Chapter fifteen
The longer Mrs. Van den Broek lingered by her table, the more the pumpkin burned Katrina’s fingers. She snatched her hands to prevent future blisters and raised the hot chocolate to her mouth. The woman smiled, excused herself, and Katrina regarded him behind the porcelain cup.
“Do you believe you know her?” Katrina whispered to the Horseman. She placed her cup down and grazed a finger against the smooth orange skin, but the heat vanished. Her brows furrowed.
Katrina knew she hadn’t imagined the blazing heat against her skin, so why was he hesitant to confirm her claim? Her thoughts spun as she sipped her hot chocolate, and she wondered what had triggered his reaction.
Flames danced in the fireplace against the adjacent wall, and its warmth was welcomed against the bitter autumn cold. Beyond the counter, Mister Van den Broek slapped dough onto the kitchen’s working table, molding it under his weathered hands.
Glancing at the walls, Katrina glimpsed wooden shelves filled with cans of spices, coffee beans, and dried herbs.
As she ate her apple tart, she admired the delicate Delftware plates adorning the café, a wooden clock with brass details ticked softly, and wooden panels bore a carved floral motif.
Above the mantle, however, a frame caught her eye.
The figure was small, with round cheeks, long lashes, and thick hair. Next to the frame, a faded newspaper clipping about the war and a mourning ribbon were pinned to the wall.
Katrina’s brows pinched as she attempted to recall who in their family had passed in the war.
She had reviewed the records several times, yet the name Van den Broek had never appeared on the list of fallen soldiers.
And if she remembered correctly, Mister Van den Broek had been unable to volunteer because of his bad leg.
So, who in their family had joined the Continental Army?
They didn’t have any children that she recalled—
A long-distant memory stirred—of a shadow of a figure behind the glass window watching the leaves dance in the wind.
Not many had seen the pale boy with dark, wistful eyes, for he’d been too sickly to leave his home.
Many of the children of Sleepy Hollow made it a game to see if they could lure the boy to the window so they could glimpse the ghost haunting the café.
Some threw snowballs at the second-story window, and others attempted to sneak upstairs when Mrs. Van den Broek was too busy serving customers.
No one succeeded. Mrs. Van den Broek would chase the children out with a broom before they could place a toe on the first step.
“I saw the ghost!” Brom had boasted when they were six years old. “I saw him with my own eyes. He’s white as a sheet with eyes as dark as sin.”
Katrina thought the ghost was nothing more than a legend until the wind led her to him.
On one blustery autumn day, she rolled her hoop, keeping it upright with her stick, before a gust of wind blew it out of reach.
She chased after the hoop, bouncing over the cobblestones until it spun to a stop in front of the café.
As she reached for it, she froze. Above her, a pale face peeked behind the curtains.
One hand propped under his chin as he gazed longingly at the outside world.
For a fleeting moment, her breath caught, and as if by magic, he seemed to have heard her.
His eyes locked on her briefly before he disappeared behind the curtains.
That was the first and last time she’d seen the boy.
It had been years since she last thought of him, and no one knew what had become of him. Some whispered he’d died from a relapse of consumption, and others said he’d run away from home.
“May I take your plate, dearie?” a voice asked, interrupting her thoughts. Katrina peered up at Mrs. Van den Broek, who held out her hand.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Katrina said. The woman reached over to collect her plate, but before she could turn around, Katrina called out, “Mrs. Van den Broek?”
The woman paused. “Yes, dear?”
Katrina’s pulse raced, hoping her prodding would not offend her. “I know this is sudden, but I couldn’t help but notice the frame on the mantel. What was your son’s name?”
Mrs. Van den Broek’s eyes widened a fraction before her smile wilted. “Willem,” she said softly.
The pumpkin burned suddenly. The heat seared Katrina’s fingers, and her heart raced in anticipation. “Forgive me if this is too impertinent, but… may I ask what happened to him?”
Mrs. Van den Broek lowered the used plate, and her gaze drifted to the floor. After a length of silence, she spoke.
“We are unsure. He ran away with his father’s musket and a note saying he’d joined the Continental Army.
We never received word of his passing. I still have hope—” Mrs. Van den Broek’s voice cracked on the word before she continued, “that he may still be out there. Mothers have that gift, you know? I can feel it. I pray he’ll come home one day. ”
Katrina mirrored her frown. Her heart panged at the grief shining in the woman’s eyes—a grief Katrina knew all too well.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “If there’s anything I can do…”
Mrs. Van den Broek placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Do not be, my dear. You are a kind soul for offering, but all we can do is pray and wait for his return.”
With one final pat, Mrs. Van den Broek turned and left Katrina to her thoughts. The pumpkin beside her teacup warmed against her hand before it went cold.
“Is it true?” she whispered to him. He did not respond to her touch, and her lips pursed.
The scraping of a chair sounded, and someone tapped her shoulder. Katrina peered around at Mrs. Jane Jansen, who sat at the table behind her. Somehow, the village gossip had slipped into the café without her notice.
“It’s a downright shame,” Mrs. Jansen said, lowering her voice and gesturing to Mrs. Van den Broek sweeping across the room.
Katrina was glad the woman was nowhere near them because Miss Jansen’s interpretation of a whisper could compete with a murder of crows squawking at the first light of dawn.
“I overheard you talking and couldn’t help myself.
The boy’s been missing for over a decade, and she still has hope. Poor thing.”
Katrina nodded solemnly and took a sip of her hot chocolate. “I wonder what happened to him?”
“If you ask me,” Mrs. Jansen said, cupping her hand to her lips, “I think there’s more to his disappearance than we know of.”
Katrina’s brow rose in interest. “Oh?” she asked delicately.
“I believe…” Mrs. Jansen’s eyes flashed to Mrs. Van den Broek before whispering, “The witch had something to do with it.”
Katrina swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. She’d not heard mention of the witch in years and almost forgot about her existence. The half-whispered tales were meant to frighten disobedient children or explain sudden illnesses.
She might have dismissed the idea entirely if it weren’t for the existence of the Horseman. Meeting headless ghosts had made it easier to be open to other supernatural explanations.
“How do you suppose?” Katrina asked. “No one’s seen or heard of the witch since I was a child.”
“Aye, perhaps because she’s been sated with the child she took all those years ago.”
“But how would that explain his note or the missing musket?”
Mrs. Jansen drew herself up, her eyes gleaming. “It would explain why he never came home. Or why there were no letters of his passing. The witch might have intercepted him on his way to join the army… or on his way back.”
An odd chill brushed against Katrina’s neck. The pumpkin heated ablaze, its warmth seeping into the table, and her eyes widened.
“But I suppose we shall never know,” Mrs. Jansen said with a strange cheeriness. “Do be careful, though. Don’t wander off the path lest you also find the witch in the woods.”
With that, Mrs. Jansen turned in her seat and sipped her coffee. Katrina’s heart drummed beneath her chest, the possibilities opening before her.
After paying, Katrina hurried out of the shop with the warm pumpkin secured under her arm. A bubbly sensation rose in her throat as the name Willem echoed in her mind. The name felt right—like the missing puzzle piece snapping into place.
Could the Horseman be Willem Van den Broek? Had she finally solved the mystery of the Headless Horseman?
There was only one way to find out.