Page 12 of The Frozen River

I open my mouth to answer that he won’t be walking anywhere, ever again, then snap it closed. The girls don’t yet know he’s dead, and I can’t tell them until I’ve spoken to Ephraim.

I extend one hand to my elder daughter. “Let me see your arm.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, turning back to her work.

“Hannah.” A single word, a definitive order.

She drops her spindle to the basket and unbuttons her blouse before shrugging her left arm free. And there on her smooth, milky skin is a ghastly bruise, all red and blue, and I can see five angry finger marks. Burgess hadn’t simply grabbed her. He’d had her arm in a vice. Dug into her with his fingernails. Yanked. It is a violent mark, and my stomach sours at the sight.

I run my hand along the swollen skin, furious at what Burgess did to her, but also thankful for whoever broke his fingers.

“What happened after the scuffle?” I ask.

“They kicked him out of the dance,” Dolly says. “Cyrus and Jonathan and Sam. Several of the others too. Hauled him out by his arms and legs and pitched him into the snow. He never came back in.”

I clear my throat so the girls won’t hear the emotion in my voice. “It wasn’t your fault, Hannah. You don’t owe anyone a dance. Or anything else. You were right to turn Burgess down. And Cyrus was right to thrash him for touching you.”

Oh God, oh God. The thought assails me, as I step into my work-room to put my things away. What else did Cyrus do to Burgess last night?

Once I have settled myself, I go back to the main hearth where a large cast-iron kettle hangs over the fire. I ladle a bowl of stew for Sam Dawin.

“Bread’s ready too.” Dolly points at several oblong mounds set on the counter and covered with linen towels.

I add a thick slab of warm bread, covered with three pats of butter, to the tray and go to speak with our patient. I don’t knock or announce my presence, and when I push against the door it swings open with a soft groan. Startled, Sam sits bolt upright, mouth open, hair wild, looking much like a drowned man himself. He grips the bedclothes so hard his knuckles turn white. Sam is a bit worse for wear after his plunge into the river. His face and hands are scratched, and his right shoulder is badly bruised.

“Mistress Ballard.” He offers a polite nod of greeting.

“It’s good to see you alive,” I say cheerfully.

Sam settles back against the headboard and pulls the blanket up around his bare chest as though embarrassed, as though half the people in this house hadn’t already seen him wearing only the skin God gave him. He could use a shave, a haircut, and a full night’s rest, but other than that, Sam is in decent shape. He’s a good height with a strong back, and even though his auburn hair would be more becoming on a woman, he usually manages to look ruddy instead of sunburned.

“I did fear for a minute I was dead,” he says.

“You were close. Or so I’ve heard.” I set the tray on the end of the bed and step back. “Hungry?”

“Very much. Thank you.” Sam bends forward to grab the tray and slides it onto his lap. He must have caught sight of one of the girls through the open door because he glares at something over my shoulder. “May I have my clothes? I’d like to go home.”

I have never met a grown man who, when thwarted like a child, doesn’t act like one. His pinched eyebrows give him the petulant look of a toddler, and I stifle a laugh.

“Of course. I believe they’re dry now,” I tell him. Sam plunges his spoon into the stew, but stops with it halfway to his mouth, when I add, “But there’s one thing you can help me with. Before you leave. If you don’t mind.”

“What would that be?”

I shut the door then cross the room and lower myself to the wooden chest that sits below the window. I fold my hands in my lap and give him a reassuring smile. “I’d like to know what exactly you saw under the ice this morning.”

He draws back with a flinch, and stew sloshes over the edge of his spoon and back into the bowl with a tiny plop. Some look—horror or fear or maybe disgust—flashes through his eyes, but then Sam lowers his head and studies his food, hiding whatever he feels.

“Why would you want to know a thing like that?”

“I’ve just come from the tavern.” He looks up at me sharply, and I add, “They called me to examine the body. But it would also help to know what you saw, under the ice.”

“A dead man. But you know that already.”

“Yes. But could you tell who it was?”

He hesitates, the muscles along his jaw straining as he clenches his teeth. “Not at first. It was dark. The sun hadn’t come up.”

“But not so dark that you mistook him for a log or debris. You knew it was a person.”