HOME | DD

Description
Chapter One

His guide led him past the general store and the cobbler's, down towards the smithy where Brom worked.

It was a proud tradition in the Van Brunt family, and Brom had never questioned when his father trained him as a blacksmith, as his own father had done before him. And he had enjoyed learning something new, having never been afraid of a challenge. After his father's death, he and his younger brother Willem ran the smithy.

He heard the sounds of a hammer on metal from inside, the hiss of metal on water, and his guide stopped.

"Welcome home...in a sense," his double said, beckoning with his hand. Instantly, they were inside the smithy.

Brom saw himself—not his double, but rather a memory of himself, hammering a piece of metal. His brother had his back to the intruders, busy as he was with the cooling piece of metal he held with a pair of tongs.

"When is this?" he asked softly.

"Only a week before your battle with the Hessian Horseman," his double replied. Brom's brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to puzzle all this out.

Who knows if I'm the real Brom Van Brunt? For all I know, it's the memory, or that double with a bizarre sense of humor! What is real anymore?

Contrary to popular belief, Brom was no fool. But he was by no means used to deep, brooding introspection. In his opinion, it wasted too much time—and there were always other things that needed doing. Now, however, he had no choice but to sit, watch, and think.

I have a feeling I'm going to hate this.

He turned to watch his brother. Willem Van Brunt was a mere lad of seventeen, slighter in build than Brom, but retaining the same square jaw and blue eyes. His hair was a bit shorter, and much lighter.

"We're almost done," Will said, as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Just three more, I think." He sat down on the workbench, exhausted.

The hammer stopped in mid-strike, and Brom glanced at his brother. "When was the last time you took a break?"

"Er..."

"WILL!"

It was typical—Will often became too wrapped up in what he was doing to bother with trivial details like eating or sleeping. Smithing was one such activity, as were his studies. Will was the most intelligent person Brom knew, next to their mother. In truth, he was probably not cut out to be a blacksmith. He was happiest when reading, or fiddling with herbs.

"I'm sorry," Will replied contritely. "I didn't realize it had been that long."

"Well, go outside and take a walk when you've caught your breath. You look as though you could do with some fresh air." He couldn't help but grin. "Otherwise you might just faint at Van Tassel's party tonight."

Will threw him a withering look, and then sighed. "Pity Mother can't go. She loves parties."

"Dr. Lancaster said she'd be up and about in another day or so. It's lucky her fever was so mild, and you took care of her well enough" Brom responded. "Besides, I'm not sure I want her there if Katrina turns me down again."

"If she keeps turning you down, why do you keep asking?" Will inquired.

"Why do you keep trying to make sense of love?" Brom asked with a wry grin.

"More like, why do I keep trying to make sense of you?" Will laughed, taking off his apron and throwing it at Brom, who caught it easily.

"Go on and take a walk," Brom said. "I'll finish up here."

*********************************************************

Brom turned to his guide. "Why are you showing me this? It's just a memory."

The guide rolled his eyes. "Exactly. It's your memory."

"What does it mean?"

"Simply that to understand where a story will end, we must sometimes revisit the beginning," his double replied. "What are you complaining about? Be a sport, Bones, and sit back to enjoy the show!"

**********************************************************

After bidding their mother goodbye, Brom and Will set out for the Van Tassel home. As usual, Will tried to hide in the nearest corner—he'd always hated crowds. But Brom, obeying his promise to Mrs. Van Brunt, dragged him out and forced him to mingle.

"Come on now, you don't want to be rude," Brom coaxed, though it was somewhat unnecessary as he was holding Will firmly by the back of the collar.

"There are so many people here," Will whispered fearfully.

"I know. It's called a party. Lots of people go to them, and eat and drink and dance."

Will glared at him. "I know that, you great oaf! Let me go!"

"I will, as soon as you—"

"Hello, Brom. Will," came Katrina Van Tassel's voice from somewhere to their left. Still holding Will, Brom turned to her.

"You're looking well," he said. But then, she always did—especially when she wore that pink gown.

