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  By the time he made the junction with Gray Hill the falling snow was so thick and the wind so strong he could see nothing. ‘It’s a goddamn blizzard,’ he muttered. He was already shivering with cold and his mittened hands felt like chunks of ice. And poor Hannibal! Rees could see the horse trembling, the shudders shaking his hindquarters in successive waves. But Rees would not give up.

  Horse and wagon began climbing up the hill. Because the journey was now fairly familiar, the distance seemed shorter than it had the first time Rees had come this way. He passed the turnoff to the Bennett’s place. With what he had learned about the Hill, this little farm did seem part of the valley. Although he could smell the smoke from their fireplace, he could see nothing of the cabin. Already more than an inch of snow covered the road and Hannibal was beginning to slip. If much more snow fell the accumulation would hold the wheels and the wagon would stop. Still Rees pushed on.

  Then, as Hannibal rounded the first of the hairpin curves, the wagon lost traction and began sliding toward the edge of the road. The gelding shuffled back and forth as the heavy weight at his heels veered toward the woods. There was nothing Rees could do but sit there and wait for the inevitable crash.

  Luckily for him, the thickening coating of snow on the track caught at the wheels and slowed the wagon. It merely bumped into a tree trunk. Even so, Rees had to sit for a minute, shaky and trembling. He knew this could have been much worse. Higher up, the road curved perilously close to deep woods, ravines and cliffs. Up there the wagon might have slipped off the road entirely and plunged into a chasm. For his own safety he needed to turn around. Even though he knew this was the sensible course to take he nonetheless hesitated for a few seconds. He did not want to accept it and abandon Jerusha.

  At last, as a gust of wind bent him inexorably over, he surrendered. He climbed down on shaky legs and almost fell. Carefully, holding on to the wagon for support, he went around to examine the damage. The side of his wagon bore a large splintered patch but the tree trunk, except for the removal of the snow and a small white mark, was unharmed. Rees grunted. ‘I was lucky,’ he muttered. The wind snatched away his words, drowning them in the scream of the storm.

  He carefully made his way around to the front of his vehicle. From there, holding himself upright with one hand on Hannibal’s back, he crept forward to the horse’s head. Crooning to the animal, Rees took hold of the bridle and very slowly they turned to face the foot of the mountain.

  The descent was even worse than the climb. Rees measured his length in the snow several times and even Hannibal struggled. He slipped also but managed to keep his footing. The wagon moved in fits and starts as the wheels were either caught by deepening snow or moved freely in areas laid bare by the wind.

  Although time was hard to tell in the white world surrounding them, Rees was sure several hours passed before they finally reached the bottom of the hill and the junction with North Road. As the uniform white surrounding him darkened to gray he knew night was coming.

  Despite the bitter cold he paused for a few moments to rest. Both he and his horse were exhausted. Hannibal was blowing hard, his breath steaming out in a thick cloud, and his head hung low. But when Rees stared at the ground beneath his feet he saw that the snow here had been churned into ridges and deep ruts almost to the dirt below. A party of horsemen had come this far and turned around. He uttered a breathy tired chuckle; Rouge had made good on his promise although he too had been turned back by the weather.

  Rees climbed into the wagon and turned on to the main road. The wagon juddered as the wheels slid sideways but stopped, caught by a rut. He exhaled a relieved breath in a cloud of steam and they started for home.

  It was past nightfall when he turned at last onto Surry Road and still snowing hard. The white all around him maintained a certain glow so he could see somewhat. The road was invisible but Hannibal knew the way. And as they neared the farm, he began to walk faster. Rees would have missed the turn but for the horse who floundered into the lane, and stopped, unable to drag the wagon through the deepening snow.

  Rees had to climb down from the seat and push the last few yards, through the gate and into the barn at last.

  Although he felt dizzy with fatigue, he rubbed the horse down until he was completely dry and fed him before going inside to his own supper. Lydia met him at the door, her gaze going behind him. ‘Jerusha isn’t with me. I couldn’t make it,’ he said apologetically. Lydia tried to nod but couldn’t. She bit her lip so hard a drop of blood formed. ‘I will go back out tomorrow, as soon as the snow stops,’ he promised.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose both my husband and my daughter.’ But as she stared at the dark window and the spinning snow outside her face twisted with anguish.

