“I meant I can tell.”
“No. You said, ‘I know.’”
“It was only an expression.”
Mary stared at him.
He was lying.
She knew it.
Before she could press him, Clara screamed downstairs.
Mary ran.
She found Clara standing in the parlor beside a small wooden horse.
Sarah was across the room, pale with fury.
“I told her not to touch it!”
“I only wanted to see—”
“It was my mother’s!”
Sarah rushed forward and snatched the carving from Clara’s hands.
Clara burst into tears.
Mary pulled her close.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “She didn’t understand.”
Sarah clutched the wooden horse to her chest.
And Mary stopped breathing.
A tiny crescent had been carved beneath its left hoof.
Thomas had carved toys exactly that way.
Every horse.
Every bird.
Every little animal he had ever made for Clara bore the same tiny crescent.
His private mark.
Mary stared at Sarah’s horse.
“Where did you get that?”
Sarah backed away.
“My mother.”
“Who made it?”
The girl looked frightened.
“I don’t know.”
Ethan had come into the room.
The moment he saw what Mary was holding, all color left his face.
Mary slowly stood.
“Ethan.”
He said nothing.
Her voice dropped.
“Who made that horse?”
Sarah looked between them.
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
Then he said, “Mary, not tonight.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“You knew Thomas.”
Clara stopped crying.
Sarah held the wooden horse tighter.
“You knew my husband.”
“I knew a man by that name.”
Mary crossed the room and slapped him.
The sound cracked through the house.
Ethan did not move.
Mary’s hand burned.
“You let me sit in that wagon telling you about him.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think you were a stranger.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes were full of something worse than guilt.
Grief.
“Because I promised I wouldn’t tell you until you were safe.”
Mary’s blood turned cold.
“Promised whom?”
Ethan whispered, “Thomas.”
Mary packed immediately.
Or tried to.
Her hands shook so violently she could hardly fold Clara’s dress.
“Mama?”
Clara sat on the bed.
“Are we leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Mary stopped.
She had no answer.
Sarah stood outside the door, watching.
Ethan remained downstairs.
He had not attempted to stop Mary.
That made her angrier.
Finally Sarah said, “Please don’t go.”
Mary looked at her.
The child swallowed.
“Clara can keep my horse if she wants.”
Mary’s anger cracked around the edges.
“Oh, sweetheart. That isn’t why.”
Sarah stared at the floor.
“Everyone leaves anyway.”
The words were so quiet they cut deeper than a shout.
Mary crouched before her.
“Your father loves you.”
“I know.”
“He isn’t going anywhere.”
Sarah looked toward the stairs.
“But mothers do.”
Mary’s throat tightened.
Before she could respond, Ethan appeared.
“Sarah, go downstairs with Clara.”
Sarah hesitated.
Then obeyed.
Mary stood.
“Start talking.”
Ethan entered and closed the door.
“Thomas Whitfield wasn’t your husband’s real name.”
The world stopped.
Mary stared at him.
“Get out.”
“His name was Thomas Cole.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“He was my younger brother.”
“No.”
“Mary—”
“No!”
She grabbed Thomas’s old photograph from her bag and thrust it toward Ethan.
