Dead Iron (29 page)

Nothing but silence filled the room. Mae found Jeb’s old boots near the bed. They had holes in the sides, and might be too big for Cedar’s feet, but she had spare socks he could use to take up the difference.

As soon as she stepped back out into the main room, he stopped pacing and slanted a look at her. “No, you most certainly will not.” It was a commanding voice. A stern, lecturing voice.

Mae ignored it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a lawyer, Mr. Hunt. Declaring your opinions as if they were fact.” She held out the old boots and socks for him.

He scowled. “A teacher,” he said.

Mae smiled. “I’ll be going with you. That shotgun is the only thing I’ve seen that can stop Mr. Shunt in his tracks. Not that it kills him, no, he snaps and pulls and stitches himself back together again as easily as he falls apart.” She swallowed hard at the memory of him. “He’s not made of the natural world.”

“Not this natural world, at least,” Cedar said. “Which is all the more reason you should stay here where it’s safe.”

“There is no safe place for me.” Mae didn’t mean it to come out quite so plainly, but there it was. So long as she was a witch in this God-fearing land, with Strange things that crept through pockets of shadow and cozied up to nightmares, she would be pointed to as different, and killed for her ways.

“Mrs. Lindson,” Cedar tried, then, “Mae.”

She looked up at her name, surprised.

“Listen to me. To reason. I know you can stand on your own. You’ve proved you have a strong spine. But first I’ll be headed back to the Madders to reclaim my weapons and clothes. There’s no need for both of us to deal with the three brothers. Their doors too easily turn to walls. I owe them favors I’d never promise another man. If you hold tight here, with the gun at hand, then when I return, well before nightfall, we can set out together to track the boy and the Strange that killed your man.”

Mae had had enough of men promising her they would take care of things a man should, and then return for her as a man should. She’d had enough of men going away and not coming home.

“I’ll be back for you soon,” Cedar said. “I give you my word.”

Mae looked him straight in the eye. “That’s what my husband told me, Mr. Hunt. And now he’s dead.”

Cedar took a breath, and let it out slowly. He walked over to the door and opened it wide, letting in the clean promise of daylight. He paused there, one foot in her home, the other out in the afternoon light, his eyes scanning the horizon before he turned back toward her.

“That may be true,” he said gently, “but I am not your husband, Mrs. Lindson.” He moved to close the door.

Mae spoke up. “Take the mule. She’s out back. You can just point her toward my house when you’re done. She, I’m certain of, will find her way home.”

Cedar nodded, just the quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindson, I’ll do just that.” Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

R
ose Small rubbed the soft cloth over the top of the pew, the honey smell of wax filling the still air of the empty church.

Cleaning every scrap of wood in the building wasn’t her idea of a way to spend an evening as nice as this one, the dusk still clinging to the warmth of sunlight before autumn shook the heat and leaves off the land.

But her folks had heard about her walk last night. Likely from Henry Dunken’s gossipy mother. So Rose was here in the church, as she would be every night this week, contemplating her inexcusable behavior beneath God’s watchful eyes. Offering up to Him elbowgrease tithing for her sins.

At least here in the church she was left in peace to think her own thoughts away from her mother’s angry tirades, away from the women who shook their heads in pity at her, and the men who thought she didn’t notice how they looked at her like she was a broken thing they could use if they wanted.

Oh, she’d seen the letters her folks had written up, asking about eligible men in the nearby towns. She’d more than seen them—she’d volunteered to put them in the mail, and thrown them down the privy hole instead.

The thought of tying herself down to this little town and only ever seeing the sun pull up over the same horizon for the rest of her life near about gave her hives.

She wanted to explore the world, wanted to see what amazing gadgets and tickers and inventions chugged along between the high buildings in the old states, or pressed wide, round backs against the sky, steering the winds across the ocean to far-off lands, or harvesting the rare glim. She wanted to touch those things, make those things.

She wanted to fly. And wanted to do so much more.

