The Witch of Tin Mountain(21)

She sat up and washed her face in the trickle of spring water flowing through the limestone walls, then braided her damp hair in two plaits, like Mama had done when she was little. Mama was no doubt frantic with worry by now. Deirdre spared a glance at her clothes, piled in a wet heap on the cave floor, and decided to leave them. She’d borrow a dress from Ingrid. Her stomach rumbled, a reminder she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. She tied on her boots, donned her half-dry cotton shift, and wrapped her shawl over her shoulders. The thought of Maja Nilsson’s pancakes with mulberry butter was enough to get her tired legs moving up the hillside.

It was a soft day, as Mama liked to say. The endless downpour had finally ceased, and a misty fog replaced it, drawn up from the warming ground. She’d nearly gotten to the covered bridge that spanned Ballard Creek when she heard a rustling from behind.

“There you are, you pretty little thing.”

She turned, her breath catching.

It was Ambrose Gentry. The preacher strode toward her, an eager grin on his face. Conscious of her immodest state, she pulled her shawl close over her bosom, her fingers trembling.

“Your mama’s real worried about you, Miss Deirdre. Sent some of the menfolk out to find you. You been out in this storm all night?”

“I took shelter in yonder cave,” Deirdre said, pointing to the bluff, where Garnet Cave yawned like a half-opened mouth.

“Well. You’re as clever as you are lovely.” He took his coat off as he came near and placed it over her shoulders. It smelled of woodsmoke and something else she couldn’t place, though it was pleasant. “Let’s see you on home.”

Deirdre dug her fingers into her arms beneath the warm wool coat, every muscle in her body tensing. She regarded him shyly from beneath her lashes. Lands, he was handsome, his shoulders flexing beneath his linsey-woolsey shirt as he led the way to the covered horse bridge. She remembered her shameful spying from the day before, and blushed. She would let Mr. Gentry see her home, as it was polite to do so, and then bid him goodbye. She had already given herself to Robbie. It would do no good to entertain the interest of another man.

As if reading her mind, Gentry said, “I met your beau. Spent the night up at the lighthouse with Mr. Cash. Your Robert was a bit surly in my presence, and when your mother came up the hill to ask for our help, he didn’t volunteer to come with us.”

Deirdre’s stomach lurched uncomfortably. “Someone has to stay at the lighthouse. Mind the lantern, especially during a storm. Otherwise, he’d have come, I’m sure of it.”

Gentry hummed, his lips tilting into a smile. “I suppose you’re right.”

They walked on for a bit in silence. Gentry gestured at the canopy of trees. “It’s pretty country here. That place, down in the hollow, it could be put right again. The land shored up against flooding and that cabin rebuilt. I’ve a mind to do so.”

“My pa says that land is fallow. Haunted. Are you so sure you want to live there?”

“I’m not the superstitious kind. Land is land. I find that country folk make up all sorts of stories to explain the unnatural when they don’t have proper learning.”

Deirdre bristled. “If you think your city learnin’ puts you a cut above us, sir, you’re not likely to build a congregation. Folks are wary of strangers around here as it is. We don’t take to those who cast aspersions our way.”

“You misread me, Miss Werner. I do not consider myself better than any other man, although the world of faith is filled with such ministers, who exalt themselves over others—those who prance and preen and act as if they are the God they purport to serve.”

Deirdre’s thoughts went to Reverend Stack. Full-up with sin, drink, and himself.

“No.” Gentry shook his head vehemently. “I have been disavowed of any such arrogance. When I first left the seminary, I had a pretty young wife, a congregation, and a small farm on the outskirts of town. I was a prosperous and happy man until my wife took ill. I attempted to use my gifts of healing to save her.” His shoulders rose and fell, his face shadowed beneath his hat. “It was no use. Each time I heal another soul, I think of how I was unable to heal her. Losing her tested my faith mightily at the same time it humbled me.”

Deirdre’s sympathy stirred. To be so young and already widowed! “I’m sorry, sir. I’d no idea.”

He stopped and turned to her, a silvery sheen to his eyes, which might have been tears. “You remind me of her, a bit. The same blue eyes. Her spirit. I’ve a feeling you might have even more charming things in common with my Betsy. I’ve heard talk of your gifts. Your visions. Your healing touch with women in labor. It’s a rare thing, to be so blessed.”

While the words seemed sincerely spoken, they sent an uncomfortable chill through Deirdre. How did he know of her gifts? She’d never told another soul of them. “I . . . thank you, sir. We should move on along, I reckon.”

As they walked, the wary feeling nagged at Deirdre, and her hand trembled when Gentry took it to guide her over the downed branches along their path. They’d reached the bridge. Below, the still-angry creek sucked and pulled at the pilings, the sound deafening as they passed beneath the cover of the bridge.

Deirdre startled. In the sudden fall of darkness, Gentry’s eyes shone like a cat’s. She stopped in the middle of the bridge, her heart hammering.