Chapter Four
It is disorienting to wake up in your home, but not in your bed. Strange, that even though you find yourself in a familiar place, it seems, for a moment, completely foreign. I had fallen asleep, thankful for the darkness as it took me, though I was not allowed to bask in its company for long. The sound of a deep, rich chime roused me from my heavenly rest, its insistence prodding me along until I cast a resentful glare in its direction while obeying the command to rise. My eyes came to rest on the stranger on my floor, and for an instant, my heart leapt. Closing my eyes – and mentally berating myself for my reaction – I took in a deep breath, and then opened my eyes once more.
Yes, he was still there.
He did not look as though he had shifted at all during the night, and his hand remained tightly wound around the handgun. Checking his pulse and temperature, I found myself actually quite pleased with his headway. It was pride, I know, but it is difficult to let go of some things, no matter how much they have hurt you in the past. I gently lifted the cocoon of quilts, expecting much of the same from yesterday: blood soaked bandages and stained blankets. While I found both, the red tainted gauze was only slightly saturated, and the quilts had suffered no transfer. It was odd, how quickly he was progressing from near-dead to nearly-whole. Not wishing to dwell on one more possible problem, I decided to go feed the rowdy herd, hoping to give myself more time to think before I made another rash decision.
Having slept in my clothes, it was a short few minutes before I arrived at the barn. Soft nickering encouraged me to hurry, while a few loud cracks on the wall told me the younger horses were not so patient. Everyone is in a rush today. As the day before, and the day before that, I fed, turned out, cleaned stalls, and filled water buckets. The normal routine should have been soothing, but a nagging voice in the back of my head flustered me to the point of distraction. What if he is a fugitive? Am I aiding in the escape of a murderer? I had to scoff at the idea to keep myself from thinking on it too deeply. Perhaps it was because of my absent-mindedness that I forgot to latch the middle pasture gate, or maybe I was sub-consciously looking for an excuse to blame the stranger for another problem in my life. No matter the reason, I soon had five rambunctious colts tearing down the gravel road, each one savoring the freedom from normalcy. Cursing to myself, I threw a halter and lead on my stallion. He appeared quite put out at being pulled away from his morning hay, but nonetheless, he obliged. Popping onto his broad back, I urged him into a smooth lope, and we bolted from the barn after the escapees.
Ears pricked, the stallion soon settled into his ground eating stride, and we came upon the five troublemakers in little to no time. Slowing up, so as to not startle the children, I eased the stud horse in a wide circle, coming at the colts from behind. They milled about, nipping at the last green shoots of autumn growing right off the road. Of the five, I only had one to truly worry about; he would be the one to cause problems. The blood bay colt was always in the middle of whatever was going on, though many times he was the one who started the mess, a bit like an arsonist returning to watch his work. He lazily eyed the stallion, as though issuing a challenge as we came near; needless to say, this did not sit well with the older stud. Red ears flattened against his skull as I rode the horse closer, urging the colts to turn back the way they came. Four respectfully turned tail and ran, darting back to their familiar territory: the blood bay merely stood defiant.
He watched the stallion with cool indifference, and his sleek body – while still young – gave the air of supreme confidence. The colt was tall, already near the height of my stallion, but he did not have the bulk of the older horse. This was to my advantage. With a walk that stalked the young colt, the stallion crept closer, pushing him to take a step or be forcefully moved.
The colt reared.
Striking out, he caught the stallion's mane with one hoof, while the other missed entirely. By now, my horse had had enough. Without a sound, he lunged at the colt, bringing him crashing to the ground; contrary to popular belief, horses rarely make the barrage of noises seen on television. The stunned colt righted himself, showing his teeth and flattening his ears as he came back to his feet, but he knew better now than to have another stand-off. With a decisive snort, the young horse whipped around and streaked into a full out gallop; his speed was incredible, the muscles of his back and hip flexing with awesome power. Both I and my stallion released a frustrated sigh. Urging him on once again, we cantered back to the middle pasture, finding the other four colts grazing in their proper place. At least something has gone right.
Swinging the gate to while on the stallion, I leaned down in an attempt to secure the latch. While my eyes were downturned, I felt the stud shift uneasily underneath me. Fumbling with the lock for a few more seconds, I finally managed to throw the bolt home just as the thunder of hooves broke the silence. My eyes caught only the barest glimpse of a mahogany blur before my leg was ripped away from the stallion's side, and over his back; the colt had broadsided me, tossing me between the stud-horse and the gate. I managed to half-way catch myself on the rails, but as my horse stepped away to prevent an accidental trample, I slid the rest of four feet to land in deep muck.
