Page 150 of The Frozen River

“Take him to Dr. Page. As I recall, the good colonel here has a great deal of respect for that buffoon’s medical experience. We’ll see how satisfied he is with the care he receives.”

“And what will I tell Dr. Page about these wounds?”

I look around the mill, at a loss for an answer, but then I settle on Ephraim’s worktable and the row of clean, shining knives.

“It isn’t uncommon for inexperienced woodworkers to have an accident with the draw blade. Particularly when they don’t wear that leather apron.”

“And if North argues that explanation?”

“Then he can explain that he broke into our home, attacked me, and was castrated in the process. But if I know anything about the man, that’s not a story he’ll want known.”

Ephraim looks at the blood on my hands, on my dress. “And what about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I will be. Eventually.”

“And until then? What will you do?”

“I have not slept in twenty-four hours. I am going to bed.”

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21

Tired and battered though I was, I couldn’t sleep when I made it back to the house. I could only wash my face and hands and light the hearth fires.

By the time the children got up and about, I’d collected myself and they didn’t know there was anything wrong. Nor did they think it strange when I asked them to draw and heat water for a bath. It was only when Ephraim came home and stomped right to our bedroom that they cast wary glances at one another. Not finding me there he’d come to the workroom, and we have been shut inside together ever since, whispering, the door locked.

He pulls a new journal and a box of ink from his satchel and lays them on my table.

“For you,” he says.

And that is when I begin to cry. It is a heaving that begins deep within my chest, a current that bursts the dam of resolve that I keep so firmly in place. I weep. Long and loud enough that I know our children can hear it on the other side of the door. Ephraim pulls me against his chest and lets me wring out every tear.

After several long moments, he pulls away and takes in my appearance.

“You need a bath,” he says.

“I know. The girls are heating water.”

“Get undressed,” he tells me. “I’ll collect everything.”

Soon I am standing in the washtub as Ephraim pours hot water over my body. It is only three feet wide, certainly not as luxurious as a copper tub, but it is better than nothing. And I am filthy. Covered with the muck of birth and mud from the road and blood from North. It has been less than eight hours since I delivered Rebecca Foster. Five since I left her daughter in the care of Sarah White. Three since Ephraim loaded North into the wagon and made for the Hook.

“I caught Brutus on Water Street, as he was heading toward Mill Creek Bridge. That’s how I knew you were in trouble,” he says. “I grabbed his reins and tore home as fast as I could. But when I heard you scream…” Ephraim takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. “Brutus had gone for help, and you’ll not convince me otherwise. That horse loves you.”

“I thought you hated him?”

“Not anymore.”

“He tried to kill me. How many times does he have to throw me to prove that?”

“If he threw you, he had a reason.”

“It was the fox. She darted out in front of him. I think…” I pause because I know it will sound ridiculous.

“What?”