“Mr. Oliver? No, why?” He seemed genuinely confused.
I spoke carefully, my heart thundering in my ribs. “Someone told Mr. Oliver that they were there that night and saw everything. If it wasn’t you, do you know who it might have been?”
Rowan frowned, shaking his head. “Like I said, I was in the carriage asleep. I didn’t see anything.”
I sensed his honesty and wanted to be honest in return, as much as possible. But I’d never told these things to anyone, not even Sam. “I was there too, Rowan. In fact … I saw more than you. Their voices woke me, and I went outside. I saw them arguing.”
“Arguing?” Rowan’s interest sharpened. “What were they arguing about?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did. They were both angry. Both crying. She was … holding the gun.” I swallowed. “I’m not sure you want to hear all of this.”
“I do,” he said fiercely. He stepped closer, as hungry for details as I was.
I drew a breath. It felt good to talk about it—and yet, horrible too. “The gun fired, and your father fell backward on the path. I can’t go near that spot now. I watched from my window as they carried him to a wagon, then they took my mother away. Three days later, she was hanged.”
“But why did she do it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard the stories.”
He released a bitter breath. “Just rumors and lies. I want to know the real reason.” His eyes settled on me, darkened by shadows. “I think we should always be honest with each other, Valentine. If you ever find out why she killed him, will you tell me? And I swear I’ll do the same.”
I hesitated, knowing I’d already been less than honest. I wanted to tell Rowan that she might have been innocent, but I didn’t know enough. It might not even be true.
He continued in a low voice, “I can’t help but wonder if he deserved it, somehow. It’s like this gnawing question inside me. If you ever find the answer, you have to tell me, Valentine, even if it’s hard to hear. I’d rather know.”
“I will,” I promised. And I meant it. I would speak to Father and learn the truth, and then I would tell Rowan everything. He deserved answers as much as I did.
He turned, and we started walking again. He kept his head bowed, his hands in his coat pockets. “I don’t even remember him. My grandmother tells so many stories, I’ve lost my own memories. And her stories are too saintly to be true.”
“I have the same problem,” I admitted. “Only the stories I hear aren’t so saintly.”
We passed the Reverend Mr. Oliver’s church—which was no longer his church—and soon came to my house. It looked even more haunted than usual, silhouetted against the night sky. I turned down the carriage drive that ran alongside the house.
But Rowan stopped, staring over the dark shrubs that divided the drive from the front yard. “Where did it happen?” he asked quietly.
I pointed to the walkway in the distance, leading to the front door. “Right there, where the path curves.”
We continued along the drive, rounding the back corner of the house. At the kitchen door, I stopped and turned, suddenly cold and weary and glad to be home.
“Thank you for walking me, Rowan. I’m sorry you have to walk back alone.”
“I don’t mind.” He turned away, but after a few steps, paused to look back. “So … you and Sam Frye. Are the two of you…?”
I knew the answer was yes. But I wanted to say no. My stomach tightened with guilt. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
“You haven’t promised yourself to him?”
“No.”
His lips tilted in a slow smile as he turned away. “Good night, Valentine.”
“Good night, Rowan.” My eyes followed him until he’d disappeared around the corner.
13
The next morning, Sam came by the house to tell me he’d be gone for a few days, driving his mother to Middletown to see her ailing brother. “Pa won’t drive her. He can’t stand her brother. And she doesn’t want Gil or Jep. Last time, they got drunk and beat up the neighbor. But I don’t like leaving you here alone.”
“My father will be home soon,” I said, even though I was beginning to doubt it. He’d been gone eight days—longer than ever before—and it was getting harder to convince myself that he hadn’t killed Mr. Oliver—and possibly Birdy—then run away, leaving me to fend for myself.
While Sam was gone, I sewed him a new vest for Christmas. I walked to town to buy dark green wool and buttons, then dug through my sewing drawer for an old pattern I’d used for Father. Sam was bigger, so I added inches to the length and width, trying to guess his measurements. I sewed for two days, then wrapped the vest in newspaper and tied it with red ribbon.
