“You are not alone,” George had said. “You’re never alone.”
Which was a lie. His isolation was numbing. He was no longer a brother; no longer one of the many who populated Morton’s land; and more likely than not, he was no longer a son, at least not in any way that mattered. For all he knew, his mother no longer walked the earth. And what did it matter if she did? His odds of ever finding her seemed about as good as the odds of bringing Landry back to life. The idea he’d long cherished—that of his mother living elsewhere, perhaps even in the North—rang true only to the side of him that still entertained fanciful notions. He would see her walking up ahead on a dusty trail, a woman with black hair like a nest upon her head, her primrose dress alight in the eye of the sun; or imagine her in the woman getting water from the pump on a dusty road, her delicate fingers cupping water to her child’s mouth. Yet he always knew it was the work of his mind. He figured Landry had known as well, that it was a secret they withheld from each other so as to keep the truth untrue, to keep their story, and her being, forever alive.
Now he faced reality. That it was him. Alone. The thought was a bolt of fear, but he knew that he would come to know this new life as he’d learned to know all those that had come before—for every step in life had been an obstacle, yet here he was, still standing day after day, ready for whatever might happen next. The shred of hope felt like salvation, and it drew him toward a deep slumber.
*
He awoke to an orchestra of horse hooves. He rushed to the door of the barn and peeked his head out, taking in the party coming up the lane. Several men on horseback led the charge. Behind them plodded a black carriage.
Prentiss yelled for George and walked toward the cabin. He did not wait for a response but went straight through the back door and nearly slipped into the stove top in his haste. The parlor sat empty. The house was asleep.
“George!” he yelled upstairs. “Best you get up!”
Outside the horses were pulling up to the roundabout, the carriage settling in a cloud of dust. The men reined the horses in, although the beasts still pranced in the throes of their energy. The two in the lead had been at the house the day before, and the others, near the back, were none other than Ted Morton and Gail. Prentiss thought to go upstairs and knock, but as he stepped forward, the bedroom door opened.
George appeared in a nightgown.
“What’s the racket about?” he said, eyes squinted.
“Out front,” Prentiss said. “It’s that sheriff. And he ain’t alone. I seen Morton as well. It’s a gang of ’em.”
George’s eyes snapped open.
“Don’t go outside,” he said. “Let me put some pants on.” He returned to his room.
In the roundabout the coachman opened the door of the carriage and out strode a man in evening wear, prim as any Prentiss had ever seen. A second man, about his own age, came next, and the two stood beside the carriage, saying little. The older one spoke to the younger one, then adjusted his tie and took a few steps toward the house. What followed was almost in lockstep: George’s bedroom door opened, and so did Caleb’s, and one after the other father and son descended the stairs.
“Saw them coming through the window,” Caleb said. “August is with them.”
“What nerve,” George said. “To come here unannounced. If they dare try anything.”
“George! Is that you in there?” It was the older one in the suit, whom Prentiss presumed to be the father of the boy, his brother’s killer. “Why don’t you come out so I don’t need to go in.”
“You set foot through this door and I’ll put a pan to your head, Wade. Trust to it.” George went onto the porch, hobbling all the way.
The man in the suit waved him off, his face pinched in disgust.
“Threats do not suit you, George. You’re better than to say such things.”
Hackstedde and his deputy were still on horseback, along with Morton and Gail, while the man called Wade and his son stood before their carriage on foot. Prentiss hadn’t seen the boy before, although he was as Caleb had described him—reserved in demeanor but with something wild in his eye. He wanted to have at him there. He wasn’t one for fighting, but he’d make an exception, take those blond locks in a fist and guide his face toward the ground, repeat those steps until the boy quit trying to get up.
“I’m not looking to have a conversation this early in the morning,” George said as he and Prentiss stepped outside, “so you better bring this to a point quickly. None of that jabbering on you’re about.”