Brides of Ohio (54 page)

Judging from the sky, he knew Anne and Dr. Kirby had already headed for home and, more than likely, were already there. Despite how busy he’d been, Anne hadn’t been far from his thoughts all day. He still marveled over how he felt about her. Shaking his head, he smiled. A Pittsburgh society matron, whose daughter he’d courted then dropped, once said the three rivers would turn purple before Peter McCord fell in love. The Monongahela, the Allegheny, and the Ohio rivers must be positively violet by now, because that day had finally come.

If he’d thought her beautiful the first time he’d seen her picture, she was more than twice that now. All the qualities a young lady needed to start a home—she didn’t possess. By her own admission, she couldn’t sew, could barely cook, and would rather spend her time in a stable than a parlor. By society’s standards, she was a failure. But she was perfect as far as he was concerned—perfect for him.

Now he had to convince her it was possible for him to love her. The way she’d spoken about her aunt and uncle suggested she didn’t feel worthy of someone’s love. He smiled roguishly. No worries there. He had plenty of experience in that department. Best of all, he would mean every charming word he intended to utter. And for the rest of his life, every gallant deed would be exclusively reserved for Anne Kirby. He lifted his head to the dusky sky.
Thank You
,
Lord. I see now the path You want me to follow. Thank You for these green pastures and still waters.

He was thankful when he arrived at the path between Professor Tuttle’s and Professor Kirby’s. It hadn’t been a long walk, but it’d certainly been a cold one. In the failing light, he could just make out the stable. He frowned. The door gaped open. He began to jog until he heard a voice cry out. Certain that it was Anne’s, he broke into a run, covering the distance in seconds. He skidded to a stop in the stable doorway. His heart dropped at the sight before him. Scioto lay thrashing on the floor of his stall. Anne, halter in hand, stood just inside the door, dodging his flailing hooves to reach his head.

Scioto grunted and let out a short squeal. As soon as she’d seen him down, Anne’s only thought had been to get him back on his feet. Again, she attempted to get around his hooves, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her back.

“No,” she cried out. “He’ll hurt himself.”

As she was pulled out of the stall, she twisted herself around and came face-to-face with Peter. Silently, he took the halter from her and entered the stall. She started after him but found herself pulled backward into her uncle’s arms.

Scioto squealed, and Anne gasped as his hoof flew dangerously close to Peter’s head. Peter dodged it and moved nearer the horse’s head. He slipped on the halter, and after several dreadful minutes, pulling and shouting, Peter managed to get Scioto on his feet. He immediately led the horse out of the stall before he could lie down again.

“I need to walk him,” he said, his broad chest heaving like a bellows as the two left the stable. “Get the box stall ready.”

Anne grabbed a pitchfork and began spreading straw. The box stall was larger than the other two stalls. Should Scioto begin to thrash again, he’d have more room to move. She winced at the thought. She turned. Her uncle had entered, sleeves rolled up and tie hanging loose around his neck. They finished quickly, and he looked at her. “What happened?”

“I came out to light the lamp and get feed to cook for him.” Her voice shaking, Anne took a deep breath, trying to steady it. “When I didn’t see him at the stall door, I looked in—” She couldn’t go on, and her uncle pulled her close.

“Let’s pray it’s just a mild case of colic,” he said.

Anne nodded against his chest. They both looked up as Peter returned with Scioto. Grabbing their pitchforks, they quickly moved out of the way as Peter led the horse into the stall. Anne’s hand flew to her mouth in horror as she watched Scioto kick at his belly and roll his eyes, drenched in his own sweat. She’d seen colic in one of Pa’s plow horses. But this was much, much worse. Peter struggled to keep him from lying down again. He glanced at her uncle.

“He needs a veterinarian, sir. This is beyond me.”

Uncle Daniel nodded. “By God’s grace, one just happens to be staying with Dr. Townshend.” He grabbed his coat from where he’d thrown it on the stable floor. “I’ll be back with him as soon as I can.”