"Consider the compliment returned," Katrina replied with a gracious smile. "Given your dislike for formal attire."

It was true. Brom was about as comfortable in his brown suit with its lace cravat as he would have been in a hair shirt. Come to that, the hair shirt would have at least allowed him to turn his head.

"Well, you two don't seem to need me, so—"Will attempted to duck out of Brom's grasp, but he pressed his brother firmly to his side, keeping one arm around his shoulders.

"I hate you," Will grumbled. Brom laughed.

"Oh, let him go, Brom," Katrina pleaded, though she was obviously holding back laughter. "What are you going to do? Tie him to your side?"

Brom's eyes lit up. "That's not a bad idea," he said thoughtfully. "I could use my cravat."

Will groaned. "Thanks a lot, Katrina."

"I'm sorry."

"Besides, if I don't keep him with me he'll just drive himself mad in some dark corner, brooding about what some egghead writer has to say," Brom remarked.

"What's wrong with writers?" Katrina asked.

"Nothing, but I don't see why people get so worked up over words on a page."

"But don't you think that words on a page can be powerful?" Katrina always did this to him—asked him questions that never would have occurred to him; that he had no idea how to respond to. And no matter what, he felt as though his answer was always wrong to Katrina.

Brom struggled for words. "Yes, but I don't see the sense in brooding over them, especially if there isn't anything you can do about it. Why waste the energy?"

"My brother, the noble work-horse," Will said with a smile—his first of the evening. Brom responded with a playful swat at Will's head.

"I think I'll go have some ale," Will said hopefully, glancing at Brom and Katrina in turn.

Will was quite devious when he wanted to be—where Brom charged headlong, Will came up from the side and attacked. He knew perfectly well Brom wanted to speak to Katrina alone. Sighing, Brom released his brother.

"Drink more than a pint and I'll skin you," he cautioned, as Will disappeared into the crowd.

"Do you really think he will?" Katrina asked.

"No," Brom replied with a grin. "But I might, and one of us has to drive the carriage home."

Katrina laughed. They'd known each other since childhood, their mothers having been the best of friends. Brom's mother, Griet Van Brunt, had often joked with Elizabeth Van Tassel about a possible marriage between their two firstborn children. But it had never been a joke to Brom.

Am I fooling myself? Does Katrina care a jot about me, beyond our friendship?

It was true, they were good friends. Through the years, Brom had loyally kept Katrina's addiction to tales of romance a secret, and taught her to ride a horse astride. And Katrina had always laughed at his more harmless practical jokes, teased Willem, and helped put words to Brom's thoughts. He never seemed to know the correct ones.

Sometimes Brom thought that if someone else came to Sleepy Hollow—a man who was well-read, well-mannered and everything he was not, he would lose Katrina forever. She was like a princess in a fairy story.

And I'm...what? Certainly not the noble knight. The knave? The jester, perhaps? I don't even know what a knave is!

Suddenly his friend Glen appeared behind Katrina, holding a finger to his lips. Brom bit back a smile.

"What?" Katrina asked suspiciously, then gave a yelp as Glen tied the blindfold over her eyes.

"Come on, Pickety Witch!" Theodore, his other friend, crowed. "Let's form the circle. Brom, spin her around, would you?"

Snickering, Brom took Katrina by the shoulders, and spun her as gently as he could.

"This is such a silly game," she said, giggling.

"Oh, be a sport and stop complaining," Brom replied through his laughter. She lunged toward him, but he edged away from her, and she moved towards the other side of the circle, chanting.

"Pickety witch, pickety witch, who's got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?"

That was when the stranger appeared, dressed oddly in black, which created a stark contrast against his white skin. It was impossible to tell his age—he might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. His face was a controlled mask. And Katrina's hands caressed the man's face in a way that they had never touched Brom's...

Fighting back a surge of ugly jealousy, Brom moved toward the stranger.

"Is it Theodore?" Katrina asked, still touching the stranger's face.

