It was not my brother who pushed his way to the Gallows, shoving people aside and demanding the best view. It was as though a stranger had taken his place and was doing a poor job imitating him. He looked almost like my brother—but Samuel had never worn such a fearsome expression of hate before. His voice nearly matched my twin—but the words from his lips were strange and twisted, broken and cruel.
The mob grew louder, cheering as Winthrop Mullins raced into the square with a length of rope held triumphantly above his head. My stomach lurched as I took in the leering faces, the bloodthirsty grins. These were our friends and neighbors, people we lived alongside, who were always ready with helping, open arms. They were good people, kind people, not…
Not this.
There was no way to stop this, I realized with a sudden clarity, and it propelled me into action. I could not save Cyrus Danforth, but I could spare my little sisters from seeing his murder play out. I had to find Merry and Sadie and get them out of here.
“Ellerie!” Merry sobbed in relief as I pushed my way toward them.
“Come on, we’ve got to go, we’ve got to leave,” I said, wincing as I heard the sound of the rope smacking over the crossbeam.
“But Mr. Danforth,” Sadie said, just on the verge of protest.
“We can’t do anything for him now,” I said, grabbing her hand and holding on tight.
We took off at a run, racing to get away from the crowd’s madness, and didn’t stop until we reached the outskirts of the village. Even still, we heard the moment when the dreadful deed took place, as the wind carried with it the roar of cheers and, above all else, the sound of Rebecca wailing.
A week went by.
Then two.
As the third dragged on—days lingering far longer than they had any right to—we kept a watchful eye out for the wagon’s return.
We jumped at every sound, certain it would be Papa striding across the yard, carrying Mama in his arms—still recovering but safe and whole, her stomach bumped out in a proud curve.
But it was never them.
At first, our path was a veritable game trail, buggies and wagons riding up at all hours of the day, bringing condolences and baskets of food. Men helped Samuel tear down the ruins of the supply shed and make plans for its replacement. They even scheduled a day to build it, and we knew the work would go much faster with so many helping hands.
Once the crazed madness of Cyrus’s death had passed, I suspected that everyone felt uncomfortably remorseful about the role they’d played in it, and sought to assuage their guilt with penitent baking and stalwart neighborly kindness.
But cherry pies and apple preserves couldn’t erase the memories I had of that day, the jeers and cheers, the cries for a man’s blood. Guilty or not, no one deserved to have their death so loudly celebrated.
I tried to visit Rebecca once, bringing over a poor imitation of Mama’s honey cake, a tiny pair of booties I knit, and a fervent wish that we might somehow heal the horrible riff between us.
Once she opened the door, her pale face seemed to float in a sea of dark shadows and even darker mourning garb. She squinted against the bright afternoon light as though it physically pained her. Upon spotting me, she slammed the door shut so hard, I dropped the cake, and spent an agonizing hour cleaning up the broken platter and toppled layers of cake without the aid of a bucket or rags.
Merry’s face soured when she saw me return, my skirts encrusted with smears of dried cream and crumbs.
“She could at least have had the decency to smash it in your face first,” she said with a scowl, throwing the mess into the laundry basket she’d just hauled from the creek. “All that sugar wasted.”
Then, late one afternoon as I was taking bedsheets off the lines, I heard a horse whinny, and looked up to see Whitaker galloping from town. He was riding Luna, and my heart thunked painfully in my chest. No one but Papa ever rode that mare.
Dropping my sheet midfold, I ran out to meet him, nearly losing my shawl in the process. A cold spell had settled over the Falls days before, forcing everyone to bring out sweaters and wraps from attic trunks. Samuel had been chopping cords of wood from sunup till sundown for the past two days, filling our woodshed for the winter to come. We girls picked the garden clean, and the kitchen grew unbearable with steam as we filled and sealed dozens of jars.
“Where are they?” I asked without preamble. “Is Mama okay? Where’s Papa? And the wagon? Where’s—”
“Whoa there,” Whitaker said, raising his gloved hands. Luna assumed the command was for her and came to a prompt halt, breaking some of the tension spreading through my chest as Whitaker cracked a grin.
“They’re back! They’re back!” I heard Merry exclaim, followed by the slamming of the screen door. She and Sadie came tumbling down the steps. Samuel ran out from the side yard, close at their heels.
“Are they okay?” I asked Whitaker. “Just tell me before the others get here—are they all right?”
He nodded, the wide brim of his leather hat obscuring his eyes. “We got there just fine. I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but first”—he stretched one leg over the saddle, dismounting with a groan—“I’ve been riding nonstop for the last three days. Mind if I rest a bit on your porch? Maybe get something to drink?”
“We’ve got water or tea. Cider too—Violet Buhrman sent over a bottle of their finest after the fire.”
I took Luna’s reins so Whitaker might walk unencumbered, and his knuckles brushed against mine. I couldn’t tell if it was anything more than an accident.
He was tired. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his face was lined with the grime of old sweat and trail dust. His shirt looked and—if I was to be completely honest—smelled like he’d worn it every day for the last three weeks. But none of that mattered. He’d raced up and over an entire mountain range to bring us word of Mama.
Merry reached us first. “Where are they? What happened?”
“Everything is fine,” he promised, raising his voice for Sam and Sadie.
“Where are they, then?” Samuel asked, out of breath as he jogged up last.
“Still in the city, at a hospital.”
Merry clutched her chest, releasing a sob of relief.
“I tucked the four-leaf clover you gave me into Mama’s pocket before she left,” Sadie confessed, patting Luna’s heaving side. “Think that will help her any?”
Whitaker nodded, ruffling her hair. “I’m certain of it.”
* * *
After Sam had taken Luna to the barn and given her a rubdown and water, we gathered on the porch, eager to hear everything that had happened. Whitaker sat in Papa’s chair, with Sam in Mama’s. Merry and Sadie and I clustered along the steps, our shoulders pressed against each other’s.