“What time will the police station open in the morning?” I asked him.
“Whenever I get around to it,” he said with a charming smile turned my way. “But Gerta comes by to feed prisoners first thing in the morning. The boys will be getting some good eating from the café. It’s not as delicious as Mrs. Penn’s cooking, but it’s not something anyone ever complains over.”
I nodded. We’d had a meal from there the first day. I remembered. It had been amazingly scrumptious, but then everything beat wilderness living. I remembered when my diet was made up of cattail roots and wild asparagus with some dandelion blooms for color. And good old dandelion root coffee. Less than perfect for starting off the day. I giggled, realizing how picky I’d become.
When we arrived at Mrs. Smith’s house, we got down off our horses. I removed the hackamore I’d jury-rigged for Frey, while Frank tied his horse at the hitching post which doubled on one side with a mailbox. I looked inside the box, but, of course, there was no mail. No one I knew from the village had any idea where I was, and besides, no one would ever bother to write to me. But, that gave me a thought.
I bet I could write to the people who had been kind to me back at the village. Mrs. Swenson, Mr. Turn, the blacksmith, and maybe even Mr. Tully, the apothecary. They all deserved a note letting them know that I’d survived the villager’s stoning and was doing well. Mrs. Swenson, especially. I hoped she hadn’t worried. I’d might write to Mrs. Henderson, too, but then her husband probably wouldn’t like that. He’d been made to look bad in front of the villagers.
Maybe, I’d even write to the vet, Mr. Jerry. He’d been very accommodating over the months when Frey was sick. He’d allowed me to pay my debt over a period of weeks. When others might have nagged me about my tardiness, he never did. He’d been patient and had seemed pleased that I’d actually paid him everything I owed. I guess some people never did.
I suppose I got caught up in my musing over letter writing because Frank took me by the elbow and began walking me towards the front door.
I pulled away. “No, I have to see Frey to his . . . to the backyard,” I said, because I certainly couldn’t call it a stable, stall, or pasture. Frank nodded and accompanied me. As Frey trotted inside, Frank even shut and locked the gate for me.