The Hunger(52)

“Mrs. Donner.” Keseberg tipped his hat. The name sounded like an insult in his mouth. “What a surprise.”

“I’m looking for my daughter Elitha,” she said.

“The girl done run off, did she?” Keseberg barely turned his head to spit. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. I ain’t seen her. And believe me”—he turned to grin at her again—“I been lookin’.”

A black revulsion moved through her, like a serpent uncoiling deep in her blood. Then she realized where she had seen the shawl before. “You stole that,” she said. “You stole it from an Indian grave.”

He only shrugged. “So what? I take what I want—just like you. You act like we’re different, Tamsen. But we’re exactly the same. We are two of a kind, you and me.”

Without warning, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her to him. Her daughter Leanne shouted and started to run to her. But she yelled at her to stay back.

She had put out of her mind how disgusting he was, but it was impossible to ignore up close. He smelled rancid, as though he never bathed or washed his clothes. The skin under his scraggly beard was inflamed and scabby, his teeth gray from neglect. He might have been thin but he was strong and used his height to his advantage. “You’re not thinking, Tamsen. A man like me could be useful. You have enemies. You need someone to be your friend.”

“Is that why you went after Charles Stanton? You wanted to make it look like I killed him to punish me?” She tried to push away from him. “Let go of me.”

“It don’t pay to refuse me. It’s better to be my friend. Besides, I know what you did with Stanton.” Keseberg spat the words at her. “I heard what you did in Springfield, too, all those men you been with, so don’t pretend that you don’t like it.”

He had to be talking about Dr. Williams. Jeffrey. She thought the story hadn’t gotten out, that George had managed to keep it contained. She’d been lonely and Jeffrey Williams, though he was more than twice her age, was intelligent and far more cultured than George. But, like Charles Stanton, Jeffrey Williams had been a mistake. She had been looking for comfort but all she found in these men was a temporary distraction. It wasn’t the kind of thing a man like Keseberg would understand, however.

She tried to wrench away from him, but he got a hand around her dress and pulled, ripping the fabric. Without thinking, she brought her knee up hard between his legs. He doubled over backward, gasping. All at once, her children darted out from the shelter of the wagons and eddied around her torn skirts like a current, asking if she was okay. The littlest one, Eliza, was crying.

“Come,” was all she could say. There was a tight, airless feeling in her chest, as if he still had his weight against her.

They had turned away from Keseberg when he finally got his breath.

“You’re too old for me anyway. All used up,” he choked out. “But those stepdaughters of yours will do just fine. That Elitha’s been sniffing around.”

She froze. Her blood felt like a sluice of ice in her veins. “You stay away from her.”

He managed to smile, too. A horrible, ragged smile, like something cut by a knife. “I reckon she wants a man to make a woman of her.”

Fear crested to panic. Elitha, Elitha, Elitha. Where could she be? Tamsen turned with her children and ran, plunging back through the camp, ignoring the stares they received. Tamsen swept past the Reeds, hoping to find Elitha with her friend Virginia, but all she got was a sour look from Margaret. Through the trampled path that cut across the middle of the encampment (more grumbles, dark looks, mutters). Past the last cluster of wagons, the sun starting to set behind their weatherworn canopies. The children were starting to whimper, frightened to be so far from the rest of the family, and Tamsen was tempted to turn around but then Keseberg’s leer would rise up before her eyes and she knew she had to go just a little farther . . . Into the wild sage, the low branches snagging her skirt like a child’s hand. A distance from the camp, not far from the river—she could hear the lowing of oxen and cattle just ahead—when she thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Dragging the little ones nearly off their feet, Tamsen swept into a small clearing to find Elitha kneeling in the dirt, with a lantern set beside her. She was using a stick to dig. Tamsen couldn’t tell why. The sun had set by now and everything was cast in bare and flickering light.

“Elitha!” she called out, half in anger, half in relief. Elitha started. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you”—Tamsen had released her grip on Frances and Eliza and reached down to jerk her stepdaughter to her feet—“you were not to leave my sight, didn’t I tell you that?”

Elitha’s hands were coated in dirt. Her dress was filthy, too. “But I found lambs’ ears. I knew you’d want it. Didn’t you say so?”

Lambs’ ears. Tamsen used it for one of her remedies. But she was still gripped by a fear that rocked her chest like an inner earthquake. Without thinking, she slapped Elitha hard. Before she knew what had happened, her palm was red and stinging and Elitha was holding her cheek, looking up at her in shock.

But not in pain. In fury. She had never seen Elitha like this before, face knitted together, eyes flashing. She wanted to apologize to her and at the same time, shake her for giving her a fright. For the dizzy fear that still consumed her.