The stranger replied in the negative, obviously flustered. "Pardon, miss, I am only a stranger."

"Then have a kiss on account," she replied, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

Brom fought the impulse to simply chuck the man out of one of the large windows. Who did he think he was, invading the town like this? Especially now! Of all the—

"I'm looking for Baltus Van Tassel," the stranger stammered, his dark eyes darting around the room nervously.

"I'm his daughter, Katrina Van Tassel," she replied, taking off the blindfold.

"And who are you, friend? We have not heard your name yet," Brom pointed out, stepping up next to Katrina.

The stranger regarded him warily, and then turned away. "I have not said it," he replied coldly.

Brom's well-documented temper flared, and he grabbed the stranger's shoulder and spun him around.

I'll teach you to dismiss Brom Van Brunt!

"You need some manners!"

"Brom!" Katrina was visibly alarmed. His grip loosened just as Baltus and Lady Van Tassel entered the room.

"Come, come! There will be no raised voices here! It is only to raise spirits that I and my dear wife have given this little party," Baltus said. Brom released the dark-haired man and stepped back, his eyes never leaving the stranger's face. It was extraordinarily pale, as were many people from the city (according to rumors), and delicate. But there was fire burning in the stranger's dark eyes, like a knight from one of Katrina's stories.

He found his way to Katrina's side, placing one hand on her arm as the stranger introduced himself as Constable Ichabod Crane, there to investigate the recent beheadings in Sleepy Hollow.

Brom did not like the way Katrina seemed to be drinking in his every word. He liked it even less when Lady Van Tassel invited him to stay in their home.

Eventually Baltus, Lady Van Tassel and Constable Crane left to get him settled, ordering the band to begin playing again.

Will appeared behind Brom and Katrina. "Well, that was different," he said brightly.

"I should say so!" Katrina replied, glancing in the direction the constable had gone. "I hope he is able to do what he came for."

"Is anyone?" Brom asked, desperately wishing he could drive this damnable stranger from her mind. "Katrina, might we go outside for a moment? There's something I wish to say to you."

*****************************************

A shot rang out as Brom was dressing for work that morning. Katrina's refusal still echoed in his mind. The sadness in her beautiful, clear eyes as she tried to let him down gently—again.

He poked his head out the window, only to hear what he had been dreading.

"I'm sorry, Brom. I love you as a sister loves a brother, or as a friend loves another friend. I cannot be your wife."

"Murder! The Horseman's killed again!" Van Ripper shouted, his voice slashing through the fog of Brom's thoughts.

"Oh, hell," Brom muttered. Who is it this time?

Downstairs, he heard a piece of crockery smash on the floor, and the maidservant cry out in alarm. Once out in the hallway, he encountered his mother, still in her dressing gown, her graying brown hair loose around her face.

"What in seven hells was that?" Griet Van Brunt demanded with her usual lack of subtlety.

"Another murder, from the sound of it. I should go and see."

"Brom, don't you think-"

"I know what I'm doing, Mother! Anyway, the Horseman's not going to attack anyone during the day. Or at least, he hasn't yet."

"You said they had a constable from New York looking into it. Why not let him handle this?" His mother's practical nature reasserted itself.

Brom was now halfway down the stairs. "Let's just say I have a few doubts about his abilities," he called back. Finally managing to locate his rifle, he set about loading it—just in case. He strapped the weapon across his back, and headed for the front door.

One foot was out the door by the time Brom realized that he was not alone. Turning around, he smothered a groan when he saw Will standing behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"To the opera, where do you think?" Will replied sarcastically. "I'm going with you!"

"No, you aren't. Stay here at the smithy, and look after Mother."

"If she heard you say that, she'd kill you."

Brom knew this was probably true, but he wasn't about to lose the argument on a side issue. "You're still not going."

"Why not? I'm almost of age! You're not Father, Brom!" Will exclaimed in frustration.

That made Brom freeze in his tracks, and he whirled around. "No, I'm not Father. Glad you picked up on reality at last."

