Deputy Daniels turned to Arbuckle. “State your name,” he said.

“Arbuckle.”

“In its entirety for the court.”

Lady Mae watched his lips carefully as he spoke the name that carried with it all that he wished to forget. “Arbuckle Anfield.”

“And how do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Arbuckle said.

“We are here to sentence you for the crime you committed yesterday. Are you aware of said crime?” asked Deputy Daniels.

“Yes.” Arbuckle turned his head to look at Deputy Daniels as he spoke, and as he did he met Lady Mae’s widened stare. He did not know—could not know—that once blasphemy had been spoken there in the stifling courtroom, there was no way out. It didn’t matter that Lady Mae’s satchel sat in her shack next to the door—that she hadn’t brought it with her to stow at the depot. Arbuckle would never make it to the depot.

“You may put said circumstances in your own words for the court,” said Deputy Daniels.

“I wrote a letter, and in it I questioned the how just the law is.”

“That is all?”

“I reckon.”

“Deputy Iverson?” Deputy Daniels called across the still courtroom. “Approach the bench with evidence.”

He walked over to Deputy Daniels but held his eyes to Lady Mae. He reached into his breast pocket and took out the worn letter. He licked his lips as though he was thirsty for the accused. His throaty breathing rose and fell as he made his way to the bench. He handed over the letter to Deputy Daniels who then passed it to Arbuckle. Lady Mae wanted to shout don’t say nothing and you didn’t mean and it is what I think. For he had not simply questioned the law. Perhaps he thought he did, saying there had to be more for her and didn’t she wish it, too. She did—but she had taken an oath to inherit her mother’s lot, the butcher’s oath that her mother and grandmother had taken as well. If she should waiver, she would pay for it with her life. She had blasphemy in her blood, dissent in her bones. And the Deputies weren’t going to take any chances. But Arbuckle didn’t know about that, and so when he wrote the words I saw it in you and in you still he unwittingly accused her of blasphemy, and in doing so committed blasphemy himself. And for that they would both hang.

“Could you read the letter? Aloud, please,” said Deputy Daniels.

Arbuckle unfolded the piece of paper in his hand, and as he did, he looked up at Lady Mae. She held his stare, tried to shake her head no. But she could not obstruct the law any more than he could get around it. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“Dear Lady Mae. As I sit here the wind howls outside of my window, and I think of you. I try not to, for thinking of you has brought me as much misery as happiness in the years since I’ve been gone.”