  Rees spent a wakeful night. Every so often he would run to the window and stare out, hoping the snow had stopped. Finally Lydia, who woke every time he did, said, ‘You might as well sleep. Even if it stops snowing you won’t leave in the middle of the night. You’ll be able to see even less. And Hannibal deserves at least a little rest.’

  Rees nodded and returned to the comfort of his warm bed. How he wished he had bought a mule or another horse, despite the cost. He was not sure Hannibal, although still a young animal, would be able to make another journey as difficult as the one the day before.

  He was back on the road at dawn with a lunch of bread and cheese and a jar of hot coffee. It was slow going. Although the snow had stopped at least a foot had fallen. The wind whirled it around, creating bare patches on the road but also deep drifts. Rees had to climb out over and over to shovel a path for Hannibal to follow.

  When he reached town mid-morning the tavern was open but only Thomas was inside. Rees told Thomas where he was going and made the man swear he would pass on the message. Then he started out again, trying to follow the path already broken through the snow by other vehicles.

  Someone had shoveled a lane from the turn off to Gray Hill as far as the Bennetts’ place. Today he could see the cabin through the trees and wheel tracks went from the drive to the road.

  He continued on. With the thick trees on both sides, the road had been protected from some of the accumulation. And as he climbed higher and the trees began to thin, much of the snow had been scoured away by the wind to the bare rock beneath.

  It was almost noon when he passed Morton’s small shop – it seemed very close to town now. He stopped and ate his bread and cheese and drank his cold coffee. He did not linger. It was too cold to sit and anyway he still had three or four hours ahead of him.

  By the time he passed the turnoff to Granny Rose’s cabin, the sun had begun its descent to the western horizon. Under the trees the light disappeared to a deep gloom. Rees knew he would still be on the mountain after dark, something he had not wanted to ever happen again. But he had to find Jerusha. His little girl must be terrified. He flicked the whip over Hannibal’s back, more to give himself the illusion he was doing something than to encourage the horse to travel faster. Hannibal tried though, digging his hooves into the crusty snow and pulling forward.

  They passed the spot where Rees had fallen from the mule: he recognized the tall pine nearby. Not far now. He saw now that he would never have made it to the shop, especially not with the wolves at his heels. The store was several hours away – and that was with Hannibal pulling the wagon.

  As they climbed the steepest part of the mountain the scent of wood smoke touched Rees’s nose, a familiar warning that he was approaching a human habitation. He was surprised; he thought he was still a distance from the Wootten family’s cabin. The smell of wood smoke intensified as he climbed. Rees began to wonder about the size of this fire; the sweet smell of burning wood had become a thick and acrid stink. Hannibal began to toss his head and resist moving forward.

  And now another odor had joined the heavy smell of burning wood: cooking meat. It momentarily transported Rees to his childhood and butchering time in the fall. Families went from farm to
farm to help. Although most of the meat was cut up and put aside to smoke, the heads were boiled to make headcheese. The fat was cooked to render into tallow. And some of the pork was always roasted to feed the hungry helpers. That was what he smelled now.

  Hannibal stopped at the final curve and refused to move another step. Rees could see that no amount of whipping would persuade the horse so he accepted the inevitable and climbed down from the wagon. Once he’d thrown the horse blanket over Hannibal and tied him to a fir tree, Rees began the stiff climb up the last incline.

  The penetrating stink of smoke intensified and he could see it now too. Floating ash and cinders filled the smoky air. The sparks fell into the snow with tiny hissing sounds. This was not a pig roast. Rees began to hurry, lengthening his stride and leaning into the tainted breeze.

  THIRTY-TWO

  When he breasted the final hill and came into sight of the Wootten home he saw his worst fear. The cabin was ablaze and the fire had jumped to one of the pine trees. As orange and yellow flames consumed the branches, the pop and crackle of burning sap filled the hollow with sound. Mr Wootten was running back and forth in front of his home screaming, ‘Mother. Sally. Oh my God.’

