The Witch of Tin Mountain(35)

“I’m well. I’m only . . . very tired.”

He smiled down at her kindly. “Long journeys are wearing. If you’d care for anything, just ring the bellpull.” He motioned at the length of braided rope behind her and then pushed his cart down the aisle, teacups rattling in time with the train’s jostling.

Deirdre closed her eyes and leaned against the banquette. She felt so very tired. Her nights spent caring for little Collin had finally caught up with her, it seemed. She waded off into sleep again as if it were heavy, soft fog. When she woke, a blackness had descended outside the windows, dousing whatever landscape lay beyond in night.

The same rustle of sound she’d heard earlier came from behind, as if someone were shaking the pages of a newspaper. Deirdre turned. A man sat two rows back and to the left of her, the dark crown of his head just visible. She must have slept through a stop, and he’d gotten on then. Yes, surely that was it.

As if the man felt her eyes on him, he slowly raised his head. Glinting green eyes met her own. An icy cold finger of fear laced its way through the hair at the nape of Deirdre’s neck, prickling her skin. A frail whimper escaped her lips.

It was the preacher. Gentry. Somehow, someway, he’d followed her. Just as he’d promised.





THIRTEEN

GRACELYNN





1931




I wake, my neck cramping from the awkward way I’d fallen asleep, folded against Aunt Val’s mattress in the loft. A trail of silver moonlight shines across the open pages of the grimoire and Anneliese’s looping script. It’s late or early. I can’t reckon which.

There’s something oddly familiar in the way Anneliese describes Nathaniel Walker’s arrival—how he’d just shown up, bringing troubles and poor weather in his wake. The disturbing vision Anneliese had was also familiar—I’d felt the same fear in that revival tent when Josiah Bellflower and I locked eyes. Walker and Bellflower couldn’t be the same person. It was impossible. He’d be well over a century old.

Just then, a loud crash sounds from the kitchen, like every pot and pan we own’s been knocked asunder. I jump to my feet, my heart pummeling, my head clouded with images of demonic, wrathful lovers. I climb down the ladder and creep along the hall. The kitchen door stands wide open, slammed back against the shelf above the sink. Broken crockery lies on the floor, and a trail of muddy footprints leads to the pantry.

A low groan carries from the other side of the room.

Caro comes up from behind me and takes hold of my elbow. She’s shaking. “Might be a hobo,” she rasps. “I’ll get the shotgun.”

“We ain’t got no more shells, remember? Granny used ’em all the other night,” I whisper back. “’Sides, I think it’s Morris. Them look like his boot tracks.”

A hand snakes out around the pantry door. “Gracie, it’s me. Help . . .”

It’s Morris, all right. Caro and I nearly knock each other over in our rush to the pantry. Morris is in a bad way. Even in the weak light, I can see that his face is bruised as dark as a storm and his nose is all off-kilter. Worse than that, though, his breathing is labored and shrill. Broken ribs, I’d wager.

“Lordy, what happened to you?”

“I got jumped. Me and Seth separated at the fork last night. They was waitin’ for me in the trees.”

“Who?”

“Harlan’s gang, all hooded up. Three of ’em.”

“Goddamn Northrups. Let’s get you on your feet, so I can give you a look-over. Help me, Caro.”

I wedge myself behind Morris and lift under his arms as gently as I can, using my legs and hips for leverage as Caro steadies him from the front. He whimpers like a hurt animal. We half carry him to the table and carefully ease him down.

Caro lights a lamp and I split Morris’s bloodstained shirt with kitchen shears. Bruises bloom like scarlet and purple flowers over his pale skin. “Put some water on to boil, Caro. Fetch the dried tansy from the pantry, along with some willow bark and whiskey.”

“Yes’m.” Caro slams the kettle on the stovetop and starts stoking the flames.

I ain’t never set ribs before, only watched Granny do it. I’m scared I might hurt Morris worse. I’d wake Ebba, but knowing her, she’ll probably want to fetch Doc Gallagher, and the last thing we need is the whole town knowing the Northrup gang jumped my cousin.

Caro brings a shard of willow bark, some dried tansy, and the near-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s we keep hidden for times such as these. I hand Morris the bottle, and he takes a long swig. “Now, chew on that willow bark,” I say. “It’ll help with the pain.”

A few minutes later, the kettle starts whistling. I crush the tansy between my palms, into a bowl, then pour boiling water over it. The sharp, green scent steeps out of the leaves, clouding the water yellow. After it’s cooled a bit, I soak a washrag in the water, wring it out, and use it to wipe the caked blood from Morris, gently, but with purpose, so I can see where the hurt lives.

Once I’ve got him cleaned up, I feel along Morris’s side, pressing in gingerly, watching his face. He cries out in pain, my fingers hovering over a spot just below his right armpit. Caro’s scared eyes hold my own. Morris bites down on the willow bark as tears run down his cheeks. I ain’t never seen my cousin cry.