Page 143 of The Frozen River

“I am. And I thought that’s where we’d have to live. But my grandfather died last year. Left me a bit of an inheritance. And that gave me the option of moving here instead.”

When I told Samuel Coleman about the story of Emmeline by Charlotte Turner Smith, he had laughed. Said it sounded like a fantasy. And yet here is a woman who did the very same thing as that character. Sarah has lived on the fringes of society. Yet she’s chosen the course of her life. She’s found love on her own terms. And I’ll be damned if she likely won’t end up wealthy and happy as a result. Just wait until I tell Coleman how very real the premise of that novel is after all.

I am overwhelmed, with both joy and exhaustion, and the sensation feels very much as though I am a candle, wilting over an open flame, with my wick burning at both ends. I have so little energy left, and I can feel my mind getting fuzzy. It is time to go home.

“Martha?”

“Yes?”

Sarah tilts her chin toward the baby. She is milk drunk and has fallen off the breast. Asleep. Her mouth open, milk dribbling from one corner.

“What should I call her?”

I smile. “I think Emmeline would be a fine name.”

MILL CREEK BRIDGE

It is nearing five o’clock in the morning when I urge Brutus into a lope. I am too exhausted to ride this hard, but I want nothing more, at this point, than my own bed, my own pillow, and the soft, worn quilt on top. Now, with home only moments away, and my nerves still raw, I cross the bridge and turn west, up the lane. Once again, I nudge Brutus to go faster, but we’ve not made it a quarter mile when a living shadow melts out of the woods. Tempest darts into the road in front of us. Her eyes are an amber flame blazing in the dark. The fox barks out a ferocious warning, and Brutus rears back, forelegs pawing the air in alarm. The movement catches me off guard, but not so much that I’m unseated.

Tempest looks directly at me, warning and fear and something else reflected in the light of the moon. She sniffs the air, searching for my scent, and takes another step forward. Brutus flicks his tail. Snorts. He sees only sharp teeth and wicked claws. He knows nothing of my fondness for this creature.

I am unprepared for the buck.

Off balance. Arms akimbo, and then, before I can adjust or pull in a full breath, I am tumbling through the air over his head. The horizon—now pale and silver—spins, and the earth rushes toward me. I have gone forward, arse over teakettle, and though I try to land on my feet, I cannot tell up from down. And there is no time to judge my position in the air.

I hit the ground, hard, on my back—breath rushing from my lungs in a guttural oof—before I can protect myself from the fall. I feel the impact everywhere. My ribs throb, my head aches, my hips feel battered, and even though it is dark, bright little lights spin in front of my eyes, dancing to some nauseating rhythm. I taste blood and know that I have bitten my tongue. The thing that scares me most, however, is that my mouth opens and closes but my lungs refuse to pull in air. I gasp and flail like one of Cyrus’s fish when pulled from the pond.

I cannot breathe.

I roll onto my side, trying not to panic. It takes another long, frightened moment, but I am finally able to pull a thin stream of air into my burning lungs in a ragged, wheezing whistle. It feels like water and fire, life and death, and I lie there drinking in both, my lungs aflame. Drowning. Burning. The sound I make, trying to breathe, would have me on my knees, begging God for help, if this were a birthing room and I heard a woman in this state. But it is only me, beneath the stars winded and wounded.

Think, breathe, think, breathe, I tell myself. You cannot die here alone in the middle of the road.

Brutus is fifty feet away, stamping the ground, impatient for me to get up. I’d kill him if I could, that’s how much I hate that stupid, ruthless, brute of a horse right now. Worst decision I ever made. Worst money I ever spent.

Wheeze.

Gasp.

A breath, deeper now, but still the burning.

I am furious.

My own horse has tried to kill me.

I glare at the damned, stubborn stallion. I should have castrated him when I had the chance. Ephraim was right. That’s the only way to tame a wild beast.

The cold and wet seep into my clothing, my bones, and I know that I should get up. That I cannot lie here forever. I am certain—mostly, I think—that nothing is broken, but my body is slow to rise.

There is a soft padding near my head, the tiny crackle of little feet moving through leaf and mud. And then there she is. My fox. All dark and silver in the moonlight, her startling eyes locked on me.

Tempest.

I say nothing.

Don’t budge an inch.

I barely allow myself the air that my lungs are screaming for.