  Rees turned to stare at the cabin. Long red tongues darted out of the windows. The front door was open as though Wootten had tried to run in to save his wife. If so the fire had driven him back. Flames stretched through the opening. The wooden planks on either side wouldn’t last long. Even as Rees watched a narrow burning finger touched one of the logs and took hold.

  And Jerusha was in there!

  ‘Do you have buckets?’ He turned to Wootten and shook him by the shoulder. ‘Buckets, man. We must try to put out the fire.’

  Wootten looked at Rees blankly, as though he’d lost the ability to hear and speak.

  Swearing under his breath, Rees ran for the barn. Surely there would be buckets there, for oats and feed.

  Hortense’s stolen horse stamped nervously. Crooning to her, he began peering into each stall. He soon had two or three wooden pails; a very tiny number with which to fight the fierce fire consuming the cabin. As he peered into the last alcove, not a stall for there was a door at one end, a small quavering voice said, ‘Father?’

  ‘Jerusha?’ He dropped the pails and stepped into the stall. A small hay mound shivered and broke as she stood up. ‘Oh Jerusha, I was so worried,’ Rees said, falling to his knees and pulling the girl into his arms. He held her to him so tightly she uttered a squeak of protest. Now that he had found her, the full weight of his desperate fear swept over him and tears rushed into his eyes. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. Mr Wootten put me in the room with Miss Sally. He said I had to help her.’ Jerusha gulped. ‘When the fire started she pushed me out the window. Told me to run and hide in the barn where I would be safe. She couldn’t get through the window. She was too fat.’ Her last words ended in a sob.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ he said, his own words trembling. ‘Everything will be all right.’

  Jerusha sniffed and nodded against his chest. ‘I knew you’d come.’ She tipped her head back so she could look at him. ‘Are you crying?’ She sounded more frightened than ever.

  Rees swiped at his wet eyes. ‘I am just so glad I found you,’ he said.

  ‘Everything will be all right.’ She repeated his assurance back to him as she stepped back. Now that he could see her more fully he realized she did not have her boots or cloak. Instead, large moccasins covered her feet and she wore a blanket over her shoulders. ‘Miss Sally gave them to me,’ she said, noticing the direction of his gaze. ‘She was kind to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed doubtfully. ‘You stay here. I’ll help Mr Wootten—’

  ‘Wait. I have something to show you. It’s important.’

  Rees hesitated, glancing involuntarily over his shoulder at the fire burning behind him. ‘I can’t now,’ he said gently. ‘Miss Sally is still inside the cabin.’ He detached her clinging hands and, picking up the buckets, went out into the hellish orange glow.

  The cabin was thoroughly ablaze now and a few buckets of melting snow would not be enough to conquer the flames. Still, even though it was too late for Mrs Wootten, he went to the side of the cabin where her room lay, and started throwing snow at the wall. Sally Wootten’s room had had the protection of a door, but Rees did not doubt that once the shutters were opened and the waxed paper broken, that that wooden barrier had not stood for very long.

  He’d thrown only a few buckets full of snow at the wall when other men joined him. He spared a quick glance at the two men: Jake and Jem. They hurled buckets of snow like madmen – two to three buckets of snow to every one of Rees’s. Josiah Wootten joined them as well although he concentrated on the front porch. Rees wondered if the man had some notion that his wife would manage to escape through the front. As others arrived to help extinguish the blaze, and put out the fire consuming the fir tree behind the cabin, the hollow gradually filled with wagons and people.

  Rees’s arms and shoulders began to feel heavy and sluggish. He was tiring. Someone, he never knew who, pushed him out of the way and took his bucket. So weary he staggered, he made his way back to the front of the barn.

  He had spent more time than he realized struggling to quench the fire; the last rays of the setting sun painted the tops of the trees with gold. But the thickness of the trees – and most of them evergreens – meant that the light didn’t reach the ground. In the shadowy clearing the floating sparks from the fire glowed, pinpricks of orange and red.

