The Witch of Tin Mountain(6)

“Land sakes. Y’all better be betrothed.”

At the sound of Reverend Stack’s gruff voice, Deirdre sprang away from Robbie, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. The old minister stood in front of them, his arms crossed over his suspenders. “Idn’t proper to be comporting yourself this way outside of marriage.”

“We weren’t doing nothin’ but dancing, sir,” Deirdre managed, her breath shallow.

He ignored her. Leaned closer to Robbie. “Have you declared your intentions to Deirdre’s pa, young Robert?”

“Not yet, sir,” Robbie slurred. He looked down at the floor and pushed at the hay with the toe of his boot.

Old Stack raised an eyebrow. “Have you been partaking of the devil’s mash, son?”

“I’ve had a swig or two tonight, yessir.” Robbie glanced over at Deirdre, suddenly bashful. So that’s why he’d tasted so sweet and been so forward in front of everyone.

“That drinking won’t lead to anything godly, boy. Best to give it up afore it gets a hold on you.”

“Yessir. I won’t drink no more, and I’ll go to Deirdre’s pa soon as he gets home. Ask permission to court her.”

“Good. Good.” Reverend Stack rounded on Deirdre, eyeing her bosom with a self-satisfied grin, his fat cheeks purple with gin blossoms. “As for you, Miss Werner, a young woman is to remain pure and unsullied until her weddin’ night.”

The music faded until the barn went snowdrift silent. Deirdre dipped her head and longed to crawl inside herself.

Reverend Stack paced in a fitful circle around her, his upper lip glistening with sweat. “A woman of God must hide her charms from all but her husband,” he boomed. “To do otherwise is to invite menfolk into temptation. For in this very same way, Bathsheba tempted David and brought him near to ruin. Ain’t that right, flock?”

A chorus of amens echoed against the gambrel roof. The townsfolk gawped at her, their eyes full of unkind amusement. Deirdre reached for Robbie’s hand. He squeezed her fingers, then nudged away.

“Purity is at odds with a woman’s true nature,” Old Stack railed on, running a hand through his oily copper curls. “Woman’s inclination is toward sin and fornication. For when the serpent tempted Eve, he cursed her with a spirit of seduction.” His bleary eyes roved over Deirdre. “Such a spirit must be driven out by prayer and devotion to God.”

Reverend Stack ceased his pacing and loomed over her, the sour garlic smell of unwashed flesh rolling off him. “I’ve yet to see you in my church, Miss Werner.”

Deirdre lifted her chin. “My pa don’t have much use for churches, Reverend. And my mama prays for my soul aplenty.”

“Well. I won’t be sanctifyin’ no vows of marriage unless you come to the fold. To be wed under a yoke of sin and fornication is an affront to God.”

A wave of defiance swept through her. “Is that so, sir?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Nobody but me and Mama know about them babies. I’d suppose you’d like to keep it that way. You so sure you want me in your church?”

Reverend Stack took a step backward, his mouth knotting in an angry scowl. For a moment, Deirdre feared he might hit her. She clenched her eyes shut. When the stinging strike didn’t come, she opened them. Stack turned from her, angrily stalking to the other side of the barn. Josh picked up his fiddle once more and the townsfolk went back to their dancing.

Deirdre let out a shaky breath. It’d been dangerous to say what she’d said. Foolhardy. Even if it had been the truth.

Two babies had been born this past winter—both with copper hair. She and Mama had delivered them to frightened young girls from Reverend Stack’s congregation. They both refused to name the father. No one knew what happened to the babies afterward, though Deirdre had her ideas. She’d learned to hold such secrets close in Tin Mountain. Folks acted their best on Sunday morning—all smiles and hands clasped in prayer. But the same hands hurt and killed, then buried their sins in shallow graves so they might dig them up late at night, after they’d put God to sleep.

There was darkness everywhere in Tin Mountain.

You just had to know where to look.



The fire clawed and climbed the night sky, sparks cracking as the menfolk fed it with bundles of straw. Deirdre sank down on a hay bale, next to Ingrid. Robbie cast furtive glances her way from the other side of the bonfire.

“Mind you’re not mooning at Robbie,” Ing hissed. “Old Haystack’ll go right to your mama. What were you thinking, k?raste? You’re taking care, I hope?”

“Yes, Ing. We ain’t done nothin’ but kiss.” But they’d gotten close to doing more, Robbie’s hands working her drawers over her hips in the tall grass behind the lighthouse before she pleaded “no” and bucked him off.

“You could tell me if you had. Me and Edgar do it all the time,” Ing said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes I even fool around with Albert, but only if Edgar’s gone. He’s much better at it. Uses his tongue on me.”

“What’s it like?”

Ing shifted the wad of tobacco bulging under her lip from one side of her mouth to the other. “You know when you’ve got an itch, in a place high up on your back where you can’t scratch, and you lean against the corner of the barn and rub? It’s a lot like that.”