Kit and Charlie washed up while Doc tended to Mrs. Chapman. She handed a sedated tomcat wrapped in a towel over to its owner, who wiped her nose with a tissue.
“There now, not to cry, Miz Chap. He’s got time yet. We’ll keep him real comfortable and you just spoil him rotten, okay?” Doc stuffed another tissue in Mrs. Chapman’s pocket as she cradled the drowsy tabby like an infant. She reached into her purse, but Doc stopped her.
“Don’t be silly, sha. This is no time to worry yourself with that. I’ll send you a little invoice and you just take your time. Oh, one more thing.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a pungent sachet tied with a crimson ribbon and a chicken bone. “Just a little charm for you. Put it under your pillow before you go to bed. Light a candle and pray to Saint Lazarus.”
Mrs. Chapman opened her mouth as if to protest.
“Ba-ba-ba-ba! Just trust me now,” Doc said and shooed her away gently. She waited for her to leave before formally greeting Charlie.
“Hello, Charlie! How do, how do?” She slapped her palms and rubbed them together like she was warming them.
“I’m in trouble, so Kit’s forcing me to work,” Charlie announced, a touch defiant.
“That’s good medicine for bad behavior—you’re very welcome here!” Doc tucked one thick leg behind the other in a curtsy and bowed her head.
Charlie giggled. Doc turned to Kit.
“Could you have a conversation with Warbucks and see if he’ll agree to try on some new shoes today? I am having the damnedest time with him.” A dimpled smile broke across her broad face. “Pretty please?”
Kit wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it felt good to make Doc happy. She nodded and clucked Charlie toward the door. “Come on.”
The stable was out back, a dusty riding ring, and a pasture thick with dandelion and buttercup. As if on cue, a swaggering buckskin stallion stepped out from behind the building into full view. He had strong legs and a shaggy black mane, his neck arched as if he was posing. He snorted and whickered a taunt.
Kit approached him and he waited, still but tense, then pivoted on his back legs, shying playfully away from her. She eased toward where he had stopped to mock-nibble a clump of ragweed and hid the halter behind her back. He kept eating, even until she was one long step away from him. When she tried to drop the lead rope over his neck, he snorted and lunged diagonally away from her, bucking gleefully. Kit slung the halter down and walked away from it. Charlie straddled an overturned barrel, laughing.
“Man,” she said, “your attitude sucks.”
“Excuse me?” Kit took a step toward Charlie, head cocked.
“Why would he want to stop what he’s doing and hang out with you? You’re all wound up.” She swizzled her finger in the air like a spring. “You can’t care so much about catching him.”
At that Charlie took a coarse bouquet of alfalfa, stuffed it in her back pocket, and slung the halter over her shoulder. She walked to the center of the ring so he could see her and bent down to tie her shoe, the alfalfa wagging like a tail. She picked up a dirty water bucket and dumped it out, then walked into the stall, never once looking in his direction. There she began to fluff the sawdust, refresh his water, and scooped molasses oats in his feed bucket. Warbucks watched for a minute, then, with no self-consciousness, walked in the stall and nudged Charlie in the small of her back. She ignored him. He nudged harder, almost knocking her forward. She turned and scrubbed his blaze with her knuckles. She held a halter under his nose and let him sniff it and grip it with his rubbery lips, then slipped it over his head and fastened it loosely behind the jaw. She handed the lead rope to Kit.
Kit watched with a mixture of appreciation and resentment. She hated how easily Charlie drew Warbucks in and how smug she looked. Kit winced on the inside to be shown up by her daughter, whom she had worked so hard to shield from her weaknesses. In truth, she had never been comfortable around horses. A decade of working around them had not made it any easier. She could ride a little, had had to over the years, but not for pleasure. Maybe it was because there was no controlling a horse—you had to relate to it. Maybe it was the fear in them, the twitchy ears, the panicked eyes, the tremble under the skin, the unpredictable switch and sway of those deadly haunches. Maybe it wasn’t their fear, but her own.
“That’s good, Charlie,” Kit said casually, careful not to give herself away. “Looks like you just found yourself a job. From now on you’re in charge of the stable.” She handed Charlie a shit-covered shovel. “You clean out the stalls and find me when you’re done.”
Doc stood by the sink washing, foamy up to her elbows. She whistled “Camptown Races” and stamped a wide, Birkenstocked foot in time, one of many things she did that made Kit mental. She turned and smiled at Kit.
“Charlie sure is gettin’ tall. Taller’n you by the looks of it. How old is she now, fifteen?”
“Thirteen,” Kit said. Doc whistled.
“Hoo-wee! What have you been feeding her? Can you get me some?” Doc wheezed out a laugh. More seriously, she said, “It’s too bad, though. I wish they could stay kids a little longer. Seems like they see too much before they’re ready.” Kit met her gentle, olive eyes for a second.
“What about you?” Doc asked. “What were you like at her age?”
Kit bristled at the probe.
She looked out the window at her daughter, whose long legs and slender build belonged to the girl’s father. She moved like water. Like him, too, she had drills for eyes. Kit, by contrast, was built for work. She was low to the ground, her muscles tensely strung around a solid frame. She was not pretty, but she didn’t mind the way she looked, her clear skin the warm brown of pecans. She was grateful to be small-chested and had never worn a bra; nothing on her body hindered free movement.
“A foot shorter, a hair meaner, and a lot dumber,” she said, hoping to water down Doc’s need to pry.
Doc chuckled and shook her head. “Must have been pretty rough, Walker, whatever it was.”
She could feel the question hiding in her tone. Where you come from, Walker? What happened to you? This wasn’t the first time Doc had wondered about her. She had been the subject of plenty of speculation among the people in town when she first arrived. Some said she was the bastard granddaughter of Aunt Eleanor. Others said she had been a prostitute and not to trust her around their husbands. Kit didn’t know what she could tell Doc that wouldn’t spark more questions. Easier to shut her down.
“Don’t bother, old woman. Nothing to tell.”
“Bon!” Doc laughed, rinsed and dried her baseball mitt hands. “You’re as thorny as a thistle, but you’re good inside. I see you there, Walker.”
Kit’s skin goosed at her sincerity. “You mind your business and I’ll return the favor,” she said. Doc shut up, but her silence was as conspicuous as a horn.