The stallion moved between me and the colt, which stood only a few yards away, a superior glint shining in his dark eyes. Clawing my way out of the mud and who-knows-what-else, I managed to hang on to the stud's mane as he backed away from the gate. Now covered in brown slime and shivering to boot, I stared down the blood bay. This was not the first time he had been so much trouble, but instead of gelding him, I had the strange desire to leave him a stallion. Perhaps it was a bad choice on my part, but something inside told me that a creature as bold and free as he was should remain so. Had it not worked with my own stallion? Sighing at my apparent lack of sense, I gingerly lead the stud horse back to the barn, where I returned him to his hay. He happily munched along, though his large eyes constantly watched outside, and his pert ears swiveled around at the slightest sound.
Now I had to catch up the colt.
Shaking as the dirty water crept under my clothing, I dumped a few handfuls of grain into a bucket. Marching back out into the paddock around the barn, I shook the tempting treat. As much of a trouble-maker the colt was, he was also a bottomless pit. I never ceased to amaze me how much he could eat in a day, or even one sitting. Shaking it again, I heard the sound of hard hooves on wet ground, a slopping noise made when the concave soles of their feet made contact with mud. He came around the barn, ears alert and eyes bright. With sure strides, he made his way to me, never once appearing nervous or afraid; he knew who was in control.
I was tired of his games for the day, so instead of putting him back in the barn, I decided to merely lead him back into his pasture. Eagerly crunching his grain, the colt wandered along beside me, occasionally sticking his head back into the bucket to fill up another bite. After what seemed an eternity, I had the devilish horse back in his lot with the rest of his gang – though to put such a term to it makes them seem quite tame – and I trudged back to the house. I needed a hot shower and an even hotter cup of coffee.
I suppose it could be said that my mind had created this diversion to run me from the thoughts of the stranger, but as I approached the back door, they all came flooding back. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the knob before I chastised myself for my foolishness and fear. After stripping out of my soaked jacket and soggy boots and socks, I made my way to through the kitchen and into the living room. My unconscious guest was still resting, though it appeared he had moved while I had been out. The blankets were disturbed around him, and his lovely face lay against his shoulder.
Telling myself this was a good thing, I plodded up the stairs to my room, wishing, though not for the first time, that I had built a one level house. Peeling off the muddy layers and leaving them in a pile next to my door, I treated myself to a scalding shower. As the water pounded over me, I had the thought that perhaps the stranger would feel better if he were clean as well. I had to laugh at myself for the idea, but after taking a moment to think on it, I decided I could at least wash his hair and sponge off the river mud that still clung to him in places.
Some time later, I found myself on the floor with the stranger, a bowl of hot water and soap next to me. I had already stoked the fire, and it provided warm comfort to my turned back. As I sponged his body, more and more of the small scars appeared, and their pattern became apparent. They followed the contours of major tendons, and were concentrated on his joints. My mind raced with the possibilities, but they all seemed so far-fetched. Rather than let my imagination get the better of me, I focused on the new scars, the ones I had sewn up.
Peeling back the bandage, I had to suppress a startled cry as I saw just how quickly he was healing. The angry red welts under the black stitches had begun to fade into a pale version of themselves, while the blood that had been seeping out in places was now completely contained. In all my years of training, I had only once witnessed anything as remarkable. Stunned, I focused on cleaning off dried blood and fluids from around the wounds, marveling in new skin already growing to cover the lacerations.
I do not know how long I spent cleaning his body, but for some unknown reason, the act of washing him calmed my nerves, even after the rather shocking discoveries. Re-wrapping him, I tucked in the blankets and moved to his hair. As I had noticed before, it was long, thick and blacker-than-black. I reached for the bowl of clean water I had set on the hearth-stones to keep warm, then gently lifted his head to free the lengthy strands caught under him. Slipping the shallow bowl under his head, I slowly rinsed the muck and mire from the black locks. I do not know how many times I rose to change out the water, but after a time, I noticed the contents of the bowl were no longer murky, and his hair shone in the firelight.
Not satisfied to merely wash it, I laid a towel in my lap, and then cradled his head there. With a small comb, I gently pulled apart the mass of tangles, working small amounts of hair until it lay smooth. The repetition, the lack of thought needed to perform the task combined to quiet my mind and relax my body.
As with his skin, I did not notice how much time had passed while I washed and combed his hair, that is, until I had a difficult time seeing in the failing light. My fire had begun to smolder as only embers, and when I looked to the grandfather clock – the same that had forced me from sleep earlier in the day – it told me I should be out working horses. Sighing, I looked down into the stranger's face. In the dim glow, his features were even more radiant, and for the first time, I noticed how truly masculine he seemed. To be fair, his features were refined and lacked the square quality generally associated with the male gender, but those traits did not detract from his haunting beauty.
Catching myself from going any further down that line, I struggled to stand on numb legs. Gathering up my supplies, I cast one last look at the sleep form on my rug before heading off back to the barn. Sure, I had a disturbingly handsome man on my living room floor, but I had horses to train, and he could wait. Sometimes, logic makes very little sense.