The Witch of Tin Mountain(77)

“They won’t. Not at this time of day.”

“I . . . Robbie, I just don’t know—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, silencing her with another kiss. This one was deeper, hungry, hard, and demanding. Deirdre whimpered as Robbie opened her shirtwaist all the way. She cast furtive eyes to either side of the bridge, ears perking for the sound of hoofbeats.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. He kissed the soft flesh between her breasts, then lifted his head. His eyes glinted in the low light. For a moment, just a moment, his countenance flickered, and he looked like someone else.

Suddenly, he grasped the hair at the nape of her neck, crushing her lips to his as he pulled her to him. Desire flooded through her. She closed her eyes as the ache between her legs became a torrent of want.

“It’s time, Deirdre,” he growled. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Deirdre nearly swooned as Robbie raised her skirts and found the opening in her drawers. He had never touched her like this. She threw her head back, gripping his shoulders as he worked her with a sureness unlike anything she’d ever experienced. When she shattered, moments later, he lifted her against the bridge’s wall and took her. She clawed at his back and clung to him as he watched her with unwavering, depthless eyes. It was exciting—dangerously so—to be made love to in such a salacious way. When she found her pleasure again, she could have sworn she heard Gentry’s laughter echoing along with her cries.

After her trembling ceased, he lowered her gently onto her feet. Robbie’s eyes, storm gray and searching, met hers in the darkness. “I suppose I’ve missed you,” he said, laughing shyly.

“I’ve missed you, too. But now that I’m back, we won’t never have to miss each other again.”

“That’s right,” Robbie said, his smile dying. He turned his back as Deirdre buttoned her blouse and smoothed her crumpled skirts. Guilt warred with her lustful satisfaction. She thought of Mama, sick and dying at home. What if their little tryst had cost her more than a few stolen moments?

Just as she feared, when Deirdre saw the darkened windows of the cabin, she knew she was too late. She gave Robbie a hasty kiss, hoisted herself from Georgia’s back, shouldered her bag, and broke into a run.

She found Pa on the porch, his head cradled in his hands. At the sound of her rushing through the grass, gone long and weedy, he lifted his gaze and stood. He was thin. Haggard. “Deirdre . . .”

Pa opened his arms and she rushed into them. His ribs quaked and he shook, crying and murmuring in German.

“How long?” she asked, pulling back.

Pa blinked, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. “Two days. Funeral’s tomorrow.”

Her shoulders fell. Denying herself with Robbie wouldn’t have made a difference, after all. “Can I see her?”

Pa nodded. “She’s laid out in the parlor.” He cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders in his proud Werner way. “I’ll start some tea. Are you hungry, poppet?”

Deirdre’s stomach gave a hearty rumble despite her grief. The food in the café had been middling and spare, and her shoulders ached from sleeping on the cramped second-class banquette, wedged between the other passengers. “I reckon so. After I take my time with her, ’course.”

Pa nodded brusquely and opened the door. The cloying scent of lilies crawled up Deirdre’s nostrils. It was always lilies or roses at a wake—their strong, sweet perfume helped mask the stench of death.

She took off her lace gloves and pulled in a steadying breath. Regret and guilt clashed within her. The last words she’d spoken to Mama had been harsh. And Mama’s to her. Their relationship had always been contentious, fraught. But for all that, Deirdre still knew the softness within Mama’s hardness. The calm way she delivered babies and soothed mothers. The way she’d come into Deirdre’s room for evening prayers, and her patience with teaching Deirdre about the saints and how to read the Bible.

She followed Pa inside, steeling herself. He’d done things well. Candles were lit on the mantle and black crepe draped over the mirrors and windows. The fine casket sat upon trestles, smelling of freshly hewn pine. Mama’s head rested lightly on a lacework pillow, her garnet rosary wound around her crossed hands. But she was a husk of the robust woman she’d once been. Beneath her finest calico, the jut of her hip bones was visible. Her collarbone and wrists were as fine and brittle as a sparrow’s bones. Her lips were chapped and slightly parted, enough so Deirdre could see the blackness within.

Pa cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Deirdre put her fingers to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, gathering her senses and her words. Perhaps Mama’s spirit still lingered here. Perhaps she might glean some solace from saying what she’d meant to say had Mama still been drawing breath.

She leaned close to the casket, so Pa wouldn’t hear from the kitchen. “Mama,” she began, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it home in time to see you. I tried. I promise I did.”

The clock on the mantle ticked on, measuring the time that Mama would never experience again. It was surreal, how everything continued, how everything kept on after a person died. Shouldn’t time stop for grief, even for a moment, so one might catch their breath before things started moving again?

Deirdre tilted her head back. A long, wavering sigh escaped from her mouth. “I’ve learned a lot since I been away. A lot more than manners and fancy talk. I’ve learned about life and how people love each other. And even though the secret I kept for you tore me up inside, I think I understand.” A long-held tear flowed down her cheek.