The Witch of Tin Mountain(19)

“You and the girl should have a talk, Nola.” Mr. Cash cleared his throat again and scratched at his head. “We’ll see ourselves out. I’ll be back to patch the weak spot on your roof after this rain lets up.”

Ambrose Gentry slung his hat down low over his eyes and touched a finger to its brim. He took the packet of bread Mama offered and smiled at Deirdre, sending a tickle of nervousness through her belly. “I’ll come another day, Miss Deirdre. Not to call on you as a suitor. Only to read Scripture and pray with you. I’ll comport myself with the utmost propriety and respect, I assure you.”

Deirdre’s cheeks warmed. He’d seen her watching while he washed up, and he was goading her. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather you . . . I’d rather you,” Deirdre stumbled over her words, suddenly shy. “I can read the Bible on my own just fine, sir.”

Gentry tilted his head back and laughed. “Charming, isn’t she?”

“Deirdre is a bit bashful, Mr. Gentry. That’s all. You’re welcome in our home anytime.”

After the men had gone, Deirdre turned to Mama. “How is it you think you can offer me up to any man passin’ through?”

Mama fixed Deirdre with a steady look. “I hadn’t a mind to do so, but it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to keep company with a minister, would it? Mr. Gentry certainly seemed to take a shine to you, and he’s very kind. You should choose the most suitable man, not the first one who bends your ear with pretty words. Once vows are taken, a lifetime with the wrong man can lead to heartache. A minister’s wife is a fine station in life, Deirdre. Honorable. I worry that Robbie is fickle. Arthur is concerned you may be misreading Robbie’s affections.”

“Robbie’s true, Mama, I swear it. My mind’s made up for him.” Deirdre closed her eyes briefly, remembering the simple ring Robbie had woven for her out of a daisy stem when they were twelve. He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips—her first—then promised to make her his wife. Deirdre had clung to the memory and set about filling her hope chest with trinkets and treasures for the day she’d become his bride, though the years had stretched on much longer than she liked between his boyish promise and now.

“All the same, once Pa is home, we’ll set your courtin’ candle in the window, and Robbie can come to speak with your father, just like Jakob did with mine. We’ll do things properly . . . so long as it’s not too late.” Mama’s lips pursed. “Arthur’s told me about your trips up to the lighthouse, daughter. If you’ve already given Robbie your virtue, he’ll not be inclined to marry you.”

So, Mama knew. Deirdre faltered, her face going pale. Then she remembered the way Arthur Cash’s hands had rested so easily on Mama’s shoulders and a righteous ire boiled up in place of her shame. “And what of your virtue, Mama? Since when are you so congenial with Mr. Cash? I reckon he gets lonely, being a widower and all. Is that why he’s around so much?”

“Arthur is kind,” Mama said. “A friend. Without his help, we’d be in a bad way.”

“I’ve seen the soft looks passin’ between you—the way he touches you. What might happen if I told Pa about all that?” Deirdre tossed the words carelessly, not stopping to weigh the harm in them.

Mama’s eyes flickered with something akin to fear. She drew back her hand and struck, her wedding band cutting across Deirdre’s cheek, sharp as a blade. Deirdre put a hand to her face. When she pulled it away, her fingers were wet with blood.

Mama had been plenty mad in the past, but she’d never struck her before. The room spun. Deirdre’s hurt and anger surged hot, leapt like fresh tongues of flame. Away. She had to get away. She flew through the door, ignoring Mama’s tearful call.

Outside, the rain lashed her smarting cheek and soaked through the thin fabric of her homespun dress. It was cold. So cold. But anywhere was better than home.

She rushed toward the shelter of the woods, with no mind to where she was going. When the land finally flattened out, heaving water stood where freshly sown fields should have been. Deirdre stopped to catch her breath. She covered her head as best she could with her shawl and went on. To her left, Ballard Creek was a roaring torrent. Uprooted trees flowed through its muddy current, borne away by the angry, frothy water. The bloated corpse of a deer bobbed around the bend where the bridge used to be, stiff, spindly legs catching on the limbs of an ash tree. Its dead eyes stared at her, dim and baleful.

It wasn’t safe out here. But she couldn’t stand to be in the same house with Mama. Her gut twisted, thinking of the things Mama and Arthur Cash might have done, for months, if not years, right under Deirdre’s nose. She thought of poor unwitting Pa, laboring hard to make a living on the Colorado frontier. Pa, old and plain and spare of word, who looked at Mama like she was drink in the desert. It wasn’t right. None of it.

Suddenly, the bluff she stood on started to crumble and slide, the dirt and rock at her feet winnowing off into the hungry floodwaters. Deirdre grasped the branch of a nearby sapling and used it to claw herself back onto solid ground, just as the sapling and everything next to it slid into the mire. Her heart hammered, loud in her ears. If she’d fallen into the river, she’d have been pulled downstream, at the mercy of nature.

Deirdre shivered. Her clothes were soaked through, and her fingertips numb. The sky had turned a dark and grayish purple. She needed to find shelter before nightfall. She could always go to Ingrid’s. She thought of the Nilssons’ cozy log house with its rock hearth, the long table laden with too much food, and the spiced tea Ma Nilsson always offered up.