The Witch of Tin Mountain(83)

Ebba was a hard worker. She seemed to hear Deirdre’s thoughts before she spoke them aloud and would rush to her side to help in whatever task she needed. When Hannah’s time came, one late February afternoon when the sun blinked dimly through the trees, Ebba helped boil water, gather linens, and sopped Hannah’s brow as the labor pains became fierce. Deirdre coaxed Hannah through the pushing, but unlike little Collin, this baby came headfirst and easy into the world.

It was a girl—fat and healthy, with a mass of red hair and an angry little face to match. Hannah was distant. She refused to hold or even name the baby, so Deirdre named her instead: Valerie.

When Ebba was emptying Hannah’s chamber pot a few mornings later, she found an empty bottle of laudanum and brought it to Deirdre. In a panic, Deirdre flew upstairs, woke Hannah from her catatonic sleep, and shoved her fingers into Hannah’s mouth until she vomited.

Hannah apologized, over and over, her voice slurred and heavy. “I just want to sleep, Deirdre, why won’t you let me sleep?”

When Deirdre found her the next day, cold and still and pale as the grave, she shook Hannah, slapped her face. Cried her name, over and over, and even pounded her breast in a vain attempt to start her heart. It was too late. Hannah was dead, just as she’d seen in her vision on that stormy night months ago.

Before she sent for the coroner, a revelation came to Deirdre, growing and spreading like a quick-rooting tree. A way she might undo the past and the desperate promise she’d bound with her blood.

Deirdre handed little Valerie to Ebba. “Take the baby to the carriage house and keep her quiet,” she told Ebba. “No one can know she’s here. And no one can ever know who she belongs to. Do you understand me, Ebba? Especially Mr. Bledsoe.”

“Yes, Deirdre. I will be secret,” Ebba said, speaking the first words Deirdre had ever heard her say in English.

The next day, Deirdre found an attorney’s calling card beneath the blotter on Mr. Bledsoe’s desk. She went to the post office straightaway to send a telegram. When Billy Bledsoe came home four days later from California to bury his wife, his black hair had gone white, and Deirdre never knew the man to smile again.





THIRTY-ONE

GRACELYNN





1931




I don’t get far. Just as I reach the edge of Sutter’s holler, all the strength goes out of me. My side howls with pain. My knees give way and I collapse in the underbrush on all fours. Sheriff Murphy and his men approach, crunching through the underbrush. This is it. This is where it ends.

“She’s over here, Sheriff.” That’s Hosea Ray. “I think she’s hurt.”

“Good! Little bitch stabbed me!” Adams bellows. He stalks over and yanks me up by the elbow. I spit in his face. He wrinkles his nose and clenches my arm so tight I just know he’s gonna break it.

“That’s enough, Jimmy,” Sheriff Murphy says. “Turn her around and I’ll cuff her again.”

I laugh. “You mean you ain’t gonna shoot me while I’m an easy target?”

“If I wanted you dead, girl, you’d’a been dead with that first shot. We’re takin’ you back to town, and you’re gonna act right this time, hear?”

“I’m dead now or dead later. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather face your gun than burn.”

Sheriff Murphy just grunts and cuffs me. I can barely walk, but they pull me along until we’re out by the open road again. It’s high noon and the sun is hot as shit.

They haul me into the cab of the truck, and this time I’m wedged in so tight any hopes of escape are impossible. I rock my head back against the seat. Stars flicker behind my eyelids.

Sheriff Murphy nudges my chin with something cool. I open my eyes. It’s a flask. “It’s just water, girl. Drink up.”

The water is crisp and cold, soothing the dry scratch at the back of my throat. “Thank you,” I manage, licking my lips to moisten them.

He grunts again and shoves the flask under his seat. Hosea starts up the truck and heads toward town. I try to use my magic again, but in the suffocating heat, my thoughts bounce all over the place. My concentration breaks every time Hosea hits a rut in the road. I’m weak. Wrung out like a mop. A few people linger alongside the road, watching us go by. The church steeple rises in the distance. Sure enough, on the square, right in front of the statue of Andrew Jackson, they’ve got a new scaffold built, a gallows at its center.

So, I’m to hang, not burn.

“That’s just for me, ain’t it? Don’t I feel special. First time there’s been a hangin’ in what, twenty years, Sheriff? And a woman, at that!”

Hosea pulls up in front of the church steps. Bellflower stands there, all dressed in black robes, like he’s done this before. When I climb out of the truck, he looks down at me coldly. “Now that our lady of the hour has arrived, shall we begin?”



The church is packed, the pews so crammed that wives are sittin’ on their husbands’ laps. Everybody’s turned out for the spectacle. Heads swivel toward me as I’m led up the aisle, flanked by Bellflower and Sheriff Murphy. They sit me down at the front of the church, at a table facing the pulpit.

“Can you at least uncuff me now?” My voice shakes, betraying my nerves. I’ve never been more terrified.