Anne gripped the post next to the door. Peter looked exhausted, his brown hair dampened with sweat despite the cool air. “Let me come in and help you.”

“No! He’s in too much pain, and I won’t have him hurting you.” Scioto brushed against the wall. “I don’t understand this. I checked on him at noon and he was fine.”

“Colic can come on quick.”

“But what caused it? We’ve been so careful about his feed and water.”

Anne swallowed the lump in her throat. They’d been very careful with Scioto’s care, but they both knew the reason for the condition could be something neither could help nor foresee. It was a fact that Anne felt Peter, at least for the moment, refused to accept.

“I need to walk him again,” he said, pulling the poor horse through the door and outside once more.

Anne followed, hoping the movement would bring Scioto relief as was usual in a case of colic. But the more he moved, the more the agony increased, and Peter soon walked him back inside. Scioto shivered and slowly lowered himself to the stable floor. Peter sank down on his knees near Scioto’s head.

“Let him rest,” he said as Anne cautiously entered the stall. “He’s exhausted, and so am I.”

She knelt down and laid her hand on Scioto’s neck. He didn’t respond to her touch. He simply lay there, his breathing labored. She turned her attention to Peter, who looked at the horse miserably, his eyes dark, the green in them barely showing.

“What did I do wrong?”

She took his hand, forgetting herself at the sight of the wretched look on his face.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You know this might be something neither of us could have stopped.”

He groaned and pulled her closer, laying his head on her shoulder. Her heart beat furiously, but there was no way she could pull away, he was hurting too badly. Instead, her traitorous hand stroked the damp ends of his hair. Scioto began to thrash, and Peter quickly hauled her up and outside the stall. He calmed again and lay still. Anne looked down at her fingers, entwined with Peter’s. And they stood there that way, watching Scioto until her uncle returned. Professor Townshend accompanied him, along with another man. The man, with white hair, a long beard to match, and round spectacles, introduced himself as Dr. Henry Detmers. His German accent, while slightly thicker than Anne’s mother’s, sounded comforting and familiar. He immediately entered the stall, and Peter followed him.

“Did walking him help?” Dr. Detmers knelt down beside Scioto.

Peter shook his head. “It seemed to make him worse.”

The doctor frowned and felt the horse’s legs and ears. “Cold,” he muttered, and Anne saw Peter’s face harden, his mouth forming a thin line as the doctor’s fingers pressed on Scioto’s throatlatch, taking his pulse.

“It’s red colic, isn’t it?” Peter asked quietly.

“Enteritis, yes, I’m afraid so.” Dr. Detmers opened his black satchel. “I won’t attempt to check his belly. I can tell now it will only pain him. We’ll need to administer linseed tea and laudanum.” He looked up at Dr. Townshend, standing next to Anne. “Unfortunately, I don’t have as much of either with me as I would like.”

“I have more at my home,” Dr. Townshend replied.

“And I’ll make the tea—as much as you need—” Anne offered.

Dr. Detmers continued treating Scioto far into the night, assisted by Peter. The medicine seemed to calm him, but in the end, they could only wait. Mrs. Werner made coffee, which Anne tirelessly took to the men several times over the course of the night. When she came out with yet another serving, Peter looked at her wearily.

“You should go to bed,” he said as she set the tray down on a small table they’d brought down from Peter’s room.

“I want to stay,” she replied as she poured a cup.

Uncle Daniel joined them at the table. “Anne, it would be best if you went inside.”

She shook her head and, handing him the cup, found he already held something in his hand. His Colt, the one he’d used during the war. She dropped the cup and grabbed his arm.

“Uncle Daniel, no; he might get better.” She felt Peter gently grip her shoulders.