"I only meant...you're my brother, you don't have to be responsible for me." Will's tone softened just a little.

Brom fixed his brother with a hard look. "Why not? Someone has to do it, and it's not as though you try very hard at it!"

Will looked furious, but by that time Brom was already heading toward the noise.

By the time he reached the clearing, he was already feeling more than a little guilty about his remark to Will. The boy was constantly daydreaming, but he did have sense when he chose to use it. Unfortunately, he didn't use it nearly as often as Brom would have liked.

He met Glen and Theodore on the side road, where they were waiting for him. It always amazed Brom how his two friends never seemed able to do anything without him. In some ways, it drove him insane. Still, like him, they managed to find the fun within the ordinary, and for that he valued them—though he'd never have said so aloud.

"Who was it?" he greeted them, before any civilities could be exchanged.

Glen glanced over his shoulder, and nodded to the clearing just down the road, where one man was kneeling next to the headless corpse, while another stood by, white-faced. The three made their way to the dead man's final resting place.

"Send for the funeral cart," Baltus Van Tassel instructed, and one of the men set off to do just that.

"Who was it?" Brom repeated. If someone didn't answer him, he was going to scream—or possibly hit someone.

Baltus seemed to notice Brom and his friends for the first time. "Jonathan Masbath," he replied.

Ice gathered in the pit of his stomach, and slowly crawled up Brom's throat. The damp chill of the gray autumn morning only heightened the sensation of foreboding that hung over them all. It seemed that not even a leaf dared to stir in this place, not after the 'Headless Horseman' had been there.

And then Brom thought of Jonathan's son. Poor lad—at least when Brom's own father died, he was of an age to help his mother. But young Masbath had no mother. What would happen to him? Who would tell him the news?

Brom Van Brunt was not usually prey to such thoughts, but he was not callous, and hoped that the boy could be spared from the worst of this tragedy.

He glared around the trees, silent in the morning stillness. Brom was almost daring the Horseman to come out now, and have another try—with victims willing to fight back.

Never again, Hessian!

Description
Chapter One

His guide led him past the general store and the cobbler's, down towards the smithy where Brom worked.

It was a proud tradition in the Van Brunt family, and Brom had never questioned when his father trained him as a blacksmith, as his own father had done before him. And he had enjoyed learning something new, having never been afraid of a challenge. After his father's death, he and his younger brother Willem ran the smithy.

He heard the sounds of a hammer on metal from inside, the hiss of metal on water, and his guide stopped.

"Welcome home...in a sense," his double said, beckoning with his hand. Instantly, they were inside the smithy.

Brom saw himself—not his double, but rather a memory of himself, hammering a piece of metal. His brother had his back to the intruders, busy as he was with the cooling piece of metal he held with a pair of tongs.

"When is this?" he asked softly.

"Only a week before your battle with the Hessian Horseman," his double replied. Brom's brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to puzzle all this out.

Who knows if I'm the real Brom Van Brunt? For all I know, it's the memory, or that double with a bizarre sense of humor! What is real anymore?

Contrary to popular belief, Brom was no fool. But he was by no means used to deep, brooding introspection. In his opinion, it wasted too much time—and there were always other things that needed doing. Now, however, he had no choice but to sit, watch, and think.

I have a feeling I'm going to hate this.

He turned to watch his brother. Willem Van Brunt was a mere lad of seventeen, slighter in build than Brom, but retaining the same square jaw and blue eyes. His hair was a bit shorter, and much lighter.

"We're almost done," Will said, as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Just three more, I think." He sat down on the workbench, exhausted.

The hammer stopped in mid-strike, and Brom glanced at his brother. "When was the last time you took a break?"

"Er..."

"WILL!"

It was typical—Will often became too wrapped up in what he was doing to bother with trivial details like eating or sleeping. Smithing was one such activity, as were his studies. Will was the most intelligent person Brom knew, next to their mother. In truth, he was probably not cut out to be a blacksmith. He was happiest when reading, or fiddling with herbs.

