The Witch of Tin Mountain(50)

“Then show me.”

Esme leaned down, gave her a testing kiss. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Deirdre said, reaching for her. “I’m sure.”



Falling. Soaring and falling and rising again. That’s what it was like. Flying. Deirdre lay back on the mattress, wrung out with pleasure. Their nightclothes lay in a heap on the floor next to Esme’s bed as dawn curled pink and gold through the windows. The light touched Deirdre in all her soft places, painting her in blushing shades that Esme traced with her fingers.

Deirdre had quivered, and arched, then begged. She’d fallen apart beneath Esme’s sure touch and finally learned what all the fuss was about. A paroxysm. That’s what Esme had called it, after Deirdre had cried out and Esme had clapped her hand over her mouth to keep her from waking the other girls.

“I never . . . with Robbie . . . ,” she panted.

“I’m not surprised,” Esme purred, pleased with herself, her hand making lazy circles on Deirdre’s belly. “Men only care about themselves. Most of them, anyway. Sam’s husband is the same. They’ll never know a woman’s body like another woman does.”

Then Esme had done it to her again, as if to prove things. This time with her mouth.

Now, it was Esme’s turn. Deirdre landed teasing kisses along the curve of Esme’s hip, watching the steady rise and fall of her breasts as she grew bolder and moved Esme’s legs apart to taste her. “Yes, darling . . . yes. There. That’s it.”

A few moments later, Esme turned her face into the pillow and let out a muffled moan, her thighs clamping tight around Deirdre’s head.

Deirdre smiled. Giving pleasure was as much a reward as receiving it.

Downstairs, the gong rang. They lay together for a few more moments, tangled in the sheets, then rose and bathed themselves at the washstand. As she dressed for the day, the world seemed brighter to Deirdre. She glanced in the glass—noted the roses blooming in her cheeks. The fool smile etched on her face. How marvelous it was, to not have to worry about vinegar rinses, or bitter teas and babies, or anything but soothing this ache of fierce wanting with delicious, easy bliss.

It was an awakening. A revelation.

Esme had told her to think about Robbie if she felt guilty, but she hadn’t thought about him once. Instead, she’d imagined she saw darker eyes, watching from the shadowed corner of the room. Jealous eyes that witnessed and waited, like a snake coiled to strike.





NINETEEN

GRACELYNN





1931




Town feels different today. The people look strange. They shimmer around the edges, with colors haloing their bodies. Some glow red, others green or blue—like them fancy pictures of saints the Catholics are always handing out. Strangest of all, I can hear their thoughts as I brush past them . . . only they’re garbled, and cut in and out, like a staticky radio.

That hog’ll be . . . for butcherin’ come fall.

If . . . don’t . . . drinking all our milk, the . . . are gonna starve.

Sure wish it would rain . . .

This new power running through me is unsettling. I think of my encounter with Anneliese’s spirit and wonder if every day of life had been like this for her and will be for me, now that she’s touched me. Part of me hopes my heightened senses will be like a surge of electricity during a storm—something that will wear off with time and lessen, but I also wonder what else I might be able to do.

I lean against the corner post of the mercantile to catch my breath. The old men on the porch have their instruments out today. They’re taking turns pickin’ and grinnin’—a congenial war of sorts between their idle talk of the weather, the raucous chorus of mandolins, banjos, and fiddles sharper in my ears than it ever has been before. A thread of perspiration winds down my neck like a serpent. It’s infernally hot, now that the sun has climbed higher than Old Liberty. Part of me wants to run up the mountain to Abby and forget my troubles. I could lose every thought to the feel of her lips on mine. But getting lost in her kisses won’t help matters. Won’t take away this cursed drought or heal Granny.

I need to find that preacher.

I reach inside my dress pocket and rub two coins together. Enough to buy a Coca-Cola to slake the dryness in my throat. I push open the door to the mercantile and blink as my eyes adjust from the bright burn of outdoors.

Penny, the shopkeep’s teenage daughter, lounges against the counter, all daydreamy and doe eyed. She sees me and glares. Penny and her kin, like most of the rest of Tin Mountain, only speak to me and Granny when they have to, but they’re always happy to take our money, just the same.

“Afternoon, Penny. I was wonderin’ if you might have a cold Coca-Cola in the back?” I pull a nickel from my pocket.

“Yep. We just got a truck yesterday.”

“I’ll take one.”

“Yep,” she says again, wiping a strand of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead and sighing.

“Say, you happen to see that new preacher lately? Bellflower? I need to talk to him about something.”

Penny frowns. “I dunno. Saw him going toward the creek this morning.” She takes the money from me, and her fingers brush mine. A pinging shock buzzes through me as her thoughts land inside my head. What’s she want with Reverend Bellflower? She ain’t pretty enough to turn his head.