Whitacre Point is just ahead, through a break in the trees shaped like a keyhole. A person can stand out on the point in the clear light of morning and see all the way past Sutter’s holler, to where the big Buffalo River winds like a ribbon of gold in the distance. When I first came to Tin Mountain, I used to get up in the early hours and hike to the point to watch the sun come up. Then Aunt Val figured out that all those years of taking care of myself had made me a decent cook and housekeeper.
There wasn’t much time for leisurely morning strolls after that.
I push through the pine boughs. The outcrop juts from the bluff like the head of a hawk, shining white under the moon. I step out onto the crag, where it’s flat and solid. Folks braver than me walk to the edge, but a lot of them folks have slipped and ended up dead at the bottom of the holler. Sometimes they don’t find their bodies for months. If they find them at all.
Behind me, Old Liberty’s beam sweeps overhead. A stray breeze kicks up, pushing my hair from my neck and raising goosepimples on my arm.
Gracelynn . . .
My ears prick. Somebody just whispered my name, from down in the holler. I could almost swear it.
Gracelynn . . .
There it is again. It ain’t my imagination. Or the wind. My belly tumbles over with sick fear. I think of them old stories about the Sutter haint and hightail it out of there, tripping and falling over the knobs of shale sticking out from the ground. Whether I’m imagining things or not, I ain’t eager to find out who, or what, might own that voice.
Once I’ve made it back up the ridge, I slow down and catch my breath. As I round the corner on our dirt road, I can see the cabin’s lit up bright as Christmas. Granny is up and Aunt Val is home, I’d bet. I’m fixing to catch ten kinds of hell.
But as I get nearer, a heavy, electric feeling of dread thickens the sweltering air—like the eerie calm before a tornado. It’s the same dark feeling I had when that preacher man laid hands on Ma Watterson and threw me into that vision.
And then I see him. Bellflower. He’s standing in front of the cabin, with his hands held out in front of him in surrender. Granny’s on the front steps, Morris’s shotgun propped against her shoulder and pointed right at him. The stench of asafetida wafts toward me. A shaky line of yellow powder stretches across the path between the preacher and Granny. It’s a ward. A hastily made one, but a ward just the same.
“Hey, now! What’s goin’ on here?” I holler.
They both turn at the sound of my voice. Bellflower grins at me like he’s just beat the house in a hand of blackjack.
Granny’s eyes go all wide. She shouts a curse, racks the slide, and shoots.
SIX
DEIRDRE
1881
Deirdre woke to the rattle of thunder, and sat up, wincing as a surge of pain and dizziness swept through her head. Rain pecked at the roof and sluiced hard against the windowpanes, graying the thin light that managed to leak through. Two days since little Collin Bledsoe was born and the rains had yet to cease.
From the kitchen, Mama’s hoarse, wet cough rang out. It’d grown worse with the damp weather. If Mama sickened more, Deirdre would have to tend to the townsfolk and deliver babies by herself, and the winter before had nearly worn her plumb through. She’d brought four babies on her own, scared the whole time something might go wrong.
A knock came, breaking through the storm’s steady thrum. Mama’s chair scraped against the floor, then the front door creaked open to the deep rumble of a male voice. Arthur Cash. Robbie’s pa.
“It’s gettin’ mighty treacherous out there, Nola. The crick’s already swole over its banks. Took out the footbridge at Abbott’s Crossing. I found a young man clingin’ to a downed tree down around the holler. He got caught out in the flood. I wondered if he might come in, sit a spell. Maybe get changed into some clean clothes and have a sip of broth.”
“Certainly. I’ll gather some of Jakob’s things. Bring him in, get him warmed up.”
Could it be the same man she’d seen in the holler? Deirdre eased her nightgown up over her knees and sank down onto the floor, crawling to the edge of the loft and parting the curtains to have a better listen. Another set of footprints echoed across the floorboards.
“Mornin’， ma’am. I’m much obliged for your hospitality.”
Now that was a voice—low and sweetly thick like molasses. Deirdre leaned forward, craning her neck to see down the hall. The stranger was tall and lean, his head coming near to the top of the doorframe. She could only see his profile from her perch, but he had handsome features, with high cheekbones and a fine nose under his rain-slicked hair. He certainly might be the same man she’d seen down in the holler, judging by his height alone.
“Heavens, you must be chilled to the bone,” Mama said, her skirts rustling as she moved about the kitchen. “I’ve some of my husband’s things here, freshly washed. You can go through the hall and into the room beyond to change. There’s a screen and a washstand there, if you’d like to wash up. I’ll warm some beef broth for you.”
“You’re too kind, ma’am. Surely you’ll be blessed for your charity.”
Deirdre let the curtain fall back into place as the stranger’s footsteps neared. The wet slop of drenched clothing hitting the floor filtered up to her. The man hummed softly to himself as he wrung out a cloth and began washing. Deirdre’s curiosity got the better of her, and she parted the curtain ever so slightly and peered out again. Her breath hitched. The stranger hadn’t gone behind the screen to wash. She’d never seen a naked man before, but she’d imagine this one was as well formed as any, with a muscled back and a rear end to match. He turned, as if sensing she were there, and smiled. She pressed her back against the wall, her heart beating so loudly she was sure he might hear it.
After a few more moments of leisurely washing, he dressed in Pa’s clothes, leaving Deirdre’s face afire with shameful thoughts. After he’d gone, she dressed, then slowly eased down the ladder and took careful, sliding steps past the hutch filled with Mama’s paper-thin Belleek china. She craned her neck to peer around the corner. Mama sat at the kitchen table, her face in her hands, Arthur Cash behind her.
The stranger sat himself across from Mama, folding his tall frame into a hoop-backed chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t formally introduce myself upon arrival, ma’am. Ambrose Gentry.”
“Finola Werner,” Mama replied, offering her hand. Gentry took it, and for a moment, Deirdre thought he might bring her hand to his lips. A faint blush pinked Mama’s skin. She pulled away, then offered a bowl of steaming broth to him, which he drank heartily.
“Mr. Gentry here is a pastor, Nola. A healin’ man,” Arthur said. “He came all the way from Tennessee. Means to start a church in Tin Mountain.”
“Is that so?” Mama asked wistfully. “Well, that’s fine news.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gentry said. “I mean to stay on as long as you good folks’ll have me.”
A new preacher? In Tin Mountain? Deirdre would be surprised if Old Stack would let that come to pass. He was mighty territorial.
“He’d sure like to pray over you, Nola. I told him of your ailment. I know he ain’t one of your Catholics, but a healin’ man is a healin’ man.”