Page 11 of The Frozen River

“Maybe an hour after you left to tend Betsy Clark,” Dolly interrupts.

“We were still asleep.”

As a midwife and healer, it is not uncommon for me to hear a pounding on the door in the middle of the night, accompanied by a desperate summons. A plea of some sort. I am used to waking at the drop of a pin. And my family has long since grown accustomed to being yanked from sleep to tend the needs of our neighbors. But it must have been a rude awakening this morning because they were out late last night with their older brothers at the autumn Frolic. This dance, held seasonally for the young people in our community, is the highlight of their social calendar. The girls had barely made it home before I was called away by John Cowan. They seem to be taking it all in stride, however. My daughters are more accustomed to blood and injury and mayhem than many physicians twice their age.

“Was Sam bad off?” I ask.

Dolly wipes her hands on her apron. “Bad enough that he couldn’t walk. Jonathan had to drag him in.”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t die,” I tell them.

“He likely would have. But Jonathan wrapped him in blankets as soon as they got him out of the water.”

“We stripped his clothes and put him in our bed.” Hannah blushes at this, then shrugs. “It was still warm.”

“Dad pulled stones from the hearth and wrapped them in blankets.”

“We set them on either side of his head, neck, and feet.”

Hannah and Dolly go back and forth telling the story, like they’re tossing a hot potato between them, holding on to it just long enough to give a detail or two.

“It took a long time for him to stop shaking.” Hannah looks at her sister, eyebrow raised.

“Almost till sunrise,” Dolly adds. “Once he did, we spoon-fed him some tea.”

“Since he held that down we gave him broth.”

“Didn’t take long for him to fall asleep after that.”

They look at each other and burst out laughing. Hannah bites her bottom lip for a bit, then cackles even louder. “Woke up not long ago to realize he is naked as the day he was born. Now he’s steaming like a teapot.”

They have seen naked men often enough. My patients, mostly, though occasionally one brother or another shamelessly bathing in the river. Not to mention Young Ephraim, who must be chased down and forced to bathe—a job they are none too fond of. Both girls are typically rather sanguine about the bare human form, and I’ve rarely seen them gawk or blush. But I would imagine that Sam Dawin is a rather more impressive specimen than they are used to.

“Nicely done, girls,” I say. Then something occurs to me. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“He should be back soon. Dad sent him to tell May Kimble what’s happened—seeing as how she and Sam are betrothed.”

“What about Cyrus?”

A brief, furtive look passes between the girls. “He was up and out shortly after we got Sam to bed. Said there was work to do.”

There is always work to be done at the mill, but I’ve never known any of our sons to volunteer for it after a mere two hours sleep. Hannah turns back to her spindle, and Dolly wipes down the counter. Both turn curiously silent.

“And what’s the thing I need to know but neither of you are telling me?”

Again, that look between them. And this time I see Hannah shake her head. Don’t say it, she silently orders.

But Dolly has always been a bit bolder than her big sister, and she’s not yet learned to keep secrets from me. “There was a fight last night. At the Frolic.”

“Between who?”

“Cyrus and Joshua Burgess.”

I lift my head sharply at this news. Narrow my eyes. “Over what?”

“It’s my fault,” Hannah says, and those stormy eyes flash. But in anger, not fear. “Burgess asked me to dance, and I refused.”

“He kept after her all night, Mother,” Dolly says. “But it wasn’t until he grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the dance floor that Cyrus went for him. The scuffle didn’t last long, but Burgess landed a couple of good hits, and now Cyrus has a black eye and a split lip. He’ll be fine. But I’d wager Burgess will be walking with a limp for a month.”