The Witch of Tin Mountain(5)

A memory of fear, anger, and pain . . . so much pain.

It ain’t my pain. But I feel it, just the same.





TWO

DEIRDRE





1881




Deirdre loosened her corset laces, then pulled them tight again, clenching the ribbon between her teeth. The corset was nearly worn out—sweat-stained and threadbare between its boning. Money enough for proper-fitting stays might come home with Pa when he returned from Colorado, or it might not. When the roof needed a fresh layer of shingles to keep the rain out, and their mule needed shoes, new corsets mattered very little in the lay of things.

Deirdre buttoned her best muslin over the corset, tucked the small flask of rye whiskey she’d found in Pa’s bureau into the top of her stocking, and cast a final appraising glance at the mirror above her washstand. She went down the loft’s ladder and through to the kitchen. At the sound of her step on the wide-planked floor, Mama glanced up from her ironing. “You’ll be home by eleven, then?”

“Can’t I stay later? If I come home afore midnight, I’ll miss the bonfire.”

Mama grunted. “Fair enough. But I won’t take to you coming home with drink on your breath, hear?”

“I don’t drink at the music parties, Mama,” Deirdre lied. “I done told you that.”

“All the same, have care with that Cash boy. He’s trouble, that one. People talk.”

“I’m only going to listen to the music.”

Mama arched a dark brow. “You’re of age, Deirdre. Girls younger than you court and marry. Only be mindful of taking your vows before letting any—”

“Yes’m.” Deirdre ducked her head and made for the door before Mama could get all het up. At nearly nineteen, she tired of being talked at like a child.

Outside the cabin, the air was lilac sweet and thick with springtime. The moon hung high overhead, whisper thin and curved like a ladle. Deirdre picked up her skirts and nearly ran down the garden path, her heart growing lighter with every step.

Down the mountain, tucked in a bend of Ballard Creek where the water ran deep, old Bartholomew Ray had long ago laid claim to the flattest stretch of land in Boone County—land that had made him and his kin rich with its fertile soil. Everything grew on Ray’s two hundred fifty acres—from alfalfa, fescue, and sweet summer corn to peaches and pecans. Deirdre passed through the newly tilled fields, inhaling the loamy scent of black dirt ready for seeding. At the end of the lane, the round barn beckoned, its open doors flooding the ground with yellow light. A strand of wayward music floated out. Someone picked up the beat with a goatskin drum. By the time Deirdre shouldered past the field hands smoking their pipes by the door, the barn was jumping. Folks swung arm and arm in a country reel, their steps cutting paths across the hay-strewn floor. Old Josh’s fiddle bow was sawing so fast over the strings Deirdre was sure they’d either snap or catch fire.

Across the barn, she caught sight of Ingrid with two of the Rays’ cattle hands, her full cheeks round with laughter. Jolly Ing never lacked for male attention, even though her face was plainer than a gray November day. Deirdre was far prettier, but hers was the kind of pretty that made men nervous and craven at the same time.

A pair of sun-browned arms encircled her waist from behind, startling her. “I been waitin’ for you, Deirdre Jane. What took you so long?”

Deirdre leaned back, resting her head against Robbie’s shoulder. He smelled of warm hay and sunshine, a scent at war with his looks—all wild dark curls and stormy gray eyes. She turned in his arms. “Mama had to give me a lecture afore I left. Warned me to stay away from you, mostly, lest people talk.”

Robbie laughed. “It’s a little late for that. Besides, my pa is up at your place enough to make tongues wag about your mama. And we both know he ain’t just mendin’ fence.”

Deirdre had done her best to ignore the gossip about Mama and Arthur Cash. When Pa was gone out west, Mr. Cash helped tend their acreage and see to their cattle. He had a way with the land—a kinship with the natural world that Mama lacked. It eased Mama’s burden considerably to have him about when Pa was absent. He was a strapping, fine-looking man, like his son. She could see where Mama might be tempted, and the thought rankled her.

Robbie nuzzled Deirdre’s neck, the stubble on his chin sending a thrill of desire through her belly. “You sure do look pretty tonight.”

“You do, too.” And he did, with his cupid’s bow mouth tipping upward at the corners and his black curls shining with pomade. He guided her onto the dance floor. The music slowed to a waltz, Josh’s fiddle high and keening sweet.

“How much longer, Deirdre?” Robbie’s breath flared hot against her cheek. “I been wantin’ you so bad I can’t stand to wait much longer.”

Deirdre sighed. “I . . . I don’t want to wait no more, neither.”

“We’ll sneak away, then. Go off in the woods. Tonight.”

A shudder of nervous anticipation wound through her at the thought of what they might do. She’d imagined plenty, at night, alone in her bed. Robbie’s hands traced circles on the back of her dress and roamed lower. He was clasping her far too close for it to be proper. They were only pretending at dancing now. “Robbie,” she murmured, pushing against his chest, “maybe we’d better—”