Page 30 of The Frozen River

“I’ve already completed that survey,” my husband argues. “And I have three lumber orders to fill by next Friday. I don’t have time to do it again.”

I have been married long enough to catch the nuance in Ephraim’s voice—every clipped syllable and strained vowel—and there is no doubt he is struggling to control his temper.

“The Kennebec Proprietors want it done again.”

Ah.

Joseph North.

I press my lips together and give the horse an accusing stare—traitor—then pull my hand away from the soft, warm nose and slide closer to the door.

Ephraim clears his throat. “Doing it again won’t change the results.”

“They might beg to differ.”

“They can beg all they like. But they’ve not seen the land. It’s nothing but bog for miles in every direction. Unsuitable for farming. And besides, right now it’s little more than a block of ice.”

“They want to assign a lease on the property.”

“And doom their tenants to a life of failure and poverty?” A drawer rattles and papers shuffle. I can hear the warning note in my husband’s voice grow sharper. “Here. The survey. I was there two months ago. I assume you’ve filed the last copy I gave you?”

“Not yet.” I hear the crinkle of paper as North straightens the map and then folds it again. “I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“It’s not what they’re expecting. And you know they have expectations, Ephraim.”

“I am not leaving my family in the dead of winter to confirm something I already know.” Ephraim’s voice is now low and smooth and deceptively calm. “Besides, I know what you’re doing, Joseph.”

“I am reminding you of your obligation.” North lightens the tone of his voice, cajoles. “You like this lease, don’t you? You like living here?”

Ephraim doesn’t answer, and there is wariness in that stretch of silence.

“This land is leased to you by our mutual employers. The Kennebec Proprietors can be quite generous when they’re pleased with a tenant. I think you’ve experienced that yourself over the last eleven years. You have the lease—and the surveying contract—but not the deed to this mill. Not yet.”

The Kennebec Proprietors, a part of the Plymouth Company in Boston, acquired vast land holdings along the Kennebec valley one hundred and fifty years ago. They own most of the land along the river, for fifteen miles on either side, and have been leasing it out to encourage settlement in the District of Maine. Our family assumed the lease on Ballard’s Mill eleven years ago but do not yet own the deed. That won’t happen until next April when we finally meet the third condition. The first two were met within a year of living here: building a home and tilling a minimum of five acres. The last, however, is a matter of time. We must live on this property for twelve consecutive years before it can become legally ours. So we are in breach of nothing. Yet I can feel the threat hanging in the air between North and my husband.

“I remember the terms of our lease well enough. You don’t have to remind me.”

“Don’t I? Because you seem strangely unwilling to see reason. Is one survey worth losing both your home and your income?”

“You want me to falsify my findings? To claim it’s habitable land?”

“I want you to understand there are bigger things at stake. Without the mill and your contract, you’d find your family in a dire situation.” North pauses for a moment, and I would give anything to see his expression. “It is, as you mentioned, the dead of winter.”

He has delivered his orders but won’t stand around to watch Ephraim mull over the decision. Boots shift impatiently on the worn plank floor. And since I don’t want to be caught eavesdropping, I step around the door and into the mill. I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Have you seen my ink?” I smile at my husband, then make a show of being startled by North’s presence.

At his feet lies a mongrel; half mutt—some indeterminate breed that’s been bastardized a dozen times over—and half coyote. He is brown and black and white, with tall, peaked ears, a long snout, and yellow eyes. He sees me and growls.

There is a rustling in the loft, and I tilt my chin to see Percy, perched on the rail, rousing his feathers. His talons pulse like a man flexing his fingers in anticipation. The bird likes neither the dog nor the growl. And from the way those hackles rise in response along the bony ridge of the cur’s spine, I can see the feeling is mutual.

“Hush, Cicero,” North orders, looking first at the falcon, then at the dog. After a moment his gaze returns to me and he says, “Sit.”

Cicero obeys because he must, but keeps his teeth bared. I remain standing, with my arms crossed because I will not be told what to do by the likes of Joseph North.

“Your dog has poor manners,” I tell him.