I also wrapped the scarf I’d knitted for Father a while back, wondering if he would ever open it.
Once a day, I walked to Birdy’s shack, just in case. But she hadn’t returned.
As I walked through the quiet, snowy woods, my thoughts inevitably settled on Rowan. I wasn’t sure what his recent attention meant, but thinking about it filled me with a shivery sense of wonder. I remembered his slow smile of approval when he’d seen me across the Meriwethers’ drawing room. The way his eyes had lingered on the neckline of the ivory dress. His strong hands grabbing my waist. Then, those same hands becoming gentle as he’d knelt and removed my shoes. I thought of our long walk through the dark streets, his low voice near my ear. I’d told him things I’d never told anyone.
Not even Sam.
I tried to stop myself from making too much of it. Rowan’s attention was flattering but unlikely to last. He wanted to understand his father’s death, but once those questions had been answered, his attention would drift. I thought of the way he’d bent his head close to Philly’s at the Honor Tea. Half the girls at Drake imagined themselves in love with Rowan Blackshaw. He was headed for great things, like his grandmother planned, not a girl with a scandalous family.
And a missing father. Dark secrets still lurked below the surface of my life.
I wouldn’t make a fool of myself over Rowan Blackshaw, just because he’d given me a few compliments.
And I wouldn’t hurt Sam that way.
Sam was the surest, steadiest thing in my life. He knew me better than anyone. With Sam, I felt safe, not this quivering uncertainty. The next time Rowan asked if Sam and I were together, I would tell him the truth—that yes, of course Sam and I were together; we’d been together since we were ten years old, the two of us against the world.
I wouldn’t hurt Sam over a foolish fling.
I bought a ham and Christmas pudding, like I always did; a bag of walnuts, because Sam liked them; and four oranges—one for each of us: Father, Sam, Birdy, and me. Then I chopped down a tiny fir tree and brought it into the kitchen, like the Meriwethers. I filled a bucket with water and set the tree in the corner, away from the fire.
Snow fell on Christmas Eve. I hummed Christmas hymns to fight off the loneliness as I strung popcorn on a thread and draped it around the tree. I cut snowflakes out of butcher paper and tucked them into the branches.
Around noon on Christmas Day, Sam rapped on the kitchen door and entered. I was so relieved, I jumped up and threw my arms around him. He laughed, nearly losing his balance, then his arms tightened around me.
“I guess you missed me,” he murmured against my neck. “I should go away more often.”
He admired my fir tree, then sat at the table to crack walnuts while I warmed the ham.
After we’d both eaten too much—especially pudding—I slid Sam’s gift across the table. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”
He unwrapped the newspaper, and his eyes widened when he saw the vest. He cast me a sly grin. “Guess you got tired of looking at that old rag of mine.” He held up the vest and inspected it. “This is nice, Valentine. You’re good at sewing.”
I gave a short laugh. “It’s huge! I’ll have to take it in. Unless you plan on eating more pudding.”
“Maybe later. Right no
w—wait here.” He went out the door and returned a moment later with a bright red sled. “Merry Christmas, Valentine.”
“Sam! You remembered the poem!” I jumped up to admire it. The paint was glossy red, with gold trim. “I didn’t even think you were listening.”
He grinned. “Just enough to get the idea. I was going to make it, but then Ma dragged me to Middletown. I saw this in a shop window. It’s a lot better than anything I would have made.”
“I hope it wasn’t expensive.”
He shrugged. “Plenty of fresh snow out there. You wanna go to Fletcher’s Hill?”
“Yes—right now!” I ignored my blue cloak on the wall and hurried upstairs to get my old green coat.
Sam told me about his trip as we trudged through the snow to Fletcher’s Hill. His uncle had lung fever and only a ten-year-old daughter to care for him. Mrs. Frye had wanted to stay longer—probably grateful for a break from her own life—but Sam had insisted on getting back for Christmas.
