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Rourke tugged the lead of the stormy brute. The horse sniggered in response, irate as it was after the shodding by The Great Smithie, Kenny Mac Gabhann. There was sarcasm to accompany that thought. Rourke had long been on ill terms with his father and disdained the order to return the Finn's their beast. The territory was littered with stones and both he and the charcoal stallion groped their way along the hillside.

Although it was late in the crop season, the Finn's had yet to pay their debt to the blacksmith shoppe. The tab had been steadily growing over the harvest and Kenny was destined to lay down the law. Pay or be defamed at the house of god. Rourke cringed at his grandfather's trademark blackmail, a tactic that was still used by the shoppe in extreme cases.

The horse stalled and Rourke jerked to a hault. "Blast ye' beast!" He scolded. "I have'n the time for this." His temper flashed for a moment. Why me? He thought. Tis' not my bloody job to collect dues. The horse sniggered again. "What now?" He followed the animals flanks and gripped his snout lightly before following up with a half-hearted pat.

Gazing around, it occured to him that the Finn's were in worse debt that he thought. The fields were baren and frothy, a sure sign of famine. The little shack build on the property was desolate looking and with a frown he feared the worse. "Finn!" He shouted upon their approach. "Matthew Finn!" He released the horse who was busy stomping on some creepy crawlie or another in the mud. "Rourke Mac Gabhann with ye' horse." He fumbled to remember the name. There were so many horses that came through the shoppe daily and it was a chore to remember them all firsthand.

Slowly the door opened and a wrinkled old man wobbled out. He eyed Rourke a moment then nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, that ye' are boy." He reached out to stroke the horse's black mane, speaking in a low tone. "I fear I have bad news. I canna afford' to pay for ye' services at this time." The old man hung his head in shame. "The potato famine has wiped out me crops and I hafta pack up me family." A woman cried softly in the background. Just great.

"I'm sorry Mr. Finn, but my father canna' continue to mind ye' horses then. You're tab with us has run well over its limit."

"I know boy. I know." The man lowered his tone even further. "I dun know what to do anymore. My girls are wearing me old shirts and the wife is ill in bed. Last week our goats stopped givin' milk and the chickens have been stolen overnight. The crop was our last hope." The horse nudged him towards Rourke playfully. The old man tottled in place before stumbling forth. "Nigel here is a bit fond of pushing me around." Finn offered a weak, toothy grin.

Rourke, for the first time, didn't know what else to do. He knew that the people in the settlement here were poor and often kept their tabs with the smithie until harvest. But what happens when there is no crop? There were times he really hated being his father's apprentice.

He thrust his hands in his trouser band and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Rourke had been saving up for a horse of his own for a long time, eyeing one at the stable across the way. She was a pretty chestnut filly with almond colored hair and white stockings. It had been a shame to watch her grow up without him. A grumbled sigh later, retrieving his mind from her image, he held out his hand to Matthew Finn.

"Boy?" The old man looked confussed.

"No money, no horse?" The boy arched his brow questioningly and offered a lopsided grin. There were ways to beat this system.

Matthew Finn remained gauffing at him. It took a few churns of the brain for him to understand and with a nod, he extended his hand in business-like fashion. "Ye have yerself a deal Rourke Mac Gabhann. Nigel is all yers now." With a pat to the horses snout, the old man turned his back on them both, hand clutching the doorframe.

"I'll take good care of him Mr. Finn. You'll see." Almost in awe of himself, Rourke looked the beast in the eyes. So? You're my trusty steed now, eh? The horse winnied and bounced his head as if silent agreement. I know nothing about you and you nothing of me. This is sure to be an interesting friendship.