Maimers weren’t men but demons from beyond. Even Tom kept reminding himself the man was only a thief, not the vaporizing terror he had known by reputation.
Ichabod retreated and busied himself at the dock. He tied Benjamin’s and Molly’s horses to the anchor-line support and led Bones onto the ferry, feeding him an apple. Tom secured the Maimer to the side rail of the raft, waited for Benjamin to take over guarding him, and guided Molly off the dock. The chivalry was needless—she had, after all, taken the raft alone—but served as an apology for driving her away.
She clung to Tom’s arm when they started across to Root, seeming smaller than before despite her unexpected coup. She relaxed him, which was risky when he needed to be watchful, and concerned him, which was foolish since he had her safe and sound. She smelled of candlefruit but also like a child who’d been crying. A group of townspeople stood on the opposite bank of the river, talking amongst themselves and holding lanterns in the dark. He would never hear the end of it—the two of them again.
The Maimer looked at Molly with a curious expression. Hostile, yes, but loaded with an undercover meaning, not quite intimate but close enough to question it. Tom turned his face down, pretending not to watch her. She was staring at the Maimer with the same mysterious glow. Molly noticed Tom’s attention, blinked, and turned away, but not before he sensed the link between them: recognition.
They reached the crowded dock. Twenty-odd citizens, presumably roused by Abigail, had come to the river with guns and lights, ready to assist. They’d probably gone to the tavern, learned that Tom and Benjamin had already left, and stood at the bank debating how to proceed without the ferry.
Sheriff Pitt stepped forward. “What in hell’s going on?”
Tom addressed the crowd. “Molly caught a Maimer. Broke a second Maimer’s nose.”
Greater shock would not have been felt if Tom had popped his head off, held it up alive, and sung a verse of “Green Leaves.” Everybody hushed. They looked from Molly to the Maimer with open mouths, squinty eyes, or stupefied mixtures of the two, and only Pitt recovered his wits quickly enough to board the ferry, pistol in hand, and point it at the prisoner’s chest as Tom led him off. Once the lanterns showed the villain was an ordinary man, the crowd found its courage and began to swarm around, following them to the Orange with Pitt at the head, Molly and Benjamin arm in arm, and the Maimer being scrutinized and pushed along the way.
Ichabod returned with one of the men to get the horses they had left on the opposite bank, while another of the group guided Bones to the stables. Tom looked at Molly and considered her escape again. Why had she been bound instead of maimed like the others? Why had the Maimer failed to shoot her when she stole the horse and fled? He watched her so long, dwelling on her shifting eyes and marvelous tousled hair, that he allowed Sheriff Pitt to enter the tavern as if he owned it.
“Bring him into the taproom,” he called back to Tom.
Bess had opened the door and promptly stepped aside, and she seemed more surprised by Tom following orders than she was about the horde surging inward with a prisoner. When Molly passed by, Bess pulled her to her side. The Orange’s guests had stayed awake and looked rewarded by the spectacle. They stood and sloshed their drinks, tipsy but engaged, while some of the townspeople strong-armed the Maimer into a chair.
The taproom could easily accommodate the crowd but they clustered up tight and made it claustrophobic. Tom and Pitt shouldered through and backed them all away. Benjamin and Bess seated Molly near the bar. They gave her a cup of cider, which she drank two-handed, emptying the tankard with a long, hearty draft. Tom tied the Maimer to the chair. He turned to the group and raised his hand, silencing the chatter. Then he told them what had happened, just as Molly had recounted. By the time he finished talking, every eye was on her.
“She’s a pistol!”
“Give her a medal.”
“Well done, you plucky girl.”
“Call her Miss, you fucking boor.”
“We ought to make her sheriff,” someone shouted from the back.
The last, cutting through, slashed Pitt’s façade. Tom focused on the Maimer, so as not to crack a smile. Baiting Pitt wouldn’t help tonight—he knew the greater danger.