Page 90 of The Frozen River

“I’m the sort of man who does my job, Mr. Ballard,” Barnabas says, directing his gaze briefly to my husband. “If nothing else, I hope you can respect that.”

After that one quick glance he turns his focus back to Cyrus. It’s like he’s preparing for the fight. Wagering if it will be man to man, or two against one. I can see he’s not pleased about either option. But he is ready for them.

“Are you going to fight me?” he asks Cyrus.

It would be one hell of a fight. And were they other men—any other men, actually—I might pay to see it.

The woods are quiet. So quiet I can hear the breath of everyone present. There is no wind. No birdsong. No chatter of squirrels or the sliding of snow from pine boughs.

My oldest child takes a step forward.

He balls his fists.

He grins, mischievous, and damn it all if I don’t realize he’s enjoying this.

Then Cyrus holds his hands out, wrists pressed together, and waits for Barnabas Lambard to bind them with a rope.

WHITE SADDLERY FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 19

The saddle shop is all but hidden from the road. It sits a block off Winthrop Street in the middle of the Hook, accessible only by a path through the snowdrifts. It is attached to a small, timber home with wooden shingles, and I can hear the tap-tap-tap of a leather punch, then the clean whoosh of a strap cutter as I lead Brutus through the narrow channel of dirty snow. The entire place smells of leather. Not like a tanner’s shop, all rank and fetid with tallow and carcass, but rich and burnished. Like belts and bags and boots. Jeremiah White crafts other things as well: reins and gloves, mostly. But he makes his real living on saddles. I still use the one I bought from him a decade ago, and I slide out of it as I dismount Brutus before the hitching post.

After unbuckling my satchel, I go left to the front door since my business is not with Jeremiah today. But the door swings open before I can knock.

I haven’t seen Rachel Blossom since I found her, Clarissa Stone, and Peggy Bridge gossiping that day at Coleman’s Store. She pulls up short when she finds me on the step. Then, glancing behind her, she closes the door.

“I want to apologize to you as well,” she says, lifting her small, pointed chin in defiance, as though I think her incapable of such a thing.

“As well?” I ask.

“I’ve just apologized to Sarah for what we did that day. You were right. It was disgraceful, and I’m sorry.”

She offers no defense for her actions, doesn’t chase the admission with a but, and I respect her all the more for it.

“Clarissa and Peggy are your friends. It can be hard to speak up.”

“It shouldn’t be.” She looks away. Blinks back tears.

When Rachel meets my gaze again, she sets a hand to her stomach and pulls her dress tight to reveal the small mound. I would have never noticed otherwise. She’s maybe five months along.

“Will you still deliver this one? I won’t call for Dr. Page. They shouldn’t have either.”

I pull Rachel close and wrap my arms around her. “Of course. It would be my honor. And I am sorry for Clarissa and Peggy. If they’d called for me, I would have come.”

“I know.” Rachel pulls away and clears her throat. “I like Sarah. I hope she’ll let me visit again.”

“I like her too. And I think she’d be a good friend to you.”

Rachel bids me goodbye, and I watch her disappear around the corner of Winthrop Street.

I turn back to the door and knock but don’t have to wait long before it is thrown back by a small woman with graying hair pulled into a tight bun.

“Martha!”

“Mistress White.” I nod in greeting.

“Do come in.” She wipes her hands on her apron and ushers me inside. “It has been too long since I’ve seen you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I’ve actually come for Sarah. If you don’t mind.”