Page 32 of The Frozen River

“Because the law of coverture prevents a woman from testifying in court without her husband present.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I give testimony in court many times a year without you being present.”

“Only because your profession allows you to do so regarding a woman’s declaration of paternity during childbirth. Those parameters do not extend to a situation like this.”

“But if I’m not able to testify next month—”

“Rebecca Foster will lose her only witness, and her allegations will be dismissed,” he says.

MILL CREEK BRIDGE FRIDAY, DECEMBER 4

“Goodbye, love.”

Ephraim tucks his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder and presses a kiss into my skin. I can feel the warmth of his breath slide beneath the collar of my dress even as the snow falls around us. I walked with him down the lane, all the way to the bridge over Mill Creek, to say goodbye. This has been our habit through all the long years that we have lived in Hallowell. I do not let him leave without a proper send-off.

Water Street spans Mill Creek by this somewhat precarious bridge. It is made of planks nailed to roughhewn logs that rest on a series of stone foundations. Horses can cross two abreast, but wagons must go single file. There are no rails, and the drop is fifteen feet to the creek below. Only twelve-foot-wide and thirty-foot-long, it often feels as though it’s held together by little more than stubbornness and wishful thinking. But the bridge has ferried countless travelers across the creek for many years now, weathering flood and storm alike, and it needs little in the way of maintenance apart from having an occasional plank or log replaced. Ephraim checks the foundations every spring, after the thaw, and reinforces them where needed.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“And you will come home to me?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Ah, but this would be the time you didn’t, when I need you most.”

We stand beside Sterling—Ephraim’s horse—at the near end of the bridge. My husband pulls away from me and tips my chin up with the edge of one finger so that our eyes meet.

“What is it you’re worried about?”

“That you won’t make it home in time. That I won’t be able to testify, and Rebecca will be left defenseless. That North will get away with everything.”

“That won’t happen. I will make it back.”

“But—”

“I will.” He looks at the falcon who rests on the saddle swell, waiting to depart. “I’ve taken precautions. We will be married thirty-five years this month. Don’t start doubting me now.”

“Doubt and fear are not the same thing,” I say, following Ephraim’s gaze to Percy. The bird is hooded now, so I cannot see his penetrating burnt-orange eyes, and his jesses—the long, thick leather straps around his talons—are tied to the broad ridge of leather at the front of Ephraim’s saddle. He can neither see nor fly.

Sometimes I feel that Percy can understand us. And perhaps he can—in his own way—because his head swivels this way and that, as though listening first to Ephraim, then to me. Percy dislikes the hood, but it is the only way to ride long distances. And only on Sterling. Brutus would never allow those lethal talons to get so close. The saddle is crosscut with sharp, savage gashes where Percy has dug into the leather. Better it than Sterling, however. To date, the bird has never injured horse or rider, and they have all learned to tolerate the arrangement.

“Where will you stay?” I ask.

“Fort Halifax. But only at night. I can’t camp in this weather. Riding back and forth to the site every day will eat up half my time. Otherwise, I could be home in a week.”

A leather satchel, haversack, and a pack basket are strapped behind the cantle. They hold all of Ephraim’s surveying tools and his winter gear and are packed tighter than usual given the weather and the distance he must travel. It will be a long two weeks for all of us.

I look to the bank of clouds moving in from the east. “A storm is coming.”

“Yes,” he says. “My fingers ache.”

“It’s a bad time to travel.”

“I’ve done this before. It’s only snow.”

“And freezing winds.”