The Moon by Night Read Free Page A

this alone!
    The insistent voice in one dark corner of her head kept on, but Cheney was startled at the thought.
    I can’t do this—alone?
    No, I can’t….
    Not without Shiloh .
    â€œNow, Mr. Melbourne, here we go,” she said, standing up as Officer Goodin and John bent to pick up the stretcher.
    The man moved for the first time. Weakly he raised his hand toward Cheney. “Help…me…please.”
    She took his hand, swallowed hard, and said, “I will. I can help you, Mr. Melbourne, and I will.”
    ****
    Shiloh Irons-Winslow took off his leather gloves, blew on his freezing fingertips, and rubbed his hands together. His horse, a big lazy quarter horse named Balaam, noisily mouthed his bridle and made a disdainful blubbery sound with his lips.
    â€œAw, stop your complainin’,” Shiloh said. “I know it’s never this cold in San Francisco. You’re just gonna have to learn to live with it. And be quiet, will you? I can’t hear a thing except your grumblin’.” Shiloh pulled his gloves back on, and the pair walked slowly on, Shiloh leading the horse by the reins and staying close to his steaming side.
    Shiloh had acute vision, even in darkness, and now his steel blue eyes scanned right, searching the jumbled outline of old piers and piles of trash that lined the Hudson River. He was walking along West Street on this freezing November night, and the memories that came to him were as strong and tangible as the reek of rotten fish and ancient garbage that hung heavy even on this brittle air.
    â€œIt was May ‘sixty-eight,” he mused softly. Right along here somewhere, I found the Lord. The worst, and the best, night of my life.” He stopped and Balaam obediently stopped, with only one small protesting stamp of his off hind. Shiloh narrowed his eyes to scan the huge mound of hay on one of the barges that lined this stretch of the river. He had never forgotten the feral, vicious children who had robbed him that terrible night. They were called “hay barge children,” for they were either orphans or children whose homes must be dismal indeed, for they preferred to sleep on the hay barges at night and either beg or steal during the day. Often when he was going to the hospital to escort Cheney home after her late shift, he would go a few hours early and wander along the river. He would like to find the children who had robbed him on that night so long ago, especially the boy named Rock. Not for revenge—Shiloh’s days of anger and bitterness were long gone—but to help them. Frequently he brought bread and cheese and fruit, hoping to see some of these blighted orphans. But he never did. He just left the food.
    Shiloh thought he saw something now, a furtive movement, out of the corner of his eye. But as he searched, he saw nothing except the big mound of hay and an occasional glimmer of the water beyond. It was a black night, with low clouds and only an occasional accidental glimpse of starlight. Snowflakes were starting to fall, already hard and fast.
    â€œGreat,” Shiloh grumbled, sounding much like his horse. “Snowing again.” Balaam snorted.
    Something small and dark, waving a big stick, jumped in front of the horse. “Your b-b-bunny or your l-l-ife!”
    Shiloh and Balaam were both so astounded that they froze. “Huh?” Shiloh grunted in confusion. “What’d you say?”
    Waving the stick menacingly, a high, shrill but oddly stuffy voice repeated, “I s-s-said, s-s-s-ir, your bunny or—” The stick waved and suddenly grew bigger and flared up and out, spooking Balaam. Throwing up his head, he whinnied in outrage and reared, hooves lashing out. The dark figure jerked, the offending stick flew, the shadow crumpled, and Balaam came crashing back down to stamp indignantly.
    â€œWait—” Shiloh finally came alive. He darted in front of the horse, grabbed the boy by the shirt