The Hunger(38)

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mary said. “I saw you headed this way. I’ve—I’ve been meaning to speak to you in private.”

“I don’t have the time right now.” She offered no explanation. Mary Graves didn’t deserve one.

When she tried to pass, however, Mary stepped in front of her. “Please. It will only take a minute,” she said. She looked as if she might put a hand on Tamsen’s arm and then thought better of it. “I only wanted to know why you’ve taken a dislike to me.”

For a moment, Tamsen was speechless. She almost—almost—felt sorry for the girl. Mary looked baffled, like a child who has watched an apple fall up instead of down. At the same time, she felt a rush of hard anger: Mary believed that Tamsen owed her an answer. An answer that a less na?ve girl would’ve figured out in an instant.

If Tamsen had been in a different mood, she might have laughed. She might even have explained the way things were. Charles Stanton had chosen Mary, but that did not mean everyone else had to love her, too. Mary had stolen Stanton away from her without even trying. It wasn’t even clear that she wanted him.

Tamsen had every right to hate her.

Of course, she could say none of it. She lifted the hem of her skirt and clambered over the high tufts of grass, cutting around Mary Graves. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said lightly. “And I’m sure we both have more important things to worry about.”

Mary didn’t let up. She started after her and immediately caught Tamsen, easily matching her stride. “You don’t like me,” she insisted. “I can tell from the way you avoid me. I only want to know why.” She bit her lip. “Does it—does it have to do with Mr. Stanton?”

Tamsen couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of his name in Mary’s mouth. “What does Mr. Stanton have to do with it?” she asked, and heard her voice sound cold and thin, as if filtered through a layer of thick ice.

Mary hesitated. For a second, Tamsen thought she wouldn’t be brave enough to say it. But finally she cleared her throat. “I heard stories,” she said simply.

Stories. Another word for wrongheaded lies, like the ones told about her in North Carolina, before she moved to Springfield.

If you’re so sure that I’m a witch, Tamsen had responded to the preacher’s wife who had hectored her so mercilessly all those years ago, do you think it wise to taunt me? It had given her a stupid, momentary pleasure to see the fear curdle on the woman’s face. That was the problem with women like Peggy Breen and Eleanor Eddy: They were afraid, always afraid, always of the wrong things.

Now, the temptation to tell Mary the truth was almost overwhelming. She could tell her things about Stanton that she wouldn’t expect, set her straight. He was strong and smart, yes, but careless with feelings, his own and other people’s. He was made to be a loner; he was made to let people in only halfway.

You don’t want to lose your heart to that kind of man, virgin.

But Tamsen knew that Mary’s unhappiness would come to her, whether Tamsen told her how to see it or not. There was a small, mean part of her that was even glad.

“You shouldn’t listen to stories,” she said only.

Before Mary Graves could respond, someone shouted Tamsen’s name.

Tamsen turned, mistaking the voice at first for George’s. But it was Halloran. He stumbled through the brush holding his stomach. Hunched, he looked like he had been shot.

All his new strength, energy, and health had vanished; she was shocked by the sight of him, shocked and horrified. He was obviously dying. His eyes bulged in his head. His lips, pulled back in a grimace, exposed inflamed gums and rotting teeth. Tendons stood out on his neck, hands, and arms.

“Mrs. Donner,” he said again, reaching out for her. Unconsciously, she stepped back, though they were still separated by a narrow creek. He stumbled on the uneven ground and landed on his knees in the water. But rather than stand, he began to crawl. “Help. Please help.”

She forgot in that instant the man she’d seen watching her from the trees, and responded instead to the man she had nursed by her own campfire. She splashed into the creek, ashamed of her first impulse to get away from him, scooping water in her two hands, bringing it to his mouth.

“Go find help,” she told Mary. “We need someone to carry him.” To Mary’s credit, she didn’t shriek or argue or faint. She turned and ran in the direction of the wagon train.

He refused to drink. He moaned in agony and seemed not to hear her when she begged him to open his eyes. This close to him, she nearly gagged; the smell of him was already that of a corpse.

As soon as Mary was out of view, however, Halloran opened his eyes. He grabbed Tamsen’s wrist with unexpected strength. “Mrs. Donner—Tamsen,” he said, pulling her close to his face, so close that she felt his breath on her cheek. “You’re still my friend, aren’t you? You were so kind to me, the only one to help me when I got sick . . .”

“Shhh. Easy, now. Of course I’m your friend,” she said.

His eyes were huge and bright. Even in the dark, they seemed to glow. She thought again of possession, of someone else inhabiting his body, making him act like a stranger.

She tried to ease his hand off her arm, but his grip was too strong. Not like a dying man’s strength at all. A pulse of fear traveled her spine.