And Samuel…
He was my twin. I should have sensed this; I should have known.
But looking between them now, I knew I’d missed it. Whatever bond I’d shared with them wasn’t as strong as I’d imagined it to be. I’d been completely in the dark, without even an inkling of suspicion. My own cheeks heated and my stomach churned as I imagined how my cluelessness must have amused them.
When had it begun? Rebecca had stayed overnight just last week. We’d slept in the barn’s hayloft, giggling about the boys in town till the moon had sunk behind the mountains. She must have thought it was such a good joke, never letting on about the truth. She must have thought I was the biggest fool, never guessing her secret.
“I’m going into the woods,” Papa stated, firm enough to bring me back to the present. “Jeb would never have let that horse out of his sight—we have to assume something on that run went terribly, terribly wrong….I can’t make any of you come with me, but I can ask. It’s the right thing to do, no matter what might be out there.”
“A fool’s errand,” Cyrus sniped. “And I’m no fool. I won’t be a part of any of this.” With a snarl, he released a final slug of tobacco. “Somebody bury that horse before it starts to smell.”
He stalked off, muttering to himself. Rebecca’s lips pressed together into a thin line.
Papa scanned the crowd, his dark gray eyes lingering on every man present. He paused, clearly hoping for others to volunteer. “Judd Abrams?”
The tall rancher ran his hands through silvering hair, tousling it uncomfortably. “You know I would, but I’ve got a field of pregnant heifers, due any day. I can’t leave them.”
Papa ran his tongue over his teeth. “Calvin Buhrman?”
Violet grabbed her husband’s elbow, silently pleading with him to stay. After a moment of indecision, the tavern owner shook his tight, dark curls.
“Matthias Dodson? Will you ride with me?”
I hated the look of crushed hope in my father’s eyes as the Elder waved aside his plea. “You know I can’t leave town, especially with Amos in such a sorry state.”
The three Elders were tied to the Falls in a way that none of its other citizens were. They were the keepers of law and tradition, justice and order. While Parson Briard might have been in charge of nurturing and nourishing the soul of Amity Falls, the Elders protected its head and heart.
“I’ll go with you, Papa.”
I heard the words before realizing it was my own voice that spoke.
There was a nervous titter from the group, but I didn’t care. I’d been there this morning to help him, and I wanted to help again now.
I’d show him I was every bit as capable as Sam was.
More so even.
Because I was there. Here.
I could be the reliable one he needed.
My face burned crimson as Papa shook his head.
“I could be of help. Even if it’s just…” I racked my mind, searching for something to lift the weight of defeat from his shoulders. “The brush Samson ran through! It’s bound to be bloodied. It’ll need to be burned away, or it’ll draw all sorts of things. Let me at least do that.”
“I need you at home, Ellerie, looking after your sisters.”
“Mama would have your hide if she knew you were going into the forest by yourself. And what about the Rules?” I persisted after Papa as he turned to go. “You can’t go alone.”
Matthias opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to offer some sort of dispensation he truly couldn’t make without the other two Elders, but Sam spoke up first.
“She’s right, Papa.”
Rebecca had stepped to his side, her hand curved just inches from his.
“You can’t go by yourself.”
“I didn’t hear you offering to go before. In fact, I’ve not heard you offering to do much of anything all summer,” Papa shot back.
“I…” Any words that were to follow dried in Sam’s mouth as Papa’s eyes fell to Sam’s and Rebecca’s almost-held hands, missing nothing.
“I see there is much to discuss when I return.”
Samuel pushed aside Rebecca’s hand and ran after our father. “I’m coming with you.”
“Sam!” Rebecca’s voice was soft and pleading, but my brother didn’t stop. He whizzed past me, and I had to step out of the way to avoid being hit.
Papa chewed the inside of his cheek. “Fine. Fill a pack, but be quick about it.”
My fist struck the dough, smashing into its thick, warm pliancy with a satisfying thud. I struck it again, leaving a giant dent before gathering it up into a loaf. It still looked misshapen. I hit it once more.
“Whose face are you imagining right now?” my mother asked, coming around the tall kitchen table with a tray of hot bread. She deposited the loaves onto the cooling racks before bustling back to the oven.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, slamming the dough back onto the table. A burst of flour rose into the air, mixing with sparkling dust motes as they danced in and out of the late-afternoon rays of sun that painted the kitchen orange.
“Something’s been bothering you since we came back from town yesterday,” she observed. “You’ve nearly pounded that loaf into oblivion.”
Using the back of my hand, I pushed aside a stray ringlet of hair that had pulled free from my bun. I only ever wore my hair up on baking days. Our kitchen simmered with yeast and heat, far too hot for my usual thick braid.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a bad day,” Mama continued, crossing back to the table. She grabbed the dough from me and worked it into a more manageable shape. “And there’s certainly nothing wrong with taking out frustrations while baking. I do whenever your father does something to vex me. Why pick a fight when you can bake a loaf of bread?”
She slammed the dough into another loaf pan, adding an exclamation to her point.
“Mama, we make bread almost every day.”
Her eyes twinkled as she tapped my nose, dusting it with flour. “Exactly.”
Mama sold her baked goods in town—to the Buhrmans’ tavern and at the general store. Her sourdough was good enough that even the most tightfisted misers would fork over the shiny dime Amos McCleary charged per loaf.
But it was her honey cakes that had all of Amity Falls lining up.
She only made them once a year—just after Papa harvested the combs, and all the honey had been extracted and bottled. He’d make sure our larder was fully stocked for the winter and would then sell the surplus in town—charging a whole dollar a bottle. Though people claimed to be scandalized by the price, he never had a shortage of customers, and the honey was always sold out before day’s end.