Horsepeople

Chapter Sixteen

With the days becoming ever shorter, the townsfolk became lethargic and downright cranky. Everyone kept a distance and went to bed early. Even Will became quieter, withdrawing from Jo and often riding Eagle through the snow by himself. Hoping that he was only feeling the season, yet fearing she had driven him away, Jo gave him as much space as she could after sending the Belgians off with Heinrich.

Upon seeing the four horses, well muscled and majestic in the snow, Heinrich's face had lit up. Jo knew they would be well cared for and work hard, yet her face still fell as soon as their rumps turned to her and headed down the road. Will too had turned away, his job done, and Jo scarcely saw him aside from meals. His debt was more than paid and he would leave, she feared, with the winter. Trying to take her mind from this, Jo busied herself with small jobs that had been waylaid by the Belgians, the sauna, and harvest.

"Hey," Laura greeted her one morning, closing the Smithy door behind her on the chill December air. Laura was almost seven months pregnant, her small body eclipsed by the bulge of her stomach.

"Hey, how're you doing?" Jo asked, indicating with a flick of her eyes that she was asking about the pregnancy. Jo herself was shoulder deep in one of the broodmare's rectums, palpating her uterus to make sure she was pregnant too.

"Oh, good, I guess," Laura's voice trembled as she sat on the anvil, shifting uncomfortably. "Maryanne says everything looks normal, although she keeps reminding me she's only a nurse and not a doctor, and her patients never got pregnant."

"I suppose not," Jo replied, attention on what her fingers were feeling. Reba was pregnant, although not as far along as Dolly, Cher, or Loretta. Laura took the silence as an invitation and continued.

"I don't know. It... I never thought about being pregnant," Laura pronounced the word like saying it could make her go into labour, "or having a baby. I mean, I'm only eighteen. I'm seven months along and I still don't feel ready. But I guess no one feels ready." Out of the corner of her eye, Jo watched Laura run a hand over her belly, not looking at it with the fondness one might expect from a mother-to-be. Instead, she looked distressed, like she didn't know why it was so big or who was in there.

"I guess you'll love it when you meet... him or her," Jo said, pulling a fecal-covered arm from Reba. Jo washed her arm in warm water, eyeing the mare. She would give the mare's feet a quick trim before putting her back in the herd.

"Yeah, I have to love it," Laura echoed. Gasping, Laura's face scrunched and she pressed a hand to her side with a strained laugh. "It's kicking the shit outta me."

A while passed as Laura watched the hypnotic movement of the rasp over hoof, white shavings covering the floor like a dusting of fine snow.

"Kicking the shit out of me," Laura said again, in a voice she hoped might not be heard, yet needing it to be. Her eyes became unfocused and she spoke after another lengthy pause, "Sometimes when it kicks, it's like it's him again. Hurting me from the inside. Making my body do things I don't want it to. Still hurting me... from the inside."

Laura cleared her throat and let herself out of the Smithy before Jo could get out from under the broodmare.

***

 Chinooks blew in all throughout December, melting the snow with warm, howling winds. Jo watched Laura throughout the month, unsure how to broach the subject of what she had whispered in the Smithy. As December drew to a close and the shortest day of the year arrived, Jo had yet to talk with Laura.

By then it felt too late; Christmas was approaching and everyone was consumed with hanging greenery throughout the Hotel, making popcorn garlands, and the Secret Santa. The townsfolk had decided that since gifts this year had to be handmade instead of ordered online, everyone should only have to make one gift. A Secret Santa would be best, they had agreed, otherwise Beady and Mary would get all the gifts to compensate them for deciphering an old Livingston Ladies' cookbook.

Drawing a name from the bowl, Jo looked down at the crinkled paper in her hand with Liza scribed across it in neat cursive. Tucking it in her pocket, Jo turned to Will standing beside her. He snatched his hand closed with a grin and sunk his fist into his pocket.

"Hell no," he said, "I'm not telling who I got."

"Fine," Jo said, she didn't care. "But... could you tell me what a Secret Santa is?" Will's jaw fell and Jo sent a savage elbow into his ribs, hoping he would snatch his mouth shut and no one would notice.

"I've never done one," Jo whispered, "So we only get a present for whoever's name we drew? How do you know what to make them?"

Collecting his stray lower mandible, Will stifled his laugh with a loud throat clearing.

"No, of course not," Will said, fighting his grin, "not too much secret in a Secret Santa between you and your granddad. But yeah, you only get something for the person you've drawn, put it under the tree"—Will motioned to the tree, dubbed Charlie Brown, that stood crooked in the corner of the Hotel—"with their name on it, not yours. Then Christmas morning everyone opens the present addressed to them, and no one can pin a lame present on someone. Figuring out what to get someone is the hard part. It takes skill. It takes subtlety. It takes finesse—"

"What do you want for Christmas?" Jo asked, using what Jessica had explained was her 'resting bitch face.'

"No! What the hell! That's not—You can't just ask," Will sputtered, "Did you really draw my name?" Jo bit her lip to stop the corners of her mouth from curling into a mischievous grin. "Shame on you, Joanna King, shame on you!"

Jo's smile broke free and Will's became serious as he wagged a finger at her. Apparently, the trickster did not like being tricked.

"Coal, King, that's what your Secret Santa's getting you. A big ol' lump o' coal. Naughty list for sure..." he grinned back at her. Jo felt a relief the likes of which she had never known with the return of their camaraderie.

As per Will's instructions for wheedling out what Liza might want for Christmas, Jo started to wander by the chickens when Liza happened to be feeding them, lending her a hand while making small talk—not one of her strengths, she soon discovered when awkward silences stretched long and thin between them. From these interactions, Jo realized how little time she had spent with Liza—and many of the other townsfolk. She didn't know them very well at all and perhaps they didn't know each other either.

Liza was quiet, and often gazed at the mountains with a contented smiled, at peace with her place in the world in that exact moment. No one seemed to notice, except perhaps Harold, how tranquility radiated from Liza to pacify the animals under her care. For all that Jo began to enjoy her company, Liza was hard to get to know, never speaking about herself, if she spoke much at all.

What Jo did glean, however, was that Liza liked to garden. Spring was her favourite season because she loved young green shoots and growing things, bright flowers, the thawing earth and warm sun. Jo couldn't say she had a favourite season when asked in return; every season had aspects she enjoyed and aspects that made her look forward to the next season.

But Liza's favourite season was spring. Jo could picture her in the garden behind her cabin, her thin greying hair and winter-paled skin shining in the bright sun. She would need a hat against all that sun. A nice straw hat, Jo decided, that she would weave. With three days till Christmas, Jo found herself sitting cross-legged in the hayloft, straw strewn about her as she cussed out the obstinate fibres, trying to force them into something remotely hat-like.