifted its head and flattened its ears.

Mr. Stevens hung up the whip, and, before I had time to think, he was walking toward the door—toward
me
. I froze, sure he would see me any second.

“I’ll get him another bucket of water,” I heard Hiram saying.

Mr. Stevens turned. I ran a few steps into the dark, dodging around the wide trunk of the ash tree. When I peeked out, he was frowning. I shivered from the cold and my own nervousness.

“No,” he said. “He knocked it over. Teach him a lesson. Don’t fill it until tomorrow night.”

Hiram made another one of his yes-no-maybe-so sounds.

Mr. Stevens stepped out the door, and I crouched
behind the tree and waited until he had passed. Hiram was a few seconds behind him. I heard the barn door close, the hasps creaking under the weight. I sat pressed against the smooth gray bark, listening as Hiram’s heavy footsteps faded, veering off behind the house, headed back toward the shed where he slept. I heard the chickens rustle and cluck as Mr. Stevens passed them, heard the front door open and close.

Then there was only the sound of frogs in the pond, croaking. One of the dogs yipped. I knew I should run for the back door. Now. I should have gone before Mr. Stevens had headed back toward the house. If he opened the door to the pantry where my pallet was and found it empty
.
.
.
But I didn’t run. I stood there, staring at the closed barn door.

I bit my lip. It was Wednesday morning, even though it was still dark out. Was Mr. Stevens talking about not giving the horse any water until
Thursday
night? Two long days without water? I just couldn’t walk away. The poor horse was so skinny
.
.
.
and so scared and miserable.

I could see the kitchen window over the lilacs.
There was no light inside. Mrs. Stevens had probably gone back to bed when the shouting was over—and Mr. Stevens had put the lantern out.

I shifted my weight back and forth, trying to decide. I might very well end up with another willow switching if they caught me outside without permission. But if they didn’t actually see me, I was safe. Hiram wouldn’t tell; he’d be glad the horse had gotten water after all. Hiram liked horses and cows and dogs and cats. He even liked pigs.

There was a quiet nickering from inside the barn. I had heard other horses make that sound. The Stevenses’ plow team had been raised together—I don’t think they had ever been apart. When one of the broad-backed draft horses was out in the pasture, and the other in the barn for some reason, they nickered back and forth like that—a soft, hopeful questioning sound.

I knew what it meant. The stallion was wondering if he had a friend anywhere nearby. I glanced once more at the house. I couldn’t see even the faintest candlelight through the windows. The dogs had all gone quiet. The crickets in the lilacs were starting back up.

I bit my lip again. The Stevenses rarely checked on me once I was in the pantry and safely put to bed. If they hadn’t already, they most likely wouldn’t tonight. I counted to fifty. No one shouted from the house.

Shivering again, I ran to the barn door and unlatched it. I pulled the door open just wide enough to slip inside. I didn’t want to light a lantern, but I had no choice if I was going to get the stallion a fresh bucket of water. It took me three tries to get the striker to work, but once I managed that, the wick lit right up. The sharp smell of oily lantern soot stung my nose and eyes.

I got a clean bucket from the tack room and walked to the well to fill it, keeping my skirt between the lantern and the front windows of the house. Then I set it low, behind the circle of stones around the mouth of the well. The rope slithered down silently, and the winch barely creaked as I raised the dripping bucket back up.

Carrying it slowly so it wouldn’t slosh and soak my clothes, I got back inside as quick as I could and hung the lantern on a spike.

The stallion was still standing at the back of his
stall. His nostrils were no longer flared, though, and his ears were tipped toward me when I came in.

I brought the lantern closer to the stall. The empty bucket was on its side, just inside the gate, a few shards from the thin skin of ice on the water scattered beside it.

I slid the gate bar aside and took a deep breath. Probably best to do it fast. I leaned in to grab the bucket bale, snatching it toward me and shutting the gate all in one quick motion.

Then I looked back into the stall. The stallion hadn’t moved. I did the same with the fresh bucket of water, placing it just inside, then ducking back out to slide the bar that locked the stall gate. The Mustang watched me.

“Are you a better listener than Betsy?” I asked him, nearly whispering. I winced, looking at the welts. “I’d rub some comfrey salve into those if I thought you’d let me.”

The horse let out a long breath and then jerked his head up. His ears were flat again. I stepped back. “I won’t try, I promise,” I began, feeling foolish—surely he hadn’t really understood. Then I heard a rustling in the straw and whirled around, afraid that
I had been caught after all. But it was the barn cat.

“That’s just Tiger,” I told the stallion. She mewed at the sound of her name and stretched, arching her back. There were flecks of straw in her dark, striped coat.

The stallion backed up, his eyes rimmed in white. He snorted and pawed at the ground as Tiger padded toward me, her eyes on the fresh water.

Suddenly, it all made sense. I had seen Tiger drink from the stock buckets a hundred times. She had gone into the Mustang’s stall in the dark. Why not? The carriage team and the plow horses barely noticed her. But this wild horse had probably never seen a farm cat. And in the dark
.
.
.