From the top of the hill, we could see all the way to the river and the bridge built by Jacob Feavers. The town looked small and tidy, the houses like toy blocks frosted with white.
The sled was too small for both of us, so I went first. Sam gave me a shove, and I went flying down the hill alone, screaming and laughing. Then I hiked to the top and Sam took a turn. While I waited for him to climb the hill, I built a stash of snowballs. But my first throw missed, and he quickly attacked with a stronger arm and truer aim. I ran, screaming, but Sam caught up in a few strides and lifted me easily, set me on the sled, and sent me flying downhill. I heard his howl of victory behind me.
Halfway up, I met Sam coming down, and we both agreed we were ready for a warm fire.
The sun was setting, the shadows lengthening. We walked slowly, our energy spent, Sam dragging the sled with one hand. He looked down at me with a lazy smile and held out his free hand. I smiled back as I took it, and his large glove closed around my mitten. He tugged me closer as we walked.
Neither of us spoke, the sled sliding on the snow behind us.
My heart beat faster, knowing what would happen when we reached my kitchen. Sam would build up the fire, then reach for me, pulling me into his arms for our first kiss. Today was the perfect day for it.
And yet, the knot in my stomach felt more like wariness than excitement.
At school, girls whispered about secret kisses, wondering if they dared, giggling when they did. A week later, they would despise that boy and have their eye on someone else.
But a kiss with Sam wouldn’t be like that. A kiss with Sam would solidify years of trust and friendship. Laughter and tears. A kiss with Sam would be a confirmation of deeper feelings, assuring him that he could expect a future with me.
Once we’d kissed, I couldn’t change my mind and break his heart.
Once we’d kissed, I would lose all other options.
A cold wind picked up as we walked, and my uncertainty rose with it. Suddenly, Sam’s hand felt confining, not comforting. As we neared my house, I pulled free and bent to retie a shoelace that didn’t need retying. When I straightened, I tucked both of my hands into my coat pockets.
Sam’s gaze lingered on my pockets, his mood dropping with every step. “I don’t understand,” he finally said in a low rumble. “You always push me away.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but Sam deserved better than that. I just didn’t know how to explain something that I didn’t understand myself. “I don’t feel ready, Sam. I just need more time. We’re still so young.”
“Not that young,” he grumbled. “My parents were married at our age.”
The Fryes were hardly a couple to admire. “I worry that once we change things—” The sled scraped on the ground behind us. “It’ll be like riding that sled. Everything going too fast. Only moving one direction. Once we change things between us, we can never go back.”
“I don’t want to go back.” He looked down at me. “You don’t have to be scared, Val. I don’t expect anything serious. Only a kiss. And that’s not going to change anything, just make it better.”
But my resolve was strengthening. “I’ll graduate in a few months. After that, I can worry about other things.”
He scowled. “So … I’m something to worry about?”
“That’s not what I meant. But I have a lot on my mind lately. My school isn’t easy, Sam.”
“That’s just an excuse. Going to school don’t keep you from—”
“Doesn’t,” I corrected without thinking.
Sam gave a short laugh, walking faster.
I sighed, struggling to keep up. “I’m sorry.” Sam hated it when I corrected his grammar. But it had made a difference; he spoke better than anyone in his family. “I just don’t think we need to rush into things.”
“Rush? You should hear my brothers talk. They think I’m a right fool, letting you lead me around on a leash. They kiss a different girl every week.”
My own temper sparked. “If that’s what you want, I’m sure Emily Sweeney would be happy to oblige.”
“Maybe Emily Sweeney won’t think she’s too good for me!”
I gritted my teeth. “Whenever you’re mad, you accuse me of that! But I’ve never said I was too good for you—never!”
“You don’t need to say it; I see it in the way you look at me. I’m just a Frye and you’re a Barron, living in that big house.” The sled bounced on the ground behind him.
“My mother hanged for murder!”
He glowered. “Whenever I ask you what you’re thinking, you say, ‘Nothing,’ like I’m too stupid to understand.”