“Anne,” he said close to her ear. “It’s been hours now. There’s no change and he’s suffering.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she laid her hand over her mouth, allowing the truth of his words to sink into her heart.
Oh Lord, is there truly nothing else to be done?
She bowed her head at the answer. Her uncle took her hand and squeezed it. He looked wretched, having spent most of the night pacing back and forth outside the stall. Disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes, he had the look of a man who’d been keeping vigil, as he had the horrible night Aunt Kitty slipped away. As much as it hurt, she knew it was best for Scioto.

He flicked his eyes from hers to Peter’s. “Take her inside.”

“Sir,” he said, his voice rough. “This is my fault, I should—”

“No, Peter. You’re not for one second to believe that. You’ve taken better care of this horse than even I did when he first came to me. This happened for reasons known only to God. I’ve accepted that.”

As he spoke, Scioto groaned. They approached the stall, and Anne watched as he struggled for a few moments then lay very still. Dr. Detmers felt for his pulse and shook his head. Scioto was gone.

Anne buried her face in her hands. Peter wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close, and she felt the warmth from his brow resting on the back of her head. Quiet filled the stable; the only sound was that of Dr. Detmers putting away his instruments. Taking a deep breath, Anne lifted her head. Peter released her as Dr. Townshend offered his handkerchief. Taking it, she gave him a watery smile. “Thank you for staying, Dr. Townshend.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear.” He looked at Uncle Daniel. “Some students and I will come and get him tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Norton.” He offered his hand to Dr. Detmers. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Dr. Detmers shook it. “You’re welcome, Dr. Kirby.” His eyes swept over to Peter. “You were a great help to me tonight, young man. You should consider becoming a veterinary surgeon yourself.”

Peter smiled thinly. “I’m afraid I never was much for book learning, sir, but thank you.”

Even as tired as she was, his comment piqued Anne’s curiosity. Was this yet another clue to Peter’s past? She chastised herself.
It doesn’t matter now. You’ll be going away soon.
She realized, startled, that Peter actually would go away before her. With Scioto gone, he had no job and no reason to stay. The thought should’ve brought her relief. Instead, it hurt her so keenly she reached out her hand to steady herself. Her uncle grasped it and her elbow, and she leaned against him.

“It’s time you went to bed,” he said firmly.

“And sleep yourself out,” Dr. Townshend said. “Make sure she stays home tomorrow, Daniel.”

“I can’t. Emma needs me at the library,” Anne protested. But everything finally began to take its toll on her, and she found she could no longer keep her eyes open. Before she knew what happened, her uncle helped her inside and Mrs. Werner tucked her into bed.

P
eter began straightening up the stable. He’d slept all day yesterday, only waking when Dr. Townshend and some students came to haul away Scioto’s body. After that, he slept fitfully and came down early this morning to work. He mucked out the stalls and then laid down fresh straw in each one. He checked the harnesses and bridles, oiled Dr. Kirby’s saddle, and looked over the buggy three times. When he finished, he stepped back, frowning. Why on earth was he doing all this—for a horse that was no longer here?

As he worked, he’d gone over everything he’d done those last hours of Scioto’s life. Nothing had been amiss,
nothing.
The horse had been right as rain when he fed and watered him that morning. And when he’d come home at noon, Scioto had pranced around the paddock without a care in the world. He looked at the rag in his hand and threw it on the ground.
What was it, Lord? What did I do to kill him?

“It wasn’t your fault, Peter.”

He turned. Dr. Kirby stood in the door of the stable. He closed it behind him, walked over, and laid a fatherly hand on his back. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“There had to be
something
!”

He squeezed his shoulder. “No, Peter. Dr. Detmers and Dr. Townshend performed a necropsy this morning. He twisted his intestine somehow. It had nothing to do with your care of him. Not even your friend Henry Farley could have prevented it.” Peter looked at him. The professor’s face was sad but firm. “I won’t have you beating yourself up over this. Let him go.”

He nodded, weighing Dr. Kirby’s words. How many times had Henry told him about the possibility of something like this happening to a horse? And burying himself with guilt wouldn’t help anyone. “Yes, sir,” he said finally.