“Does Tiger smell like a mountain lion to you?” I whispered. Then I bent to intercept Tiger. She dodged around me and ran. I chased her across the dusty floor. She thought it was a game, and it took me a minute to get hold of her.

The stallion snorted and pawed as I swooped Tiger up. I carried her tight against my chest. “She can sleep with me tonight,” I promised the Mustang. “I’ll keep her in.”

Then I blew out the lantern and closed the door.

The half-frozen soil crunched under my shoes as I walked back toward the house. Halfway there, I heard the Mustang nicker, asking that same soft question of the darkness.

The little one with the long mane smells good, like bruised flowers. The old male who brings pain and noise has not come again. Perhaps he is like a wolf and won’t come again until he is very hungry. I must escape before then
.

A
week later, at breakfast, Mr. Stevens turned toward me and stared into my eyes. “My wife tells me she caught you in the barn again yesterday instead of doing your chores. That true?”

I swallowed a mouthful of boiled oats and lowered my eyes. It was. I had been out to the barn every time I got a chance. The Mustang was calmer. He didn’t mind it when I walked by the stall now. And he usually whickered when I left.

“Well?” Mr. Stevens demanded.

I heard Mrs. Stevens clear her throat, and I
glanced at her. She was smiling slightly, as though the scolding pleased her.

Hiram, as always, acted as though he couldn’t hear, forking down his eggs and bacon.

“I want you to stay out of the barn from now on,” Mr. Stevens said sternly.

“She has to milk,” Mrs. Stevens reminded him.

Mr. Stevens shot her an angry look. “Of course. I know that.”

I sat very still, knowing that anything I said would only make things worse. Sometimes they seemed to use me as a way to be angry with each other.

“I meant except for the milking,” Mr. Stevens said to me, daubing at his lips with his napkin. “She knew I meant that,” he added, glancing at his wife, then back at me. “Didn’t you, girl?”

I lowered my eyes instantly and nodded without looking at either one of them. I had learned to let them say whatever they cared to say without arguing, pretending not to be upset.

Hiram was finishing up his last bite of eggs. When he pushed back his plate, Mr. Stevens looked at him. “Hitch up the buggy team first today.”

Hiram stood. Without anyone seeing, he gently
brushed the top of my head with his hand as he reached to gather up his plate and cup. Then, making one of his yes-no-maybe-so sounds as a response to Mr. Stevens, he carried his plate to the sideboard, winked at me, then went out the front door.

I stole a look at Mr. Stevens. He was nearly finished. I could barely wait for him to wipe his hands on his napkin and stand up to leave. I wanted to get out to the barn. I would milk Betsy fast as anything, then I could give the Mustang some oats and make sure his water bucket was full.

“We start spring cleaning next week on wash day,” Mrs. Stevens said quietly.

I looked up. Spring cleaning already? It was barely February. Usually she waited until mid-April. “So early?” I asked quietly.

“Yes,” Mr. Stevens said. “I have a cousin coming from Indiana in a few weeks.” He narrowed his eyes, then went back to his oats, drizzling a little more honey into his bowl. He had a way of slurping up the cream that made my stomach uneasy. Several long minutes crept past. I kept chewing, fiercely, wanting only to be away from them both. I tipped
my bowl to get the last of the oats onto my spoon. I had learned not to ask for seconds.

“You come in the minute you’re finished with Betsy,” Mr. Stevens warned me as he pushed his bowl away and picked up his empty coffee mug. “We don’t feed and clothe you so you can loll around reading from that silly book.”

I pressed my lips together. Was that how he imagined my days? All I ever did was work. I was so angry that I couldn’t pretend hard enough. I frowned, and he saw it.

He ticked the edge of the cup with one thumbnail. “I’ll take the book away if you disobey.”

I dropped my spoon and it clunked on the floor, spattering the gluey oats in a little circle around it. I bent to pick up the spoon, wiping at the plank with my hand.

For some reason this struck him funny, and he laughed, then covered his mouth with his napkin. He stood up and went to the stove to refill his coffee cup.

I sat still, biting my lip. That book was
mine
.

Mr. Stevens went through the front door, walking out into the near dark. I knew what he would
do. He would stand and sip his coffee until the sun came up. Then he’d be off somewhere. It was getting so Hiram did all the work on the farm.

“Put your dish in the basin,” Mrs. Stevens said mildly. “Then wipe up the mess on the floor and go get that cow milked.”

I stood up from the table and carried my bowl and spoon to the sideboard. Now that Mr. Stevens was gone, it was harder to pretend. My hands were shaking. When had he seen my book? I had never showed it to him. Mrs. Stevens had caught me reading it twice—but it had been at night, not when I was supposed to be working. She had mostly been angry about the candle stubs I had used to read. She must have told him about it.

I wet a rag in the washbasin and used it to wipe the floor. Then I pulled on my jacket and banged out the back door, starting up the hill in the gray dawn dusk.

Mr. Stevens had his back to me, standing by the buggy in the road. Hiram was there, too, and they were talking. I hurried up the path, keeping my head turned because I couldn’t seem to stop the tears running down my face. I had gotten so good
at pretending, but this morning, for some reason, I just couldn’t manage it.