"I'm sorry," Will replied contritely. "I didn't realize it had been that long."

"Well, go outside and take a walk when you've caught your breath. You look as though you could do with some fresh air." He couldn't help but grin. "Otherwise you might just faint at Van Tassel's party tonight."

Will threw him a withering look, and then sighed. "Pity Mother can't go. She loves parties."

"Dr. Lancaster said she'd be up and about in another day or so. It's lucky her fever was so mild, and you took care of her well enough" Brom responded. "Besides, I'm not sure I want her there if Katrina turns me down again."

"If she keeps turning you down, why do you keep asking?" Will inquired.

"Why do you keep trying to make sense of love?" Brom asked with a wry grin.

"More like, why do I keep trying to make sense of you?" Will laughed, taking off his apron and throwing it at Brom, who caught it easily.

"Go on and take a walk," Brom said. "I'll finish up here."

*********************************************************

Brom turned to his guide. "Why are you showing me this? It's just a memory."

The guide rolled his eyes. "Exactly. It's your memory."

"What does it mean?"

"Simply that to understand where a story will end, we must sometimes revisit the beginning," his double replied. "What are you complaining about? Be a sport, Bones, and sit back to enjoy the show!"

**********************************************************

After bidding their mother goodbye, Brom and Will set out for the Van Tassel home. As usual, Will tried to hide in the nearest corner—he'd always hated crowds. But Brom, obeying his promise to Mrs. Van Brunt, dragged him out and forced him to mingle.

"Come on now, you don't want to be rude," Brom coaxed, though it was somewhat unnecessary as he was holding Will firmly by the back of the collar.

"There are so many people here," Will whispered fearfully.

"I know. It's called a party. Lots of people go to them, and eat and drink and dance."

Will glared at him. "I know that, you great oaf! Let me go!"

"I will, as soon as you—"

"Hello, Brom. Will," came Katrina Van Tassel's voice from somewhere to their left. Still holding Will, Brom turned to her.

"You're looking well," he said. But then, she always did—especially when she wore that pink gown.

"Consider the compliment returned," Katrina replied with a gracious smile. "Given your dislike for formal attire."

It was true. Brom was about as comfortable in his brown suit with its lace cravat as he would have been in a hair shirt. Come to that, the hair shirt would have at least allowed him to turn his head.

"Well, you two don't seem to need me, so—"Will attempted to duck out of Brom's grasp, but he pressed his brother firmly to his side, keeping one arm around his shoulders.

"I hate you," Will grumbled. Brom laughed.

"Oh, let him go, Brom," Katrina pleaded, though she was obviously holding back laughter. "What are you going to do? Tie him to your side?"

Brom's eyes lit up. "That's not a bad idea," he said thoughtfully. "I could use my cravat."

Will groaned. "Thanks a lot, Katrina."

"I'm sorry."

"Besides, if I don't keep him with me he'll just drive himself mad in some dark corner, brooding about what some egghead writer has to say," Brom remarked.

"What's wrong with writers?" Katrina asked.

"Nothing, but I don't see why people get so worked up over words on a page."

"But don't you think that words on a page can be powerful?" Katrina always did this to him—asked him questions that never would have occurred to him; that he had no idea how to respond to. And no matter what, he felt as though his answer was always wrong to Katrina.

Brom struggled for words. "Yes, but I don't see the sense in brooding over them, especially if there isn't anything you can do about it. Why waste the energy?"

"My brother, the noble work-horse," Will said with a smile—his first of the evening. Brom responded with a playful swat at Will's head.

"I think I'll go have some ale," Will said hopefully, glancing at Brom and Katrina in turn.

Will was quite devious when he wanted to be—where Brom charged headlong, Will came up from the side and attacked. He knew perfectly well Brom wanted to speak to Katrina alone. Sighing, Brom released his brother.

"Drink more than a pint and I'll skin you," he cautioned, as Will disappeared into the crowd.

"Do you really think he will?" Katrina asked.

"No," Brom replied with a grin. "But I might, and one of us has to drive the carriage home."

