Page 55 of The Swindler’s Daughter

He pulled me to him once again and kissed my hair. “I’ll never forgive myself if you get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt. And yes, you would forgive yourself, because it’s my choice.”

He released me and shrugged. “I haven’t forgiven myself for Isabel.”

My heart squeezed at the grief that flooded his eyes. At the same time, I marveled that he would equate his feelings toward me with his feelings toward his wife. Were they that strong? Or did he at least think they might become so? “What do you mean?”

“When she died, she was helping someone,” he clarified as we started walking again. “We both were, but it was at her insistence. There was a trader’s horse and cart slipping off the side of the road. It was full of the trader’s wares and we were all trying to save the merchandise and the horse. I wouldn’t let her help with the wagon. I was too afraid it would slide down the hill and crush whoever was trying to save it.”

He fell silent and I squeezed his hand, trying to keep him in the present.

“The trader and I were pushing on the side of the wagon, just in front of the wheel, doing our best to get it back onto the road while trying to be careful. Isabel was keeping hold of the horse, trying to keep it calm. When the wagon started to slide further, the trader and I jumped clear. But the cart was pulling the horse with it. I realized Isabel was trying frantically to unhitch it, save its life, but the cart was going too fast. The horse panicked, reared up, kicked out.”

I closed my eyes, a tear slipping down my cheek, dreading what I knew came next.

“It kicked her in the head and she just dropped to the ground.” His face pulled into folds of grief as he swallowed. “She didn’t move again. I knew I was screaming, but I couldn’t hear myself. I couldn’t hear the horse’s cries as it was pulled down into the ravine. I couldn’t hear the trader’s dismay. My memory of those moments is silent.”

I stopped walking, unable to stand the tremble of his jaw and the way he stared ahead as if it was all playing out before his eyes. I stepped in front of him and wrapped my arms around his torso, fitting our bodies together and laying my head on his chest. I did my best to give him as much of my warmth and comfort and touch as I could, splaying my hands on his back, but not saying anything. Because nothing I could say would do any good. I couldn’t make this better. I couldn’t solve it or heal it or make it go away. It simply was. And I wanted him to know that the pain he carried didn’t scare me, that I was here for it. That I was here for whatever he needed.

13

Our escape had been close. Too close. So uncomfortably close that we all took a step back. There was no more talk of breaking into the magistrate’s home or trying to recover the collection of ill-gotten goods he had amassed there. The boys went back to what they’d been doing before, distracting the constables and helping those they stole from. I went back to what I knew—going to market as I usually did—but now I utilized more of the skills I had honed in my youth to assist Rowan and the others.

Two weeks passed, and we stayed in an odd state of uncertainty. We knew what we wanted to do, but we were too afraid to get it done. So we focused on the small things we could do to help. Rowan’s traps did well catching small game on Sutton land as well as Bridgefield. I would help deliver the meat to those in need, sometimes coming upon families that were so desperate that every single member of the family would cry in relief at my pitiful offering of one small animal.

I was working in the kitchen, trying to finish so that I could find Rowan and hopefully make a real plan for how to take back what Reeve had stolen, when I heard a commotion outside. I looked out the window to discover that it was Hunter. He had clearly interrupted the training that John and the others were trying to participate in despite Falstone’s absence. Not only had Hunter interrupted but he was yelling at John. What had gotten into him? He and John had always gotten along. John had been the one fighting by Hunter’s side when Emeline was in trouble last year.

John was responding to Hunter’s heated words, but he looked much more calm and in control, his staff resting in his hand. My face scrunched in concern as I watched Hunter step into John’s space and then stick an accusatory finger in front of his nose. After pointing that same finger at Tyson then at Oliver, he walked away and straight toward the kitchen. He looked up and his blazing eyes caught mine through the window.

Laws. It seemed I was in trouble as well.

I wiped my hands on my apron, mentally preparing for battle with my brother. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t guess what this was about. My older brother was going to burst in here and try to save me. He couldn’t help himself. Being solely responsible for your ten-year-old sister did something to a person, and it wasn’t easy for him to let go.

I leaned back against the counter so that I was facing the door, ready for his ire when it walked in. The door burst open and he stepped inside, only to freeze when he saw me there, waiting. He’d likely expected and even wanted me to be regretful and ashamed. But I wasn’t ashamed. His eyes fixed on mine and there were several fat seconds of silence wherein his shoulders fell and his chest deflated.

I spoke first. “Did you give John a good thrashing?”

He snorted and finally shut the door. “I couldn’t thrash Johnny even if I wanted to,” he said as he sank into a chair at the table and dragged a hand down his face. “What are you doing, Miri?”

“Helping people, same as John. Same as Rowan.”

“You can’t help people if you get yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to get myself killed.”

“Are you certain? Gretchen and Ansel were going on and on, telling the story of how you all broke into the house of the magistrate.” His voice rose more and more with each word. “How you were nearly caught, how you had to dash through the forest with arrows and knives whistling past your ears.”

“Ansel and Gretchen were not there, and it wasn’t nearly that dramatic,” I argued.

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at me, knowing I was stretching the truth.

I dipped my chin. “There were no knives whistling past our ears.”

“And arrows?” he pressed.

I didn’t answer.

“What were you all thinking? Breaking into someone’s home?” He flung his arms wildly in the direction of the village. “The magistrate’s home?”