“McCullough was a sundowner and a mean one at that,” said Beth. “Might be the sheriff didn’t want to push them too hard in case they told him something he didn’t want to hear. They need him to sound like a good man to make Marge seem bad.”

“But surely our lawyer should have gone asking questions?”

“Mr. Fancy Pants out of Lexington? You think he’s going to ride a mule half a day up to Arnott’s Ridge to speak with a bunch of angry hillbillies?”

“I don’t see how this is going to help us none,” said Beth. “If they won’t talk to the sheriff’s men they ain’t hardly going to talk to us.”

“That may be exactly why they would talk to us,” said Kathleen.

Izzy pointed at the wall. “Margery put the McCullough house on the list of places not to go to. On no account. Look, it says so right here.”

“Well, maybe she was just doing what everyone’s done to her,” said Alice. “Going on gossip without actually looking at the facts.”

“Those girls haven’t been seen in town for nigh on ten years,” Kathleen murmured. “Word is their daddy wouldn’t let them leave the house after their mama disappeared. One of those families that just stays in the shadows.”

Alice thought of Margery’s words, words that had rung through her head for days: There is always a way out of a situation. Might be ugly. Might leave you feeling like the earth has gone and shifted under your feet. But there is always a way around.

“I’m going to ride up there,” said Alice. “I can’t see what we have to lose.”

“Your head?” said Sophia.

“Right now, the way my head is, it wouldn’t make that much difference.”

“You know the stories come out of that family? And you know how much they hate us right now? You just fixing to get yourself killed?”

“You want to tell me what other chance Margery has right now?” Alice said. Sophia gave Alice a hard look but didn’t answer. “Right. Does anyone have the map for that route?” For a moment Sophia didn’t move. Then she opened the drawer wordlessly and flicked through the assembled papers until she found it and handed it over.

“Thank you, Sophia.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Beth.

“Then I’m coming, too,” said Izzy.

Kathleen reached for her hat. “Looks like we got us an outing. Here, eight tomorrow?”

“Let’s make it seven,” said Beth.

For the first time in days Alice found she was smiling.

“Lord help the lot of you,” said Sophia, shaking her head.

TWENTY-FIVE

   It was clear within a couple of hours of setting out why only Margery and Charley ever undertook the route to Arnott’s Ridge. Even in the benign conditions of early September, the route was remote and arduous, taking in steep crevasses, narrow ledges and a variety of obstacles to scrabble down or over, from ditches to fences to fallen trees. Alice had brought Charley, confident he would understand where he was going, and so it proved. He strode out willingly, his huge ears flicking backward and forward, following his own well-worn tracks along the creek bed and up the side of the ridge, the horses following on behind. There were no notches on trees here, no red ribbons; Margery had plainly never expected anyone but herself to take such a route, and Alice glanced behind her intermittently at the other women, hoping she could trust Charley as a guide.

Around them the air hung thick and moist and the newly amber forests lay dense with fallen leaves, muffling sound as they made their way along the hidden trails. They rode in silence, focused on the unfamiliar terrain, only breaking off to praise their horses quietly or warn of some approaching obstacle.

It occurred to Alice as they headed along the track into the upper reaches of the mountains that they had never ridden together, not all of them, like this. And then that it was entirely possible this would be the last time she rode into the mountains.

In a week or so she would be making her way by train toward New York and the huge ocean liner that would take her to England, and a very different kind of existence. She turned in her saddle and looked at the group of women behind her and realized she loved them all, that leaving each of them, not just Fred, would be a wrench almost greater than anything she had endured up to now. She couldn’t imagine meeting women with whom she would feel so in tune, so close to in her next life, over polite chit-chat and cups of tea.

The other librarians would slowly forget her, their lives busy with work and families, and the ever-changing challenges of the seasons. Oh, they would promise to write, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same. There would be no more shared experiences, the cold wind on their faces, the warnings of snakes on tracks, or commiserations when one of them took a fall. She would gradually become a postscript to a story: Do you remember that English girl who rode with us for a while? Bennett Van Cleve’s wife?

“Think we’re getting close?” Kathleen broke into her thoughts, riding up alongside.

Alice pulled Charley to a halt, unfolding the map from her pocket. “Uh . . . according to this, it’s not far over that ridge,” she said, squinting at the hand-drawn images. “She said the sisters live four miles that way, and Nancy would always walk the last part because of the hanging bridge, so I make the McCullough house . . . somewhere over there.”

Beth scoffed. “You reading that map upside down? I know for a fact the damn bridge is that way.”

Alice’s belly was tight with nerves. “If you know better, you want to head off on your own and let us know when you’re there?”

“No need to get ornery. You’re not from here is all. I just thought I—”

“Oh, and don’t I know it. Like the whole town hasn’t spent the last year reminding me.”

“No need to take it like that, Alice. Shoot. I just meant some of us might have more knowledge of the mountains than—”

“Shut up, Beth.” Even Izzy was irritated. “We wouldn’t even have got this far if it wasn’t for Alice.”

“Hold up,” said Kathleen. “Look.”

It was the smoke that alerted them, a thin apologetic whisper of gray that they might not have spotted had the trees nearby not lost their leaves from the crown, so that the wavering plume was briefly visible against the leaden sky. The women stopped in the clearing, just able to make out the shack squatting on the ridge, its shingle roof missing a couple of tiles, its yard unkempt. It was the only house for miles and everything about it spoke of neglect and an antipathy toward casual visitors. A mean-looking dog tethered to a chain set up a fierce, staccato bark, already aware of their presence through the trees.