“Maybe I’m thinking about something I’d rather not talk about—like Mr. Oliver dying right in front of me! And Birdy gone missing! And now, my father didn’t even come home for Christmas! He could be dead for all I know!”
“He isn’t dead,” Sam snapped. “He’s probably with that widow on Grover Street.”
I stopped short, drawing a cold breath.
Sam stopped a few strides ahead of me, his shoulders sagging.
“What are you talking about?” I asked tightly.
Slowly, he turned.
“What?” I demanded.
“Your father doesn’t travel as much as you think he does, Val. He’s got a woman across town. When he’s not home, that’s where he is.”
I shook my head, frowning. “He drives a delivery wagon. He goes on long trips.”
“Sometimes, yeah. But sometimes he’s there. I’ve seen him entering her house on Grover—a yellow house with red shutters. She has a boy that he walks to grammar school. I think it started last summer.”
I felt stunned. Father had started coming home later last summer, saying he wasn’t hungry.
Because he’d already eaten with another family.
He’d never walked me to school. Not once.
My surprise sucked the air from our argument. Sam lifted a limp hand, trying to take back his words.
“I’m sorry, Val. I shouldn’t have told you like that.”
I shook my head, swallowing. If Father had been at this widow’s house this whole time, maybe I’d imagined everything. Maybe my mother was guilty—and Mr. Oliver had died of a heart attack—and Birdy had gotten lost in a blizzard.
A dog barked at a distant house. I glanced at the horizon, where the sunset had deepened to purple. It was too late to walk to Grover Street now. But tomorrow, I would find Father and get answers. I started walking again.
Sam kept up, casting me an apologetic glance. “I didn’t mean to tell you that way.”
“I’m glad you did. I hate secrets. Don’t ever keep secrets from me, Sam.”
“I won’t. And if you need more time about us, that’s fine. I won’t rush you.”
I took a few more strides as my emotions settled, then met his gaze. “Thank you, Sam.”
We walked along the carriage drive beside my house, then turned at the back corner.
I noticed the black horse first, its re
ins draped over a tree branch. Then I saw Rowan Blackshaw bent at the back doorstep, leaving a basket. He straightened and saw me, and his face relaxed with a smile. Then he noticed Sam. On the surface, the smile didn’t change, but in his eyes, I saw the subtle shift from genuine pleasure to good manners. And, in that heartbeat, I understood Rowan.
“There you are,” he said easily. “I was just leaving your shoes. I forgot to give them to you the other night.”
Sam frowned, his gaze shifting from the basket to Rowan. “What night?” he asked warily.
My pulse raced, but I managed to keep my voice level. “The Honor Tea. I changed boots for walking home and left the shoes behind.” It was a half lie, and I saw the flicker of understanding in Rowan’s eyes. “Thank you, Rowan; it was good of you to bring them.” The words sounded too polite after our long walk in the dark.
“I had the maid clean them up a bit.” Rowan glanced down at the sled. “Looks like you two have been having fun.”
“Sam gave it to me for Christmas.”
Sam shot me a glowering look, as if I’d revealed something overly personal.
“Well, perfect weather for it,” Rowan said smoothly. He wore a coat of fine black wool, with a gray scarf tucked into the lapels.
And suddenly, I was aware of my old green coat and wet curls, and Sam’s tattered brown coat, handed down from two older brothers, the sleeves too short.
Rowan flashed a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I’d best get home. My great-aunt just arrived, and she and my grandmother can’t go five minutes without arguing. Should make for a merry Christmas feast.” He tightened his black leather gloves and moved to his horse.
“Thank you for bringing the shoes, Rowan. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Valentine.” He swung himself up into the saddle, suddenly towering over us. “And you, Sam.” He kicked the horse and rode away.
Sam glared after him.
I picked up the basket and found the two gray shoes inside, brushed clean, and something wrapped in a white napkin. I opened the napkin and found a small mincemeat pie, just big enough for one.
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