Page 63 of The Frozen River

I feel the cold air on my neck, feel the sudden gaze of a startled stranger. And when I turn, I find May Dawin standing at the door.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry. I’m just leaving,” I tell her, and then, because I do not want the girl to feel awkward for bypassing me in favor of Doctor, I add, “How is Sam?”

It is no surprise whatsoever that Sam Dawin fell headfirst in love with the girl. Apart from the fact that large men often have a penchant for tiny women—a longstanding irritation of mine—she is lovely, like a doe, all soft browns—hair, freckles, eyes—and smooth skin. Her voice, too, has a gentle, soothing cadence.

“He is well, Mistress Ballard,” she says. “Thank you for mending him. I don’t know what I would have”—her voice thickens with emotion—“what I would do without him.”

I set my hand on May’s shoulder and give her a pat. “He loves you too. Never doubt that.”

“I couldn’t. Not if I tried.”

“Good day, both of you,” I say, and step out the door. As it closes behind me, I hear May introduce herself and then comes the usual response.

“You may call me Doctor.”

May Dawin is inside, whispering with Doctor, but Sam stands beside the wagon, running his big hand up and down the bridge of Brutus’s long, soft nose. He has never looked less pleased to see me.

BALLARD’S MILL SUNDAY, JANUARY 10

I lean against the edge of a worktable down at the mill watching my husband eat breakfast. Ephraim sits beside the woodstove, tin plate on his lap, and takes large but precise mouthfuls of scrambled egg and fried potato. The bacon is long gone. He ate that first.

“Thank you,” he says. “I was about to start gnawing on my ankle.”

“Not much meat there. Next time consider your arse.”

“Can’t reach it,” he says, bending to the side and chomping the air with his teeth.

I laugh. It is good to be married to a man with a gift for levity. “I am glad you haven’t dried up and gone to seed,” I tell him. “So many men your age do.”

“Not many of them have a wife that looks like you. I have incentive.”

I slide off the table and cross the old, weathered floorboards, then take the plate from his hands and set it on the stove before straddling his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck.

“There is no need to lie, husband. We both know that I am not pretty. I never have been.”

He says nothing for a moment, just studies me as though seeing my face for the first time. Then he makes one of those indistinguishable male noises. Half grunt, half sigh. He runs a finger down the bridge of my nose, over my lips, up one cheekbone, and down my chin. He brushes a few loose strands of hair away from my eyes and says, “When you were young, your eyes were dark. Chestnut like your hair. And do you know what the Bard says about chestnut eyes?”

“Nothing, I’m sure.”

“An excellent color: your chestnut was ever the only color.”

“I do believe you just made that up.”

“In fact, I did not. It’s from As You Like It. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make. Your eyes used to be dark, but now they have lightened. Golden, like acorns.”

I snort. “And I suppose the Bard would have something to say about acorns as well? No doubt from The Taming of the Shrew.”

“He had much to say about acorns—he was a man well acquainted with nature, was Shakespeare. But my favorite line is also from As You Like It, though, unlike Celia, I did not find you ‘under a tree, dropped like an acorn.’ It was a field, the first time I saw you, and from what I remember, there wasn’t an oak in sight. But my point is that something about you had to mellow with age, given that your temperament wouldn’t budge an inch. It was left to your eyes to soften, and they are lovelier now than ever. So no, Mrs. Ballard, you might not be pretty, but I’ll be damned if you are not the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“You are biased.”

“I am proud.”

It has been a few years since we made love in the mill, but given his honeyed words, I think this might be a good time to resurrect the habit. I scoot closer, hips rising, just as we hear a sound at the door.

A man almost laughs but saves himself at the last second by clearing his throat, followed by an “Ahem.”