The Witch of Tin Mountain(81)

“Your eyes. Land sakes, girl. What the hell . . .”

I spring back to give myself room to strike and pull the shank free from my bodice. Without hesitating for even a breath, I stab at his fat neck. But I don’t allow for how much my hands are sweating, and the blow lands crooked. He yelps in pain and stumbles backward, but there’s just a thin trickle of blood running down his collar, not the flood there would have been if I’d aimed true.

“Sheriff!” he hollers. “Stop the truck. Prisoner’s escaping!”

I haul myself over the side of the truck bed, hitting the rocky ground hard. I roll to the ditch and stumble to my feet just as the Ford grinds to a halt.

There’s the sharp bang of a pistol shot, and a bullet whizzes past my head. Sheriff Murphy is the best shot in Tin Mountain. I got lucky. But my luck won’t last.

I still have to try. For Caro. For Abby. For Granny. I make for the trees and run as fast as my legs can carry me, knowing any minute now I’ll feel the burn of the bullet that’ll end me.





THIRTY

DEIRDRE





1881




A month after Mama’s funeral, Deirdre shrugged off her melancholy as best she could, dressed in her Sunday best, and walked to Hannah Bledsoe’s house. She was shocked at what she saw. Long grass grew along the porch, and Hannah’s prize rosebushes were choked with weeds, their buds long spent. The windows were dim and shuttered, as if the great house lay under a spell.

Deirdre grasped the circlet in the lion’s mouth on the front door and rapped three times. No sound came from within. Deirdre knocked again. On the third knock, the door flew open. Deirdre had expected to see Mary’s freckled, smiling face, but another maid stood there—this one tall and thin, with stringy auburn hair and deep hollows beneath her cheekbones. Her belly poked beneath her crooked sash. She was pregnant.

“Hello, I’m here to see Mrs. Bledsoe?”

The woman laughed, a dry cackle that shook her bony frame. “Don’t you recognize me, Deirdre?”

Deirdre stumbled backward in surprise. Familiar green eyes blinked at her slowly. “Hannah?”

“Come in, silly goose,” Hannah said in what was meant to be a coy manner, but instead had the opposite effect.

She followed Hannah into the dark house. Inside, filth surrounded her. Empty milk bottles sat near the door, seeping viscous liquid onto the Oriental rug. Maggots crowded one of the bottle necks, writhing in an orgiastic mass. Deirdre’s gorge rose at the sight.

“I do apologize for the mess!” Hannah said lightly, over her shoulder. “Mary quit months ago, so I’ve had to mind things on my own.”

“Where’s Mr. Bledsoe?”

“He’s likely still out west. He’s invested all we have in the Frisco rail line. I haven’t seen him since the baby died.”

“I was sorry to hear about that, ma’am,” Deirdre said, genuinely. “Collin was a fine boy.”

“Oh, yes, yes he was.” Hannah sighed heavily and led Deirdre through to the parlor. The tabletops were stacked with unopened mail and newspapers. Empty cups tinged with dry tea and plates crusted over with food lay atop every surface. Deirdre gingerly pushed aside a tin of cookies to sit, and a mouse crawled out, squeaking at her in irritation before scurrying away.

She had seen grief. She knew the bitter taste of her own melancholy. But never had she fallen to this depth.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bledsoe. But this ain’t somethin’ I was expecting to see.” Deirdre gestured at the once-fine surroundings. “Are you all right?”

Hannah sat heavily on the cluttered divan, tears springing to her eyes. “No. Isn’t it obvious?”

“I can help you set things back to right. That’s why I’m here. To show my gratitude for what you did for me, just like I promised. Pa’s headed out west again and I need the work.”

“Did you like Aunt Beryl’s school?”

Deirdre blushed, remembering Esme and the lazy Charleston afternoons they’d lain tangled together. “Yes, ma’am. I sure did. I learned a lot. And I’m much obliged to you for sending me there.”

“I heard about your mother’s passing. I’m so sorry about that.”

“Well.” Deirdre cleared her throat. “She’s in a better place. No longer in pain.”

“That’s what folks say. But all I can think about is my baby in the cold ground. I want to dig him up sometimes. Did you know, Deirdre? I read in the magazines that Mr. Lincoln did that with his son, after he died. That he went to Willie’s tomb, took him out of his casket, and held him. Talked to him. Couldn’t let go. My daddy didn’t much care for the man, but I understand why he would do such a thing. It’s so very hard to let go.”

Deirdre didn’t quite know how to respond. “But it looks like you’ve got another on the way. Won’t take the place of Collin, but it’ll surely help you mend.”

“I’m not sure it works like that. Besides, this one’s different. It’s not Billy’s baby. Nobody knows that. Nobody even knows I’m expecting.”

The color drained from Deirdre’s face. “Hannah . . . I . . .”

“Oh, what have I done!” Hannah burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands.