Susan got a slice of bread and honey and took it out to the barn-stable, protecting it as best she could from the clouds of dust that blew across the yard in the wind. Her aunt's stuffy-guy rattled on his post in the garden.
She ducked into the sweet-smelling shadows of the barn. Pylon and Felicia nickered hello, and she divided what she hadn't eaten between them. They seemed pleased enough to get it. She made especially of Felicia, whom she would soon be leaving behind.
She had avoided the little office since her father died, afraid of exactly the sort of pang that struck her when she lifted the latch and went in. The narrow windows were now covered with cobwebs, but they still let in autumn's bright light, more than enough for her to be able to see the pipe in the ashtray - the red one, his favorite, the one he called his thinking-pipe - and a bit of tack laid over the back of his desk chair. He had probably been mending it by gaslight, had put it by thinking to finish the next day ... then the snake had done its dance under Foam's hoofs and there had never been a next day. Not for Pat Delgado.
"Oh, Da," she said in a small and broken voice. "How I do miss thee."
She crossed to the desk and ran her fingers along its surface, leaving trails of dust. She sat down in his chair, listened to it creak under her as it had always creaked under him, and that pushed her over the edge. For the next five minutes she sat there and wept, screwing her fists into her eyes as she had as a wee shim. Only now, of course, there was no Big Pat to come upon her and jolly her out of it, taking her on his lap and kissing her in that sensitive place under her chin (especially sensitive to the bristles on his upper lip, it had been) until her tears turned to giggles. Time was a face on the water, and this time it was the face of her father.
At last her tears tapered to sniffles. She opened the desk drawers, one after another, finding more pipes (many rendered useless by his constant stem-chewing), a hat, one of her own dolls (it had a broken arm Pat had apparently never gotten around to putting right), quill-pens, a little flask - empty but with a faint smell of whiskey still present around its neck. The only item of interest was in the bottom drawer: a pair of spurs. One still had its star rowel, but the other had been broken off. These were, she was almost positive, the spurs he had been wearing on the day he died.
If my da was here, she had begun that day on the Drop. But he's not, Roland had said. He's dead.
A pair of spurs, a broken-off rowel.
She bounced them in her hand, in her mind's eye seeing Ocean Foam rear, spilling her father (one spur catches in a stirrup; the rowel breaks free), then stumbling sideways and falling atop him. She saw this clearly, but she didn't see the snake Fran Lengyll had told them about. That she didn't see at all.
She put the spurs back where she had found them, got up, and looked at the shelf to the right of the desk, handy to Pat Delgado's smart hand. Here was a line of leather-bound ledgers, a priceless trove of books in a society that had forgotten how to make paper. Her father had been the man in charge of the Barony's horse for almost thirty years, and here were his stockline books to prove it.
Susan took down the last one and began to page through it. This time she almost welcomed the pang that struck her as she saw her father's familiar hand - the labored script, the steep and somehow more confident numbers.
Born of HENRIETTA, (2) foals both well
Stillborn of DELIA, a roan (MUTANT)
Born of YOLANDA, a THOROUGHBRED, a GOOD MALE COLT
And, following each, the date. So neat, he had been. So thorough. So ...
She stopped suddenly, aware that she had found what she was looking for even without any clear knowledge of what she was doing in here. I he last dozen pages of her da's final stockline book had been torn out.
Who had done it? Not her father; a largely self-taught man, he revered paper the way some people revered gods or gold.
And why had it been done?
That she thought she knew: horses, of courses. There were too many on the Drop. And the ranchers - Lengyll, Croydon, Renfrew - were lying about the threaded quality of the stockline. So was Henry Wertner, the man who had succeeded to her father's job.
If my da was here -
But he's not. He's dead.
She had told Roland she couldn't believe Fran Lengyll would lie about her father's death . . . but she could believe it now.
Gods help her, she could believe it now.
"What are ye doing in here?"
She gave a little scream, dropped the book, and whirled around. Cordelia stood there in one of her rusty black dresses. The top three buttons were undone, and Susan could see her aunt's collarbones sticking out above the plain white cotton of her shift. It was only on seeing those protruding bones that Susan realized how much weight Aunt Cord had lost over the last three months or so. She could see the red imprint of the pillow on her aunt's left cheek, like the mark of a slap. Her eyes glittered from dark, bruised-looking hollows of flesh.
"Aunt Cord! You startled me! You - "