  The cabin was almost gone. The front porch and steps had fallen away from the burning building, and the wooden, shingled roof had collapsed. Only the small room attached to the eastern side – Sally Wootten’s room – remained relatively intact. The Wootten boys had done their very best to coat that part of the cabin with water. In the increasing cold, the logs that made up the wall glistened with ice.

  Although some of the structure remained, Rees was regretfully certain Sally Wootten had died either from the smoke or from the fire itself.

  ‘Here, you’re shivering.’ Granny Rose came up behind Rees and threw his greatcoat over his shoulders. It smelled of smoke. Now he vaguely recalled tossing the heavy caped coat aside when he became too warm. He drew it around himself gratefully. ‘Did Sally escape?’ the midwife asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ he said. ‘But she saved my daughter.’ He had to stop speaking lest his thickening voice betray his emotion. Granny Rose patted his arm and he knew he had not fooled her.

  He looked around for Jerusha now, wondering if she had come out of the barn. There were so many people here now and the dimming light made seeing faces difficult. Then he saw her, staring at the burning cabin in horror.

  ‘Jerusha,’ he called. ‘Over here.’

  She looked away from the fire but instead of approaching him she gestured at him. With a sigh, he crossed the trampled snow. ‘Will you come and look now?’ she asked insistently. He hesitated a few seconds before nodding. She ran into the barn to the door and pulled it open.

  Steps dropped into a shadowy cellar that smelled of cold damp earth and rotting apples. ‘I’ll wait here,’ Jerusha said in a trembling voice.

  He turned a puzzled glance upon her before descending the stairs.

  It would have been too dark to see but for the orange light from the fire spilling through the narrow window and onto a long table in the center of the room. Rees stared at the canvas-shrouded mound. He was almost afraid to approach it.

  ‘Do you see?’ Jerusha hissed from the doorway.

  Without replying, he tiptoed toward the table. He could not help recalling a similar experience a few years ago; then the shrouded form had been his boyhood friend Nate Bowditch. Rees stopped. Taking a deep breath he forced himself to go forward. He stretched out a hand to throw aside the canvas but paused. Did he really want to know what was underneath that rough cloth?

  He did not, but he had to. Steeling himself, he threw aside a corner.
A pale moon face stared up at him. He took two sudden stumbling steps backwards and almost fell.

  ‘Father?’ Jerusha said.

  ‘I’m all right,’ He said, hoping she did not hear the quiver in his voice. ‘I tripped.’

  Gulping, he approached the body once again.

  Someone had closed the girl’s eyes and for that he was thankful. This then was the girl who’d died. Her face was wrong: heavy, slanted eyelids and a flat nose. She was here after all, just as Granny Rose said. Winter had come early and by late October the soil had already been crusty and too hard for digging a grave.

  At least the freezing temperatures had kept the body from corruption.

  Rees pushed down the canvas. On the girl’s breast was another form, a tiny baby, within weeks of birth. So frail, so vulnerable. He could not help thinking of Sharon, his own daughter. He stepped backwards, huffing out a breath.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jerusha quavered.

  ‘I see the body,’ he said. Recalled to himself, he reached for the canvas but his hand stilled. Something about the baby – the delicate nose had been broken. Smashed flat by something pressed upon it, Rees guessed. Who would do something so terrible?

  His gaze returned to the mother’s face. This time, steeling himself against a surge of revulsion, he lifted one of the girl’s eyelids. Red dots speckled the eye, still visible through the film of death. This had been murder.

  Rees turned and heaved the bread and cheese he’d eaten into a corner.

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Rees? Mr Rees?’ Granny Rose’s voice came from the door. ‘What are you doing down here?’ Quickly, despite her long skirts and men’s boots, she trotted down the steps. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, peering into the gloom.

  Wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, he straightened up and turned. ‘Here.’ He approached the table behind him. ‘Look.’

  She joined him and for a moment she stared at the uncovered face. ‘Oh dear,’ she said at last. ‘How distressing. But you know that mothers and babies are frequently taken home to God.’