Page 37 of The Frozen River

The horse turns onto Water Street and toward the north as the residents of the Hook stare silently after them.

“He lodged here last night,” Abigail says, pre-empting my question again. “Said his name was Barnabas Lambard, but we didna know he was an officer of the court or why he’d come.”

“He looks to be quite young.”

“Aye. About twenty, I’d say. And that probably worked in his favor.”

“How’s that?”

“Moses told me he was asking around about James. Where he lives and what he looks like. Everyone thought they must be old acquaintances. But it was the horse he was most interested in.” Abigail takes a sip of her cider and turns to me.

“Why?”

“A man’s a man. But every horse is unique. That’s what he told Moses, at any rate. And ’tis well known that James rides a Narrangansett Pacer. He boasts of it often enough—says it comes from Wash-ington’s own herd. Lies, probably. I couldna pick one out of a herd, mind you, but that officer could. Charged right out of the tavern the moment he saw James tie up at the post.”

I look to where the horse stands beside the hitching post—confused and jittery thanks to all the excitement. It’s of middling height with narrow hindquarters and, like so many other horses, is a warm chestnut brown. Black mane. Black tail. Black socks. The head and tail are held high, though, and I think that maybe a good horseman would know a Pacer from a Hackney.

“What will you do with it?” I ask, nodding to the horse.

“Board him, I guess. James can settle the bill later.”

The wagon is gone now but I look in the direction it left. “I thought debtors’ prison was a thing of the past. How much does James owe?”

Abigail shrugs. “There wasna much opportunity for asking questions once the punches started flying, was there? But I have heard James intends to start a distillery.” She turns those moss-green Scottish eyes on me. Gives me a look filled with import. “And that he went to Judge North for the loan.”

“Why him?”

“A wealthy man is North. Likes to have a finger in every pot. Or so I’m told.”

I turn my head to the side. Take in the hulking form of the tavern behind us. “Has Amos…?”

“He would never.”

The crowd starts to disperse, and I see John Cowan—the young blacksmith’s apprentice—saunter over to say a few words to the Pollards’ oldest daughter, Catherine. We observe the pair in silence. Bowed heads. Low voices. At one point John leans closer and lightly touches Catherine’s elbow when she says something. They both laugh. Blush. Then he says goodbye and walks away.

“And what do ye make of that?” Abigail asks. Once again, she sips her cider, then passes the mug to me.

It’s good and rich. Tart and strong. I swirl it around my mouth, carefully choosing my words. “John is kind and hardworking. Charles Clark depends on him greatly. He’s strong. Responsible.”

“But?”

“I didn’t say ‘but.’ ”

“Not out loud ye didna.”

I flash Abigail a quick smile. “He’s a good man. I believe that. But not the brightest I’ve ever known.”

“Your standards might be too high, Mistress Ballard. Not every man can be Ephraim.” She looks at me with a smile of her own. “Or Amos.”

“Sadly, no.”

“Ye ken my meaning. If he was to come knocking on your door would ye let him court Hannah?”

Abigail and I have never discussed Moses’s interest in my daughter, but it can’t have escaped her notice. “It isn’t John Cowan who plans to come knocking. Or at least if he did, your own Moses would knock him down.”

We assess John’s retreating form. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, but neither of us say it aloud. We both like Moses too much.

“Aye, he would try,” Abigail says with a rueful twist of her mouth.