Page 45 of The Frozen River

“Out.”

“Where?”

“I have never met a man who enjoys giving his wife an account of his every movement, Colonel. Ephraim goes where he pleases and returns when he will. As to the where and when, you’ll have to ask him yourself because I certainly don’t know.”

North takes in my disheveled appearance: the tatty work clothes, dirty hands, and the scarf tied around my hair.

“I see that I have caught you in the middle of your work,” he says. Perhaps it is my imagination, my dislike for the man, but I feel he emphasizes the word in a way that suggests only an unrefined woman would deign to perform physical labor. “Do tell Ephraim that I’m looking for him.”

I hope he might leave then, but his departure is interrupted by Cyrus. My son rounds the bend in the path, coming from the barn, with a fishing rod over one shoulder and a string of blueback trout in his hand. As always, he is grinning, nearly bursting with good cheer. Yet, if I had a knife in my hand at this very moment, I would joyfully drive it through North’s throat for the look of disgust that flashes across his face as he watches my son approach.

Cyrus Ballard is thirty-three years old, and he will never marry or have children of his own. He will never work away from the mill or go to sea—though it is his greatest desire. He will never explore the vast wilds of this untamed continent. Cyrus is thirty-three years old, and he is mute. He was robbed of speech at the age of twelve, and the loss has marked his life in irreparable ways.

There is no flaw in his intellect, or physical ability. He is tall and strong and handsome. He can read and write, and can communicate with his hands when necessary. It is a form of speech we have adopted, motions instead of words. But outside of our family, he is often pitied. Thought dimwitted. An illiterate population cares little for a man with beautiful handwriting, and—without speech, he cannot make them understand.

“Hello, Cyrus,” North says. He glances back and forth between us, then grins. “Has your father returned from his surveying trip?”

Cyrus crosses his arms over his chest and glowers. He doesn’t like North any more than the rest of us. After a moment he moves to stand beside me, protective.

“Why don’t you take the fish inside,” I tell him. “They’ll want cleaning.”

He nods toward the string, where a cut runs down the belly of each fish, to prove he’s done it already.

“There is some talk about you in the village,” North says.

Cyrus’s hazel eyes pinch in suspicion. He is unable to take the bait, to ask what this talk might be.

“Apparently you got into a fight with Joshua Burgess the night he died. That is fascinating timing, don’t you think?”

“What are you implying?” I ask.

“Only that your son thrashes a man in front of fifty people and several hours later that man turns up dead. I find it curious. Perhaps that officer from the court will, too. I hear he’s been sniffing around.”

“Should that happen, you will, no doubt, refer him to your own judgment of accidental drowning.”

“A judgment made without benefit of all the facts.” Joseph North smiles. “I cannot help but wonder if you knew of the fight when you testified before me, Mistress Ballard.”

I owe this man nothing. Not answers. Not explanations. Not respect. And I give him none of it as I stand there, waiting for him to leave.

But he isn’t done. “I want to know what Rebecca Foster told you. If I am to defend myself, I must understand the charges.”

“The charges seem simple enough to me.”

A small muscle twitches along his jaw. “The details are vital to my defense.”

“Your defense is not my concern, Colonel. I am going to Vassal-boro to testify on Rebecca’s behalf, not yours.”

“I am judge of this county. By law you cannot keep that information from me.”

“It is my duty before the law to give my testimony to the court. As you well know. You will hear it, along with everyone else, next week, before the judge in Vassalboro.”

“Perhaps.”

He might as well have said, If. If your husband is present. If your husband is still alive. If. But perception means a great deal to Joseph North, and he cannot break character in his role as the wrongfully accused. Perhaps. A more civilized, urbane, less threatening word. Still, there are oceans of meaning in those two syllables.

“No need to be concerned, Colonel. I am confident the hearing will proceed as planned.”

He strides back to his mare. Gathers the reins. I watch him swing onto his horse, then turn her in a small circle. “You might consider all the ways your confidence is misplaced,” he says.