One, apparently unafraid of the mule, stepped into Margery’s stirrup and peered into her empty bag in case she might have missed one.
“Miss? Miss? Do you have more of the books?” A gap-toothed girl, her hair in twin plaits, gazed up at Alice.
“Not this week,” she said. “But I promise we’ll bring more next week.”
“Can you bring me a comic book? My sister read a comic book and it was awful good. It had pirates and a princess and everything.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Alice.
“You talk like a princess,” the girl said shyly.
“Well, you look like a princess,” said Alice, and the girl giggled and ran away.
Two boys, around eight years old, sauntered past Alice to Isabelle, who was waiting near the gate. They asked her name, which she gave them, unsmiling, in a one-word answer.
“He your horse, Miss?”
“No,” said Isabelle.
“You got a horse?”
“No. I don’t much care for them.” She scowled, but the boys didn’t appear to notice.
“What’s his name?”
Isabelle hesitated. “Patch,” she said eventually, casting a glance behind her as if bracing herself to be told she was wrong.
One boy told the other animatedly about his uncle’s horse that could apparently leap a fire truck without breaking a sweat, and the other said he had once ridden a real-life unicorn at the County Fair, and it had had a horn and everything. Then, having stroked Patch’s whiskery nose for a few minutes, they appeared to lose interest, and with a wave at Isabelle, they wandered off to where their classmates were looking at books.
“Isn’t this lovely, children?” Mrs. Beidecker called. “These fine ladies will be bringing us new books every week! So we have to make sure we look after them, don’t bend the spines and, William Bryant, that we do not throw them at our sisters. Even if they do poke us in the eye. We will see you next week, ladies! Much obliged to you!”
The children waved cheerfully, their voices rising in a crescendo of good-byes, and when Alice looked back some minutes later, there were still a few pale faces peering out, waving enthusiastically through the windows. Alice watched as Isabelle gazed after them and noted that the girl was half smiling; it was a slow, wistful thing, and hardly joyful, but it was a smile nonetheless.
* * *
• • •
They rode away in silence, into the mountains, following the narrow trails that bordered the creek and staying in single file, Margery deliberately keeping the pace steady in front. Occasionally she would call and point at landmarks, perhaps in the hope that Isabelle would be distracted or finally express some enthusiasm.
“Yes, yes,” said Isabelle, dismissively. “That’s Handmaiden’s Rock. I know.”
Margery twisted in her saddle. “You know Handmaiden’s Rock?”
“Father used to make me walk with him in the mountains when I first recovered from the polio. Hours every day. He reckoned that if I used my legs enough I would level up.”
They stopped in a clearing. Margery dismounted, pulling a water bottle and some apples from her saddle pack, passing them out, then taking a swig from the bottle. “It didn’t work then,” she said, nodding toward Isabelle’s leg. “The walking thing.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened. “Nothing is going to work,” she said. “I’m a cripple.”
“Nah. You ain’t.” Margery rubbed an apple on her jacket. “If you were, you couldn’t walk and you couldn’t ride. You can clearly do both, even if you are a little one-ways.” Margery offered the water to Alice, who drank thirstily, then passed it to Isabelle, who shook her head.
“You must be thirsty,” Alice protested.
Isabelle’s mouth tightened. Margery regarded her steadily. Finally, she reached out with a handkerchief, rubbed the neck of the water bottle, then handed it to Isabelle, with only the faintest eye-roll at Alice.
Isabelle raised it to her lips, closing her eyes as she drank. She handed back the bottle, pulled a small lace handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her forehead. “It is awfully warm today,” she conceded.
“Yup. And no place on earth better than the cool of the mountains.” Margery strode down to the creek and refilled her bottle, screwing the lid back on tightly. “Give me and Patch two weeks, Miss Brady, and I promise you, legs or no, you won’t want to be anywhere else in Kentucky.”
Isabelle looked unconvinced. The women ate their apples in silence, fed the horses and Charley the cores, then mounted again. This time, Alice noted, Isabelle scrambled up by herself without complaint. She rode behind her for a while, watching.