“So am I. We’d have a sheriff on hand, ready to assist, if you and Abigail hadn’t sent him off chasing rumors.”
Benjamin’s eyebrow twitched three times in quick succession. He put his cap back on slightly cocked above his ear and looked at Molly, who was flustered by the shame that lit his cheeks. They’d shared a garden, and a home, and pieces by Gorelli. Benjamin fumbled for a handkerchief and cleaned his blurry glasses.
Davey knew something unspoken was afoot and looked relieved, or else intrigued, when Molly grabbed Tom’s arm and tugged him into the rear of the taproom to speak with him in private. Tom allowed it, seeming eager to explain. She didn’t let him.
“You’re going to let your best friend risk his life?”
“He won’t—”
“He had to side with Abigail. I can’t believe he meant me any harm.”
Tom tried to speak.
“Either way,” Molly said, “they need you if they’re riding out with the Maimers on the road. Someone’s dying; he’s a doctor. Can’t you see he has to go?”
“The Maimers won’t be there,” Tom said. “They never stay in place after an attack.”
“They never shoot people, either.”
Tom hesitated, sneaking a look at Benjamin and Davey. Molly pinched her wrist to strengthen her resolve, wishing all of them could stay and share a pot of smoak.
“I can’t go,” Tom said.
“Ichabod can chop the wood, and Bess and I—”
“I won’t leave you, not with Abigail and Lem vulturing about and Pitt riding back knowing God knows what.”
“We have to leave,” Benjamin said across the room. He opened the door. “A man is dying.”
“I can go, too,” Molly told Tom. “I’m not afraid.”
Except she was and couldn’t hide it when he frowned, and cupped her cheek, and said, “We have enough danger right here, you and me. I didn’t get a man shot or make Benjamin a doctor. This ain’t my concern and it ain’t yours, either.”
She was his concern. What was hers? Molly wondered.
* * *
A busy day, a dying day. Davey Mun’s two companions arrived shortly after he and Benjamin departed for Shepherd’s Inn. Tom told her to be civil—they couldn’t be blamed for not riding back—but he said it with contempt and didn’t greet them when they entered. Molly seated them at the table farthest from the fire. They were portly, gray, and loud, unremarkably identical. They ate and left quickly, eager to reach the next cozy inn and get away.
Very few townspeople visited the tavern: most were busy at home, feeding hearths, tending livestock, and cooking until the air, despite the windless chill, smelled of woodsmoke and meat and hard, defiant cheer. It frightened Molly—all the desperate ritual and defense only seemed to emphasize the depth of their beleaguerment. Leaves fell lifeless in the sunset red. She watched candles disappear as people locked their shutters. When the sky bruised purple and the tables had been cleared, Nabby and Bess cleaned the kitchen, Tom went to work in the stables, and Molly swept the taproom floor, pausing frequently to marvel at the smoakwood fire. Such little black logs, such consoling orange flames. She hoped that Benjamin and Davey had reached a fire of their own.
The front door opened and the cold rushed in. It was Pitt, his face as scarlet as his customary clothes, which were covered by a coat snugly buttoned to his chin. He’d tied a scarf around his ears, underneath his hat. He came inside and closed the door and walked up to Molly, giving her a look of untold doom.
She had an impulse to hit him with a poker from the hearth. Then he sniffled at the fire and appeared to lose his confidence. She saw in him the boy whose father had been hanged; there was more to him tonight—a neediness or doubt.
“Go get Tom.”
“Sheriff Pitt—”
“Please,” Pitt said.
He tucked his gloves under his arm and held his fingers to the hearth. Molly backed away, hesitant to turn and walk through the kitchen, thinking about the cold dark distance to the barn. But Tom had heard the horse and come directly in. He walked through the kitchen, met them in the taproom, and stood at Molly’s side with an ice-cut scowl.
Pitt spoke first. “Benjamin was maimed.”
Molly slumped against Tom. They propped each other up.
Ichabod entered through the front looking winded, presumably to warn them that the sheriff had returned. Pitt surprised them once again and said, “Ethel’s home safe?”
Ichabod nodded, looked at Tom without a sign, and then retreated