When Rose was six, she’d insisted she wanted to be a blacksmith and a deviser when she grew up. She’d heard her father make the blacksmith, Mr. Gregor, promise he’d never put a hammer in Rose’s hand.

And he hadn’t. Though he’d let her pump the bellows and mind the coals and fetch his tools, all the while talking to her of what he was doing and why. Rose figured she knew more about metal and the making of it than a whole university of books and thinkers.

She’d done her devising in secret, hidden in her pockets, hidden beneath her bed where no one ever looked. Little trinkets, little tickers. When her mother had discovered the thimble bird Rose had made when she was nine, she’d demanded to know if Rose had been devising, doing the work allowed only to men.

Rose had told her Mr. Gregor made it. Told her it was a gift to the family and that she’d kept it in her room because she liked it so.

She hadn’t counted on her mother marching her by the arm down to the blacksmith’s shop. Hadn’t counted on her demanding the truth of the story from Mr. Gregor.

And she sure enough hadn’t counted on Mr. Gregor telling her mother, without a bat of a lash, that Rose’s story was true and that he had indeed devised the bird and given it as a gift.

But whatever thin warmth she had felt from her mother froze away over the next few years. Rose knew her mother wanted her married off so that she was no longer a problem to hide or to mind.

Some days she thought the only reason she hadn’t left this town was because of Mr. Gregor. Just thinking about poor little Elbert wandered off into the wild made her heart catch.

She hoped that Mr. Hunt—in whatever skin he was wearing—would be able to find the little child.

Her thoughts lingered on Mr. Hunt. She’d heard stories from travelers passing through that there were men who could change into wolves. Native stories of men turning into all sorts of animals.

But she’d never thought to see such a thing here, with her own eyes, in the little town of Hallelujah.

It might be the wolf in him that kept him private. Or at least she assumed.

There was something behind the closed-off pain in his eyes. A way to his words that spoke of knowledge she didn’t have and wished he’d share.

Rose walked across the aisle to polish the next pew. She supposed she should just be grateful that he believed in the Strange, or at least seemed to. When she’d mentioned the bogeyman to him, and Elbert gone missing, she’d seen the recognition in his eyes.

Rose had always known the Strange were real. The land grew thick with them. Something about the gears and metals drew them, she thought. Something about matics and contraptions called to them. It was one of the reasons she combed the shadows at night, looking for castaway bits and gathering them up before the Strange could come find them.

The door to the church opened, letting in the early-evening air and a liquid wave of dying sunlight.

The shush of petticoats and bustles swept in by the slow chattering of voices, gossipy as birds.

Rose didn’t have to glance their way to know it was Mrs. Haverty, Mrs. Dunken, and the others come to go through the church yet again for wedding plans.

So much for her peace and quiet. They’d likely have her fetching them tea and cookies and things down from the attic for the rest of the night.

As soon as they caught sight of her, they fell silent like birds ducking a wing that had just covered the sunlight.

“Rose Small?” Mrs. Haverty, the banker’s wife, had the sort of bearing Rose had always imagined a queen would hold. Never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in her skirts, she looked like she’d stepped right off the pages of a fancy catalogue. “I did not expect to find you in the church this evening,” she said. “Did your mother send you to lend us a hand with the wedding planning?”

Rose did not stop wiping down the woodwork, but did glance over at the women, eight at least, all clucking about, with plump and pushy Mrs. Dunken giving her a smug look she’d never seen on her face before.

“No, ma’am,” Rose said. “My mother promised the pastor I’d dust down the pews. So everything is ready for service tomorrow.”

Sad-faced Mrs. Bristle spoke up. “Are you saying you don’t care about Mrs. Haverty’s daughter Becky’s impending nuptials? Even a . . . castoff like you should show some respect.”

Rose squared her shoulders and kept the backs of her teeth together so no words could slip out. She was taught to respect her elders, but words would fall through her lips too quickly if she didn’t keep her mind on them. Then they’d all know exactly what this “castoff” thought about them and their judging ways.

