Page 62 of The Winter Companion

It was a real possibility. One that made Clara sick to her stomach. She feared she’d acted without thinking. That she’d been more concerned with proving herself than with respecting her own limitations.

And now, here she was. In her third best day dress, lying across the neck of a wild Dartmoor pony. Only inches from being bitten, kicked, or otherwise mauled about. She’d told Mr. Cross she was strong, but she wasn’t as strong as she wished to be. As she needed to be.

“Are you any closer?” she asked.

“Almost. Just…a little…m-more.” Mr. Cross’s eyes lit with triumph. “There!” He withdrew his hand from Betty. The little pony gave a heaving groan, and then, before Clara could blink, the foal’s head and front hooves appeared. The rest of it followed in a mighty rush—aided by a great deal of bodily fluids.

Mr. Cross rose swiftly to his feet. After washing and drying his hands, he caught Clara around the waist and lifted her up as well, drawing her away from Betty, and back to the door of the loose box.

“She c-can do the rest,” he said. “We mustn’t get in the way.”

Clara nodded mutely. She could think of nothing to say. Despite all her scientific study—all those hours spent poring over dry passages in books—she’d never actually witnessed nature at its most miraculous.

It was dreadfully untidy.

And so wondrous that it brought tears to her eyes.

The foal was as sleek and brown as his mother, his impossibly long limbs folded beneath him as he lay on the straw. Remnants of after-birth clung to his motionless frame like a shroud.

Betty stood and went to him. She nuzzled him with her nose, lipping at his wet coat, and nudging him to respond.

The foal’s small mouth opened and closed, as if he wished to suckle.

Clara exhaled with relief. “He’s alive.” She paused. “It is a he, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I thought so.” Mr. Cross’s arm was still settled around her—a warm, reassuring weight. He hadn’t removed it after hoisting her up from the straw. She wasn’t certain she wanted him to. “You must choose a name for him.”

“You do it.”

“Truly?”

“I…I want you to.”

“Hmm.” Clara examined the little creature. “He’s very small. And though he’s brown, his coat has a great deal of red in it. What about Firefly?”

“Firefly,” Mr. Cross repeated. “I like it.”

“You saved his life, you know. And hers, too, I have no doubt.”

“With your help.”

Pride bloomed within her. She had helped, hadn’t she? She’d been useful in a practical, tangible way. Not only to Betty, and Firefly, but to Mr. Cross. It was a giddy feeling, and one she was careful not to indulge.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Anyone could have done my part. But you…” Her voice softened. “What a blessing it was that she encountered you that day at the King’s Arms.”

“I wish I c-could have done more.”

“You’ve done more than most would. More than anyone I’ve ever known. It’s easy to see an injustice and to feel grieved by it, but most people pass on. To actually do something—to speak out against a wrong and make an effort to right it—is a rarity. How many gentlemen would have cared for the plight of an injured wild pony? Most don’t even care for the plight of a poor injured child.”

“They should.”

“Yes, I daresay.” Firefly continued mouthing the air, but he made no other effort to move. “When will he stand?”

“Within the hour.” Mr. Cross’s arm fell from her waist. “We’ll have t-to prepare.”

She looked at him in alarm. “For what? There’s no other difficulty, is there?”