Once, I tried reaching out to Papa. With a flick of annoyance, he jerked away, as if the mere sight of my red-stained fingers abhorred him.
I raked Papa’s shirt up and down the washboard, once, twice, three times, before stopping to examine it. I’d gotten nearly all the blood out of the cotton, but one stubborn spot remained. After running the bar of soap over the corrugated metal board once more, I started again.
Three days had passed since the Deciding, and Papa still wouldn’t look at me. I’d tried to make my penance, quickly volunteering for any household chores to most help Mama. I took the heavy knotted rugs to the laundry lines and beat them with switches, shaking free every bit of dust until my shoulders quaked. I’d flipped the mattresses, filling them with new straw, fresh feathers, and even handfuls of dried lavender to bring pleasant dreams. I wanted to volunteer to help with the bees again, but didn’t dare ask.
Today was wash day. I’d carried two metal tubs down to where the creek cut through our farm. There was a fire pit there, and I’d soon had one tub full of hot soapy water. The second was for rinsing. Once the clothes were free of soap, I hung them on the half dozen lines stretching alongside the stream. Lunch was still an hour off, but I already had four lines full. Our clothes shifted in the breeze like a troupe of ghosts come to dance. My fingers ached and my skin was scoured raw, but no amount of scrubbing would get rid of that damned telltale Deciding stain.
My knuckles scraped across the metal ridges, and I hissed, jerking backward. Papa’s shirt fell into the water, disappearing under the bubbles as I grabbed my hand, massaging the stiff muscles.
“Are you all right?”
I jumped, certain I’d been alone. Peering through the wavering lines of shirts and petticoats, I expected to see Sam, propped against a pair of roughly hewn crutches, but no one was there.
“Over here.”
My head snapped toward the creek.
Standing on the far bank and near the tree line was a stranger.
He was tall. Quite tall. Even from all the way across the water, I could tell I’d barely skim his shoulders if we stood side by side.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he continued. “It looked like you might have hurt yourself?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I held up my hand in proof, though the knuckles were sore and red.
“That looks painful. Anything I can do to help?”
He stepped out from the shadows of the pines and dropped a large rucksack to the dirt. It landed with a heavy thud. Sunlight flecked across his dark hair, bringing out burnished highlights. His face was striking, long and chiseled with a proud, vulpine nose dominating his other features. It had been broken before, maybe more than once. The crooked lines of it gave him a piercing intensity at odds with his youthful frame.
I leapt to my feet as he took another step nearer. Warning bells rang in my mind, racing through my blood, and I fought the urge to flee. Visitors to Amity Falls were nearly nonexistent, and every possible worst-case scenario skittered through my imagination. I glanced over my shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of our farmhouse, but the laundry lines obscured it, which meant no one at home could see me either.
“Stay right where you are,” I shouted back, far louder than necessary. I hoped my words would carry across the field and over the hum of the bees. No matter how angry Papa was with me, he’d come running if he knew I was in danger. “You’re trespassing.”
The boy raised one eyebrow and looked back at the trees. “Am I? I wasn’t aware the forest belonged to anyone.” Amusement colored his deeply tanned face, and the corner of his lips twitched as if fighting an impulse to smile.
“It doesn’t, but our property starts right at the water’s edge,” I said, wishing I’d thought to bring along the family rifle. During the hottest months of summer, Papa had us carry the gun to the creek when we did the wash. Bull snakes and rattlers were drawn to the hot flat stones lining the riverbed. Mama usually brought it with her, but she’d been resting when I’d hauled the tubs and baskets down, and I’d forgotten all about it until now. Though I’d never actually killed a snake, he didn’t know that, and I longed for the reassuring heft of the barrel in my hand.
He looked down as though the boundary could be visibly seen, and checked his feet with exaggerated movements. “So…I’m not trespassing, then?”
My jaw tightened. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
He pointed over to a large rock overhanging the stream. “Just to be clear, that rock is on the forest’s side of the creek. I won’t be crossing any line if I sit there, will I?”
His voice was light, on the verge of laughter. I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me or trying to work his obvious charms in his favor.
Without waiting, the stranger plopped onto the lip of the rock and began removing his boots. Leather cords held the tops of them to his knees, and he whistled as he loosened the knots.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He took one boot off, then the other. “I’ve been hiking for hours.”
“Hiking from where? You’re not from Amity Falls.”
“I’m not,” he agreed, tossing aside a pair of mud-stained socks and flexing his toes. He rolled up the legs of his buckskin trousers, revealing a pair of muscular calves, and groaned in pleasure as his feet dipped into the rushing waters. “Oh, I needed that. I could stay here all day, just like this.” Leaning back on his forearms, he dangled his legs into the stream with a languid grace. Basking in the sunlight, without a care in the world, he looked like some god of old we’d read about in school. Pan, or the one who liked wine and dancing.
Dionysus, I remembered after a moment.
“Then where are you from?”
He peered at me through slitted eyes. “You’re awfully persistent.”
“And you’ve evaded every question I’ve asked.”
His right eyebrow raised into a perfect arch. “Have I? How rude of me! I’ll answer whatever you ask next, I swear it.” He swiped his fingers over his heart, making a solemn oath. “Go on; this is your chance. Ask whatever you like.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “What’s your name?”
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Oh, not that! You can ask me anything you want, and you choose something so wholly pragmatic? No, no, no. I’ll let you try again.”
I couldn’t help my snort. “Are you serious?”
“Always.” He clapped his hands. “There, I answered something for you. Now you owe me one.”
“I owe you nothing. That wasn’t even a real question!”