The Witch of Tin Mountain(28)

I close my eyes for a minute, remembering the relief I’d felt that cold day in January when the Greene County sheriff came to our door with his hat in his hands to tell me what I already knew. I didn’t cry one single tear for my daddy. Some things just need to run their course. The only good thing Shep Doherty ever did for me was to lay himself down in that ditch with a belly full of rotgut moonshine and die. I thank all my angels every day for that.

I don’t want to think about life before Granny, so I clear my head of the past and drink in everything she just told me instead. Real magic exists? And I might be a witch? It’s all so confusing. I glance toward the grimoire, freckled with sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. My fingers ache to turn its pages and read what’s inside, but I’m also afraid that it might be too much for me to comprehend. I don’t know that I’m ready.

“And what about that preacher?”

“Yes. Him.” Granny unfolds from the floor, her joints creaking and popping. “There’s something familiar about the darkness behind those eyes. I saw some things when I had my last vision. You were all alone, in an open field, and a black wolf came running at you, with bared teeth. A wolf is a symbol. A symbol for the de—” She braces herself against the doorway and puts a hand to her head. “Lands. Got mighty dizzy all of a sudden. Probably just need a bite to eat.”

I grasp onto her elbow to help steady her. Her skin is like ice. My heart starts racing. Granny never gets sick. “You all right? You don’t look so good.”

“Gracie, I can’t feel my . . . I . . . ,” she slurs. “Get the . . . grim . . .”

Suddenly, Granny’s knees fold and she falls to the floor before I can catch her, her back arching as a froth of drool boils from her slackened mouth.

“Granny!” I drop to my knees next to her, panic twisting sharp as a knife blade between my ribs. For a moment, her eyes widen and meet mine, and I see my fear mirrored there. The fit overtakes her, lifting her hips from the plank floor and wrenching her limbs into unnatural angles as she seizes.

It’s like a scene from a play or a picture show, almost as if I’m watching from afar as I crouch over her, wailing and shaking her shoulders. I know I need to do something—that I should run for help. But it’s like I’m rooted to the floor—weak, worthless, and scared to death to leave her.

Her eyes roll back, and she shudders one last time as I call out her name.

Outside, a dog begins to howl. It sounds just like a wolf.





TEN

DEIRDRE





1881




Deirdre shrugged out of Robbie’s embrace, ears abuzz with the whir of crickets. The cloud-veiled sun was already hugging the ridge. She needed to get back to town, and fast. It had been nearly three weeks since she’d left home and gone to help the Bledsoes. Hannah was an easy mistress. Being in her employ had been the respite from Mama she hoped it would be. Best of all, her outings to gather herbs gave her an excuse to steal more time with Robbie.

She picked up her petticoats from where they lay on the wide slab of shale next to her, uncovering the swath of dark green moss stretched across its surface like a clawed hand. She hurriedly stepped into her skirts, then buttoned her shirtwaist over her chemise. Robbie woke and rolled onto his side, shielding his eyes from the light. “You leavin’ already?”

“Already? I’ve lingered too long as it is.” Deirdre wound up her hair and raked her combs through it, piling its frazzled thickness atop her head.

“Mrs. Bledsoe can manage without you.” Robbie stood and stretched, then circled her hips with his arms, pinioning her tightly to him. He pulled the unbuttoned collar of her blouse over the curve of her shoulder and kissed her there. Deirdre sighed. “Don’t you want to stay here, just a little while longer?” he asked.

Heat flared under her skin, though their couplings still left Deirdre hollow with wanting. She’d learned Robbie was much too eager to catch his own pleasure than coax her body into something she’d only ever caught the achingly sweet edge of.

“I have to go, Robbie. And so do you. You’ll need to light the beacon.”

“Pa can manage all that without me. Just let me have you one more time.”

“All right. But be quick about it.” Deirdre sank back down into the grass and gathered her skirts in an uncomfortable wad beneath her. By the time Robbie was finished, her bottom was rubbed raw by the rough ground and the rest of her was well past the point of frustration.

When she left Robbie at the foot of the hillside, it was near dark, and thunder rolled in the distance. More rain. Deirdre hastened toward town. When she got to the covered bridge, she paused before crossing, remembering the strange glint in Ambrose Gentry’s eyes. What if he was hiding beneath the bridge, waiting for her in the shadows?

Deirdre shuddered. She’d been dreaming of him every night—rank, lustful dreams shot through with the kind of fear that left her soaked with sweat and trembling as he whispered in the darkness.

Only I can give you what you want.

The skin prickled on Deirdre’s arms, but she drew up her courage and rushed across the bridge, the echo of her footsteps thudding in time with her heart.

As she neared the Bledsoe place, she caught sight of Rosy, hitched to the wagon, eagerly munching on Hannah’s irises. What was Pa doing here? Deirdre patted her mussed hair and shook the brambles from her skirts. Mary met her at the door, her pale-lashed eyes furtive beneath her ruffled cap. “Your pa’s in the parlor. I’m sorry, Miss Deirdre. I made to lie, but . . .”