“Now, don’t be so cruel to the girl, Mabel,” Mrs. Dunken said. “I’m sure Miss Small will settle down and behave properly soon enough. She just needs a man with a strong hand to rein her in. A man like my boy Henry.”

Rose rolled her eyes and went back to dusting. Henry thought he was the strongest, prettiest man in town because that was what his mama was always telling him. Even though his parents had sent him off to school in New York more to be rid of him than to get him some real learning, he’d come back only a year later, saying he’d decided politics were his future. He’d set his eyes on taking the mayor’s place.

“That’s kind of you to think so,” Rose said to Mrs. Dunken. “But I’m sure Henry has his sights set on a girl of much higher standing than I, what with his political aspirations and all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, dear,” Mrs. Haverty said.

Rose stopped dusting out of shock. She’d never heard the banker’s wife say a kind thing to her in all her days.

“You may be of low standing,” Mrs. Haverty continued, “but you do have land to your name. A good parcel of land can make even the most plain of girls pretty enough to marry.”

A slow, creeping dread came along with those words. Mrs. Haverty sounded like she was certain about that. Rose glanced over at Mrs. Dunken. Still the same smug look.

Oh no. They’d done something, made some plans to marry her off.

A shadow crossed the doorway and Rose knew who it was before she even glanced that way. Henry Dunken.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, striding into the room and taking up too much space. “I understand you need a hand with the wedding preparations?”

Rose tucked the cloth away in one of the pockets of her apron and picked up the tin of wax. She crossed the room to take it back to the storage cupboard, and to get herself out from beneath their notice.

“Henry, yes, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Haverty said. “You can help Rose fetch down the candleholders from the attic.”

Rose froze halfway across the room. She most certainly would not go into the attic with that man. She’d known him nearly all her life. He was mean when they were young and was meaner now. His smiles and polite manners fit him like a bad suit, and fooled no one, least of all her.

“I’ll have to beg your apologies,” Rose said. “I promised my mother I’d help her close down the shop. And it’s already late.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Haverty said. “I was just at the shop, and your mother said she’s coming this way any minute now. I’m sure the store is already closed.”

Rose’s mind tumbled and spun, looking for a new escape route. “I have chores at home, waiting for me.”

Mrs. Dunken swished her way over and took Rose’s arm. Firmly. She tugged her off toward the stairs to the attic in the back corner of the room. “My old knees just won’t do those stair steps any longer. Be a dear, for us, Miss Small. I’m sure your mother is in full agreement with you minding as you’re told.”

She gave Rose a shove, and Rose took the first two steps, just to keep from falling.

And then Henry Dunken was right behind her, smelling of booze and blocking her retreat. He leaned in far too close for a man who should know his place and his manners in front of his mother and other women of the town.

Rose took another step, just to fit some air between her and him, and the candle he carried in one hand.

“Go on up, Miss Small,” he said quiet and nice. “Won’t take long to bring the women their fancy candles; then I’ll be on my way.”

She didn’t believe him. But unless she wanted to shove him down the stairs and stir the wrath of all the old biddies, it’d be best to get this done and over with.

Rose clomped up the stairs, Henry just a step behind her, breathing hard enough she could smell the alcohol on each exhalation.

The attic was dark, the posts and beams and rafters dancing side to side in the light thrown by Henry’s candle. The window at the end of the attic was dark too, the moon not yet off the horizon.

“If I recall, the candlesticks are back there near the window.” Rose pointed. She had no intention of going into the dark corner with Henry in the room. She was staying at the top of the stairs, where she could retreat, if needed.

“I’ll need a hand gathering them,” he said, still too quiet and still too nice. “I’d be right obliged if you held the candle for me, Miss Small.”

He stepped up close to her, too close, and offered her the candle he held. He smelled of booze and smoke and sweat. She didn’t know where he’d spent his day, but she’d guess it was in the saloon.