Katrina laughed. They'd known each other since childhood, their mothers having been the best of friends. Brom's mother, Griet Van Brunt, had often joked with Elizabeth Van Tassel about a possible marriage between their two firstborn children. But it had never been a joke to Brom.

Am I fooling myself? Does Katrina care a jot about me, beyond our friendship?

It was true, they were good friends. Through the years, Brom had loyally kept Katrina's addiction to tales of romance a secret, and taught her to ride a horse astride. And Katrina had always laughed at his more harmless practical jokes, teased Willem, and helped put words to Brom's thoughts. He never seemed to know the correct ones.

Sometimes Brom thought that if someone else came to Sleepy Hollow—a man who was well-read, well-mannered and everything he was not, he would lose Katrina forever. She was like a princess in a fairy story.

And I'm...what? Certainly not the noble knight. The knave? The jester, perhaps? I don't even know what a knave is!

Suddenly his friend Glen appeared behind Katrina, holding a finger to his lips. Brom bit back a smile.

"What?" Katrina asked suspiciously, then gave a yelp as Glen tied the blindfold over her eyes.

"Come on, Pickety Witch!" Theodore, his other friend, crowed. "Let's form the circle. Brom, spin her around, would you?"

Snickering, Brom took Katrina by the shoulders, and spun her as gently as he could.

"This is such a silly game," she said, giggling.

"Oh, be a sport and stop complaining," Brom replied through his laughter. She lunged toward him, but he edged away from her, and she moved towards the other side of the circle, chanting.

"Pickety witch, pickety witch, who's got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?"

That was when the stranger appeared, dressed oddly in black, which created a stark contrast against his white skin. It was impossible to tell his age—he might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. His face was a controlled mask. And Katrina's hands caressed the man's face in a way that they had never touched Brom's...

Fighting back a surge of ugly jealousy, Brom moved toward the stranger.

"Is it Theodore?" Katrina asked, still touching the stranger's face.

The stranger replied in the negative, obviously flustered. "Pardon, miss, I am only a stranger."

"Then have a kiss on account," she replied, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

Brom fought the impulse to simply chuck the man out of one of the large windows. Who did he think he was, invading the town like this? Especially now! Of all the—

"I'm looking for Baltus Van Tassel," the stranger stammered, his dark eyes darting around the room nervously.

"I'm his daughter, Katrina Van Tassel," she replied, taking off the blindfold.

"And who are you, friend? We have not heard your name yet," Brom pointed out, stepping up next to Katrina.

The stranger regarded him warily, and then turned away. "I have not said it," he replied coldly.

Brom's well-documented temper flared, and he grabbed the stranger's shoulder and spun him around.

I'll teach you to dismiss Brom Van Brunt!

"You need some manners!"

"Brom!" Katrina was visibly alarmed. His grip loosened just as Baltus and Lady Van Tassel entered the room.

"Come, come! There will be no raised voices here! It is only to raise spirits that I and my dear wife have given this little party," Baltus said. Brom released the dark-haired man and stepped back, his eyes never leaving the stranger's face. It was extraordinarily pale, as were many people from the city (according to rumors), and delicate. But there was fire burning in the stranger's dark eyes, like a knight from one of Katrina's stories.

He found his way to Katrina's side, placing one hand on her arm as the stranger introduced himself as Constable Ichabod Crane, there to investigate the recent beheadings in Sleepy Hollow.

Brom did not like the way Katrina seemed to be drinking in his every word. He liked it even less when Lady Van Tassel invited him to stay in their home.

Eventually Baltus, Lady Van Tassel and Constable Crane left to get him settled, ordering the band to begin playing again.

Will appeared behind Brom and Katrina. "Well, that was different," he said brightly.

"I should say so!" Katrina replied, glancing in the direction the constable had gone. "I hope he is able to do what he came for."

"Is anyone?" Brom asked, desperately wishing he could drive this damnable stranger from her mind. "Katrina, might we go outside for a moment? There's something I wish to say to you."

