Mending Horses by M. P. Barker Page A

house.” The blue eyes narrowed accusingly. “You didn’t walk him out proper or nothing.”
    â€œPoor Phiz, I have treated him some ungrateful.” Phizzy should have had a long cooling-out walk, some hot bran mash with molasses, and an apple. But all there’d been time for was a brief stroll around Chester’s yard before letting Phizzy join Chester’s horse in the little paddock, with a quick promise for better rewards in the morning.
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Constable was in the yard rowing about who was to tend the horses,” Billy said. “She was fair cross with him. He done something to his hands, and she didn’t want him fouling them up, and he didn’t want her doing his work, and they were both telling the other to go inside and leave the horses to him . . . or her . . . only they all was mostly talking at once and all together. Then I come along and put things right.” Billy’s chest swelled with pride. “So Mr. Constable let me put Phizzy in his barn and put down some hay for him, too.”
    Jonathan was sure that Billy hadn’t taken over the situation quite that handily, but what the storytelling lacked in veracity and finesse, it made up for with enthusiasm. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Ainesworth. And all three of you should’a been in your beds ’stead of messing around with horses this time of night.”
    â€œThat’s what Mrs. Constable said, but she thanked me nicely for helping and gave me a grand piece of cake. See?” Billy tugged a handkerchief from a jacket pocket. A shower of crumbs dribbled to the floor. “I saved some for later.”
    â€œWell, you might as well stay.”
    Billy stared down into Daniel’s face. “He don’t look over much like a murderer to me.”
    â€œAnd how the devil would you know what a murderer looks like?” Jonathan asked.
    â€œWell, there was Mr. Brundidge, the foreman at the mill, who hit his wife with a—”
    Jonathan raised a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
    â€œHe was big and fierce-looking, not all pale and weakish likethat one. He’s . . .” Billy took a closer look at Daniel’s face. “Mr. S., I think we seen him before somewhere, haven’t we?”
    â€œLast July when we were up in Massachusetts. He’s Irish, like you.”
    â€œIrish, bah,” Billy said. “I remember him now. Couldn’t speak Gaelic no better’n a pig. What’s wrong with him, anyway? Would he be having some kind of a fit or something?” A grubby finger reached out to poke Daniel’s face.
    Jonathan lunged forward and grabbed Billy’s wrist. “Good God, what do you want to do a damn fool thing like that for?”
    â€œI just wanted to see—”
    Jonathan tugged Billy away from the bed. “What
I
want to see is you going to bed.” He nodded toward the tick on the floor. “You can have that.” Every aching joint cursed him for yielding even that small bit of comfort.
    â€œBut where will you be sleeping?”
    â€œI got to sit up and watch. Make sure he don’t start any trouble.” As if that was a worry. Jonathan pushed two chairs together, sitting in one and propping his feet on the other. He stuffed his coat under his backside for a cushion. “Think he’d care for a lulla—” Jonathan started to joke, then planted his feet back on the floor and snapped his fingers. “You want to make yourself useful, Billy, why don’t you sing one of them Irish songs of yours? Something pretty that don’t have anything sad in it. Something that’ll ease him some.”
    Billy’s song filled the room with strange, half-magical words. For the first time since Jonathan had found him, Daniel moved of his own will. He turned his head toward the song, though his eyes were still wide and blank. After a time, he pressed his eyelids shut