In my room, I take my shawl, wrapping it over my shoulders. Before I go, I pause, remembering the kitchen knife I’d tucked away at the bottom of my sewing basket. I have prayed and waited and endured, and nothing in heaven has moved to spare me. This time, if he means to harm me again, I will not leave my safety to chance.
Outside, the wind rises, scattering the last of the leaves across the yard.
I lift my skirts and start down the steps, the sound of my heartbeat louder than the creak of the boards. The yard is slick with frost. The lantern I carry throws a thin circle of light before me, trembling with every cold gust. The air tastes of woodsmoke. From the stables emanates a soft glow against the dark.
I pause at the door. The night is so calm I can hear the slow drip of water from the eaves, the wind combing through the pines beyond the field. Hinges squeal as I push the door open. The smell of hay and dung rushes out to meet me. A row of stalls glow, the soft light catching on the curve of a bridle, a pile of feed sacks, a pitchfork leaning against the wall.
I check each stall until I find Collier standing alone inside one. He’s not tending to any horse. Just waiting. His coat hangs open, his shirt half-unbuttoned.
“You said a horse needed my hand,” I say, keeping my voice steady.
“There is,” he answers. “Only it ain’t a horse.”
He takes a step closer, boots scraping on the packed dirt. His eyes glint like wet stones. “You make a habit of sneakin’ up there at night, do you? Prayin’?”
“Sometimes,” I say.
He grins, crooked and mean. “Funny thing, a wicked woman prayin’ to God.”
I take one step back toward the open stall door. The knife’s weight in my apron pocket steadies me. “You’ve been drinking again.”
“Only enough to speak plain.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You ought to be grateful, you know. Could be worse things than bein’ mine.”
He comes closer and I take another step back, my free hand brushing the edge of a bridle hook. “You’re not making any sense, Mr. Collier.”
He laughs softly. “Ain’t I? You think Virgil would lift a finger for you now? He’s washed his hands of you. I’m offering you a life, Alice.”
The words sting, but I keep my eyes on him. “Step back, sir.”
“Why do I offend you so?” he says, closing the last of the distance. His breath reeks of whiskey and bile. “Why won’t you see reason, woman?”
He reaches for me. Reflex moves faster than thought. I twist away, the knife already in my hand. His fingers catch my shawl, jerking me off balance, and we crash against the stall door. It bangs open with a sharp crack. The lantern rolls across the dirt, its flame guttering and flaring.
“Quit fighting. I don’t want to put hands on you again,” he warns, though his hand grabs for my wrist. I drive the knife forward. He grunts, the sound guttural and shocked.
“You brought a knife?” he rasps, voice wet. “What’d you bring a knife for, you wicked woman?”
We struggle—his weight nearly flattening me, one arm pinned—but the knife finds him again, lower this time. The breath goes out of him like a sigh.
He stumbles back, eyes wide with disbelief, one hand pressed to his middle. For a moment, he just stands there, mouth working soundlessly. Then he folds to his knees.
I back away, the knife slick in my hand.
Collier lies on his side now, breathing shallow, eyes already fixed on nothing.
“I told you to leave me be,” I whisper.
The lantern’s flame steadies in its glass. The horses shift uneasily, but none make a sound.
The cold settles quick. His breath frosts once, twice, then stops. I watch until I am certain. Leave the knife where it fell. The frost will do the rest—keep him through the night, stiff and unmoving, till the morning light finds him.
Outside, the wind has quieted. The yard lies pale under a wash of dawn. I wash my hands at the pump with frigid water until the blood rinses off my fingers. From the house comes no noise, no alarm. The early morning holds its breath, and I start back toward the kitchen door.
The inn resumes its patterns, hands ticking round a clock. Once the sun slants through the kitchen window, I know someone will be running up at any moment. The teapot’s just begun to whistle when the back door bursts open.
“Miss Alice!” Gideon’s voice cracks like a whip. “You best come quick!”
I pour a cup of tea as Mrs. Baxter turns from the stove, startled.
