Page 107 of The Frozen River

I watch Ephraim. He stands still—too still—as he takes in the sight. “What was it?” Jonathan asks.

Ephraim steps back and inspects the ground. There are paw prints in the snow. A mad tangle of them, crisscrossing and mashed together.

“A coyote,” he says.

“Not a wolf? Those are big tracks.”

“It was a big coyote.” He kneels and draws one finger along the print. “See, the toes are oblong, and the pad is scalloped. A wolf has round toes, an angular pad.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says. “It’s a shame to lose that bird.”

Ephraim grunts but doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walks around the mews, hunched over, until he finds a set of prints leading into the forest. These are wider apart, like the animal was running, and there are small drops of blood splattered between them.

To me it looks as though the coyote ran off with Percy between his jaws, but Ephraim returns, shaking his head. “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Dad, are you…?” Jonathan’s voice trails off when I shake my head.

Let him be, my expression says.

“If it got him, it would have torn Percy apart right here.” He points to the ground in front of the mews.

“There are a lot of feathers,” I say.

“It got into the mews. Took a few swipes, no doubt. But I think Percy got his licks in, scared the thing, and flew away.”

We all three look to the sky as though the falcon might be circling above us.

“Will he come back?” I ask.

Ephraim is less sure about this, and a frown clouds his expression. “I suppose we’ll see how well I’ve trained him.”

POLLARD’S TAVERN FRIDAY, MARCH 5

James Wall gives Brutus a longing glance as I tie up at the post beside the nag he’s bought to replace his Pacer. I recognize that look. It’s a kind of longing mixed with jealousy. The sort of gaze an unhappy husband would settle on another man’s wife.

He scratches the long bridge of Brutus’s nose. “You’re still riding this beast?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“He’s a lot of horse.”

“And you think he’s too much for me?”

James won’t dare answer that question aloud, so he clears his throat. Looks at the ground. Grins.

“Well, you’re not alone. My husband believes Brutus to be a villain as great as his namesake.”

“Yet he allows you to ride him?”

“Allows?” I laugh. “I am fifty-four years old. Ephraim doesn’t allow me anything. I do as I please.”

“Well, if you ever decide to sell him, I’d like the chance to make an offer.”

I know, for a fact, that James cannot afford this horse, but his suggestion is the opening I need. It’s the entire reason I crossed the street when I saw him dismount in front of the tavern. So I follow him up the steps, and he holds the door open for me.

“I thought you only rode Pacers?”

“I prefer them, no question, but I’m not as picky as people think.” He scowls over his shoulder at the nag. “As evidenced by that bag of bones.”