Page 110 of The Frozen River

“He’s mine now, is he?”

“When they cause trouble, they’re yours.”

I stand and head toward my workroom, but Ephraim grabs my wrist.

“Look,” he says.

He leads me to the window. A long, dark shadow flies out of the woods, fifty feet above the ground. It circles the mill once, then comes to rest on the weathervane.

Ephraim was right. Percy is alive.

MCMASTER HOUSE MONDAY, MARCH 15

We sit outside the mill in a rare patch of winter sunshine, our feet propped up on a stump. Ephraim usually isn’t one to smoke, but ever since Percy returned in good health, he has taken to having an afternoon smoke break. I join him when I can. As for the bird, Ephraim has no plans to rebuild the mews. For now, Percy has been left to flit around the mill and roost where he pleases. I watch my husband produce an old, ornate pipe from his pocket, along with a pouch of tobacco. He lights. Puffs. Rolls the smoke around his mouth and then out again in a smooth stream. He’s not one for smoke rings given that he isn’t a pretentious man, so he doesn’t make a show of his good mood.

I am reaching for the pipe to practice the technique that Mrs. Ney showed me when I hear the heavy clomp of horse hooves coming down the lane. As I turn, the person I least expect emerges from the wood.

Grace Sewell’s mother, Mrs. Hendricks.

She of the high ideals and sour expression.

I’ve never seen a person look more uneasy on horseback. Nor a horse less pleased to be ridden. Her spine is straight. Her arms stiff. And her eyes are filled with the kind of terror that any horse could smell. It’s a wonder she’s made it here alive. Brutus would have thrown her five seconds into the ride.

“Mrs. Hendricks.” I greet her with a forced smile. “How can I help you today?”

Her teeth are clenched so tightly she has to stretch her jaw before she can speak. “My daughter Grace.”

“Is she unwell?”

“It is the child. She sent me to collect you.”

“You said your daughter called for me.” I turn an accusing stare toward Mrs. Hendricks. “You lied.”

Though today marks the Ides of March, it is still bitterly cold. Most years the river has opened by now and the ground is starting to thaw. But not this year. Winter still holds us in its bitter grip. Even though the sun is out, and shining, it gives no warmth. I look to it and frown. I am tired of winter. And I am angry at being tricked.

“If I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have come,” she protests.

“Of course not! I want nothing to do with that man.”

“Well, his wife is going to die if you don’t go in. And I will be thrilled to tell the entire town that you left her to do so because of some petty grudge.”

“Petty grudge? Two women in this town have buried children. And my son is in jail. All because of him!”

Mrs. Hendricks straightens her back. Lifts her chin. “He is no good at this birthing business. I’ll give you that. And I will also concede that, had you not been there, my daughter and grandson would likely be dead. It’s a debt I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. But his incompetence doesn’t mean that another woman and child should be buried. Not if you can help.”

I take a step back and peer at her suspiciously. “What is any of this to you?”

“His wife and my daughter have become friends.” Mrs. Hendricks huffs out a sigh. “I will be leaving in two months. If that girl dies, Grace will have nothing.”

I would hardly count a husband, a child, a home, and a community as nothing. But I am in no mood to argue with Mrs. Hendricks. Besides, we are standing in the street and could be overheard at any moment. Yet before I can stop her, she pulls the rope beside the door and bells chime inside the house. Within seconds I hear the heavy tread of footsteps.

“Did Page call for me?”

“No,” she admits. “And perhaps he will be angry. But I’m sure he wants a dead wife less than he wants your help. That’s why I walked across the river and borrowed that demon of a horse from the tavern.”

Said horse—Beulah—is nearly as old as I am, and whatever teeth she has left are long and yellow. She’s as placid a beast as God ever made. Still, neither had seemed pleased with the other’s company, and when Mrs. Hendricks slid clumsily off her back, I didn’t know who would bite first. I was pleased to see Beulah do the honor.

I had believed Mrs. Hendricks at first. Had followed her into the Hook, where we’d put our horses at the tavern. Then walked across the river. Mrs. Hendricks remained quiet most of the way, and I thought nothing of it. Worry does that to a mother. But it wasn’t until she walked right past the chandlery and down the street that I began to suspect something was amiss. And when she stopped in front of the old McMaster place, I knew I’d been duped.