*****************************************

A shot rang out as Brom was dressing for work that morning. Katrina's refusal still echoed in his mind. The sadness in her beautiful, clear eyes as she tried to let him down gently—again.

He poked his head out the window, only to hear what he had been dreading.

"I'm sorry, Brom. I love you as a sister loves a brother, or as a friend loves another friend. I cannot be your wife."

"Murder! The Horseman's killed again!" Van Ripper shouted, his voice slashing through the fog of Brom's thoughts.

"Oh, hell," Brom muttered. Who is it this time?

Downstairs, he heard a piece of crockery smash on the floor, and the maidservant cry out in alarm. Once out in the hallway, he encountered his mother, still in her dressing gown, her graying brown hair loose around her face.

"What in seven hells was that?" Griet Van Brunt demanded with her usual lack of subtlety.

"Another murder, from the sound of it. I should go and see."

"Brom, don't you think-"

"I know what I'm doing, Mother! Anyway, the Horseman's not going to attack anyone during the day. Or at least, he hasn't yet."

"You said they had a constable from New York looking into it. Why not let him handle this?" His mother's practical nature reasserted itself.

Brom was now halfway down the stairs. "Let's just say I have a few doubts about his abilities," he called back. Finally managing to locate his rifle, he set about loading it—just in case. He strapped the weapon across his back, and headed for the front door.

One foot was out the door by the time Brom realized that he was not alone. Turning around, he smothered a groan when he saw Will standing behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"To the opera, where do you think?" Will replied sarcastically. "I'm going with you!"

"No, you aren't. Stay here at the smithy, and look after Mother."

"If she heard you say that, she'd kill you."

Brom knew this was probably true, but he wasn't about to lose the argument on a side issue. "You're still not going."

"Why not? I'm almost of age! You're not Father, Brom!" Will exclaimed in frustration.

That made Brom freeze in his tracks, and he whirled around. "No, I'm not Father. Glad you picked up on reality at last."

"I only meant...you're my brother, you don't have to be responsible for me." Will's tone softened just a little.

Brom fixed his brother with a hard look. "Why not? Someone has to do it, and it's not as though you try very hard at it!"

Will looked furious, but by that time Brom was already heading toward the noise.

By the time he reached the clearing, he was already feeling more than a little guilty about his remark to Will. The boy was constantly daydreaming, but he did have sense when he chose to use it. Unfortunately, he didn't use it nearly as often as Brom would have liked.

He met Glen and Theodore on the side road, where they were waiting for him. It always amazed Brom how his two friends never seemed able to do anything without him. In some ways, it drove him insane. Still, like him, they managed to find the fun within the ordinary, and for that he valued them—though he'd never have said so aloud.

"Who was it?" he greeted them, before any civilities could be exchanged.

Glen glanced over his shoulder, and nodded to the clearing just down the road, where one man was kneeling next to the headless corpse, while another stood by, white-faced. The three made their way to the dead man's final resting place.

"Send for the funeral cart," Baltus Van Tassel instructed, and one of the men set off to do just that.

"Who was it?" Brom repeated. If someone didn't answer him, he was going to scream—or possibly hit someone.

Baltus seemed to notice Brom and his friends for the first time. "Jonathan Masbath," he replied.

Ice gathered in the pit of his stomach, and slowly crawled up Brom's throat. The damp chill of the gray autumn morning only heightened the sensation of foreboding that hung over them all. It seemed that not even a leaf dared to stir in this place, not after the 'Headless Horseman' had been there.

And then Brom thought of Jonathan's son. Poor lad—at least when Brom's own father died, he was of an age to help his mother. But young Masbath had no mother. What would happen to him? Who would tell him the news?

Brom Van Brunt was not usually prey to such thoughts, but he was not callous, and hoped that the boy could be spared from the worst of this tragedy.

He glared around the trees, silent in the morning stillness. Brom was almost daring the Horseman to come out now, and have another try—with victims willing to fight back.

Never again, Hessian!