The harness leather was stiff with dried sweat and river salt, cracking faintly between Tobin’s raw fingers as he unbuckled the throat-latch of the dun gelding.
The bakehouse yard was quiet now. The sleet had stopped, replaced by a biting, mountain frost that silvered the woodpiles and froze the black mud of the wagon ruts into iron ridges. The borrowed dray sat backed against Master Harl’s flour sheds, its tongue resting on an upturned apple tub, its sideboards scored by the gravel of the Low Sike shallows.
Tobin pulled the bridle over the mule’s long ears. The animal shook its head with a loud, fluttering snort, its breath pluming white against the dark timber wall, and shoved its wet muzzle into Tobin’s palm, searching for oats.
“Nothing for you yet, old shovel-hoof,” Tobin murmured, scratching the beast behind its docked ear. “Wait until the carters finish boiling the bran mash in the scullery.”
He led the mule into the end stall of the flour shed, unhitched the trace chains, and threw a heavy wool horse-rug over its steaming back. As he worked, the stiffness in his left knee sent a sharp, throbbing reminder of the river crossing through his thigh, but his hands moved with the practiced, unhurried rhythm of a man who had cared for draft stock since his twelfth winter.
