That lump of sweetness pulls me back through the bare peach trees, through the icy brook. The sensation strengthens as I approach. It’s not coming from inside the barn, but behind it. Beyond the henhouse and near the woodpile.

The ground outside the henhouse is littered with down; something panicked the poor birds bad enough to send their feathers through the breathing holes. The sweetness in my throat turns sour. I force myself to walk the remaining steps.

I find her there, sitting with her back against the woodpile, legs outstretched, her skirt ridden up enough that a sliver of gray stocking shows above her boots. The locket that led me to her rests above her heart, sparkling in the sunshine. Below, her waist is soaked in blood. She’s been gut-shot.

Her eyes flutter as I approach, and she lifts one hand in my direction. “Leah,” she whispers. “My beautiful girl.”

I rush forward and grab her hand. “I’ll get Doc,” I say. “Just hold tight.” I try to pull away, but her grip is strong, though her gaze is so weak it can’t seem to alight on anything for more than the space of a butterfly’s touch.

“My strong girl. Strong, perfect . . .”

“Who did this to you?” Tears burn my eyes.

Her head lolls toward me, as if moving her neck can force her gaze in the direction her eyes cannot. “Trust someone. Not good to be as alone as we’ve been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .” Her words are coming slower and quieter.

“Mama?”

“Run, Lee. Go . . .”

Her chin hits her chest, and she says no more.

Chapter Four

I need help. I should get the sheriff. Or Judge Smith. I know I should.

But all I can do is sit back on my heels and stare. It doesn’t matter what I do next. Not a single thing in the whole world will make my mama and daddy any less dead. And once I get up and walk away, everything will be different. I want this moment, this in-between time, when I’m not quite an orphan and I’m not quite alone.

She’s wearing her winter dress, the black wool. Her chin rests in the ruffles of the high collar. I avoid looking at her belly, instead letting my eyes drift down to the mud-splattered skirt. She tried to run.

I gently lower her skirt to cover her stockings and tuck it under her ankles so the breeze won’t blow it back up. The shiny brown bun of her hair skews to the side. I reach up to rearrange a hairpin or two, but my shaking fingers just make a mess of everything.

I swallow hard. Mama had the most beautiful hair. Shimmering light brown, with hints of bronze and gold. It fell past her waist when it wasn’t pinned.