“What is it, boy?”
He stammers, breath puffing white. “It’s Mr. Collier. Out in the stable.”
Her hand flies to her chest. “Lord have mercy.”
My lips purse as I blow gently at the steam.
“Come,” she says. “We mustn’t let this get away from us.”
I don’t ask questions. I set my teacup down with a soft tap against its saucer and follow them outside. We cross the yard together, frost snapping underfoot. The stable door yawns open, the lantern inside burned low.
Collier lies where I left him, still and pale in the straw.
Lucas and Fred arrive soon after, drawn by Gideon’s panicked cries. They stop short in the doorway, faces going slack.
“Christ,” Lucas mutters. “You think he froze solid?”
Mrs. Baxter covers her mouth, whispering a prayer.
“He didn’t freeze,” I say.
I kneel beside the man who nearly ruined me, the man who will never raise a hand again. My voice is steady. “He came at me. Now he won’t come at me again.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Baxter says.
Lucas stiffens. “What are you saying?”
“I seen him come at her before,” Gideon chimes in.
“You killed him?” Lucas finally sputters.
“Lucas, please,” Mrs. Baxter says, holding up a calming hand.
He ignores her. “We ought to send word to town. Get the sheriff.”
“No.” Gideon steps in front of me before I can open my mouth. His face is bright with heat from the run, chest rising hard. “Miss Alice’ll hang for it,” he says, meeting Lucas head-on. “After all that’s happened, do you think they’ll hear you out? Or me? They won’t ask questions. They’ll drag her off before sunrise.”
Lucas’s voice thins. “She took a man’s life. That’s the law.”
“She done what she had to!” Gideon snaps. His voice shakes but refuses to bend. “You think she aimed to be a girl that makes men do wrong? Ain’t her fault.”
The boy’s courage is raw and ridiculous and true. For a long, breathless second, no one moves. Mrs. Baxter steps closer and lays a hand on Gideon’s shoulder, as if to steady them both.
“Best we not be askin’ the sheriff just yet,” she says. “We know how folk will take it. We’ll do the decent thing here among us.”
Fred shuffles, uneasy. “What if Virgil gets here and?—”
“He’s due,” I say. “He’ll be here any day. We’ll tell him what must be told. For now”—I breathe deep—“we move him, somewhere cold, until we decide.”
Lucas’s panicked expression slowly calms, the lines at his temple tightening as though he’s aged a year in an instant. “If you’re certain, if you all stand by her, then I won’t tell. But this is a weight on all of us. If it should come back?—”
“It won’t,” Gideon says, his small voice like flint.
Fred retrieves a canvas tarp from the shed and we roll Collier onto it before we lift. The canvas scrapes, rough in our hands. Fred takes him under the shoulders, Lucas the feet. Gideon and I shoulder the middle, while Mrs. Baxter carries the lantern. The body is cold, heavier than any of us guessed. We walk carefully, breath steaming white, the yard a field of small silvers of glass under the thin morning.
“Easy now,” Mrs. Baxter whispers.
We’ve just cleared the garden path when Fred stops short. The canvas slips from his grip. “Sweet Jesus,” he mutters, awed.
