Devon Monk - Dead Iron

Cedar narrowed his eyes at the pain.

“So where are you from, originally?” Mae asked, hoping conversation would help ease his mind away from the discomfort.

“Boston.”

“Pretty city, or so I’ve heard.” She dipped the handkerchief back into the water and squeezed it against his side again.

“It can be,” he said on a held exhalation.

“Not much need for a bounty hunter in a city,” she said. “Did you come out west for the land or for the work?” She removed the handkerchief, filled it with water, and pressed it against his side again.

“Neither.”

“Family? Your brother?” she guessed.

“West just meant more land between me and a life I’d never have again.”

He might mean the war. Might mean property or family he lost because of it. Mae figured it wasn’t her place to pry into matters that private.

“And yourself, Mrs. Lindson?” he asked, filling the silence before she could. “What drew you so far west?”

“The land.” She soaked the cloth again, pressed it into his side. He wasn’t wincing every time she touched him. She hoped the willow in the water was numbing the pain a little.

“Good rich land here in the Oregon Territory. Plenty of it. Thought we’d follow the river all the way to the sea. But when Jeb saw this valley tucked against the mountains, he said he’d never seen a more beautiful corner of God’s earth. So we set to farming here, living here. It’s been a good life. . . .”

She realized she’d stopped working and was instead just kneeling there, thinking of a life she also could never return to.

Cedar Hunt caught her gaze. There was sympathy there. Understanding. Maybe something more she couldn’t quite describe. A kindness and warmth. In that moment she knew he too had suffered death. But instead of giving her gentle words that would do no good for her pain, he simply nodded once. “Your pot’s boiling.”

Mae was grateful that he didn’t ask her any more. She stood and walked to the kettle, pulling it with a poker away from the fire. Outside the wind lifted on the day, pulling birdsong through the air.

She had known she’d never have Jeb again, but had pushed the reality of it away as often as she could, using anger to keep her mind on her task. But seeing Mr. Hunt here, a man who had left a life behind, who had suffered death and never returned to the life he had once lived, made her realize she was alone. Truly alone. And would have to find a way to carry on, build a new life with no one beside her.

“Mae?” Cedar stood beside her and gently pressed his fingertips onto her arm.

How long had she been standing there, the copper pot hanging from one hand, the wind stirring and nosing between the wooden trinkets on the shelf?

“I’m fine, just fine,” she said. “Have a seat. This will be hot, but we’ll wrap it tight to keep the injury clean.”

Cedar hesitated a moment. He glanced out the cracks in the shutters, and held his breath. Listening, she realized. Listening for whatever thing had distracted her.

“Suppose you didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said as she brought the pot over to the table and used a clean knife to draw up the soaked cloth.

“Not so much as I prefer, but enough.” She opened the cloth with her fingertips, and scooped out the leaves and bark and seeds.

“That Strange, the one that looked like little Elbert,” she said, “you said it smelled of his blood. Do you think the boy, the real Elbert, is still alive?” She folded the cloth around the herbs like an envelope, then wrapped it up in a long strip of cheesecloth she would tie around his ribs.

“The blood was fresh,” Cedar said. “And it was Elbert’s.”

Mae pressed the compress against his skin. “Hold this.” Cedar held it in place with his right hand. “So there’s a chance the boy’s still alive?”

“I’ve seen Strange, Mrs. Lindson, but none that uses gear and bone and blood like a child plays with sticks and mud. These are something more. Stronger. Wicked.”

Mae walked across the room and pulled down extra strips of cloth and brought those over. “Mr. Shunt. Do you think he somehow devised that Strange boy?”

“Yes.” Cedar grunted as she bound the cheesecloth, then the length of cloth, around his ribs. “But I don’t know why he would want to. And I don’t know why he would want such a fine woman as you, Mrs. Lindson.”

Mae swallowed at those words and kept her eyes and attention on laying the cloth down smooth and wrapping it evenly. She didn’t want that compress to slip.

“He has killed my husband. The one true love I vowed my life unto. I don’t know what he wants with me. Now that Jeb is dead, there’s not much of me left to hurt. Maybe the Strange don’t approve of our marriage vows. A colored man and a white woman.”

She stood and handed him Jeb’s shirt.

Cedar paused before putting it on. “Don’t think the Strange much care about the color of a person’s skin. Don’t think love much cares either.”

Mae held her breath at those words. They were likely the kindest thing she’d ever been told in her life.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Cedar shrugged his good shoulder and buttoned the shirt, not meeting her eyes. “You suppose the Strange want you for the spells at your disposal?”

“Spells?”

“You are a witch, aren’t you, Mrs. Lindson?” Cedar tipped his eyes up and caught her gaze. He was not afraid of her—no, she’d be surprised if he were afraid of anything or anyone. He wasn’t encouraging nor demanding. And yet, she felt a need to answer him, to tell him what so many had gossiped, what so many had feared.

And putting this truth in his hands could mean her life. The townsfolk did not like her, were afraid of the simplest blends of herbs she made for healing. What would they do if Cedar told them she was indeed the ungodly thing they feared?

And what would they do if they found out the hunter they trusted with their herds, with finding their children, was a cursed and killing beast?

It seemed they both had equal to lose, and to gain. That made up her mind.

“Yes, Mr. Hunt, I am a witch. And I trust my secret is as safe with you as yours is with me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lindson, it is.” Cedar smiled, and it did his face good. She found herself smiling too.

“I’d wager,” he said, “that particular skill is why the Strange are looking for you.”

“Well, I can’t undo what I am. It’s not so much a choice, Mr. Hunt, as a way you’re born. I’d follow the ways of magic whether I knew to call myself a witch or not.”

“Wasn’t saying anything needed undoing. Are there others of your sort around these parts? Your . . . sisters?” he added.

“I don’t really know. I’m from a small coven—a community. And I was seventeen when I came this way with Jeb. Hallelujah is tucked off of the trails. Well, until the rail finishes, that is.”

“If there were a witch nearabouts, do you think they’d contact you?” he asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Could be just that you are the only witch in a hundred miles, and that’s why the Strange are looking for you. Or it could be that you have something particular that they want. Something particular Mr. Shunt wants.”

“All that I have you are looking at now. Do you see anything worth killing me for?”

“Never know what whets the interest of the Strange. Sometimes it’s a bit of metal, a bob of glass. Sometimes it’s a song or a dream, or a rare skill. Is there something you specialize in?”

“Weaving and lace, though I imagine there are those better than I at it. And vows, bindings, and curses,” she added quietly.

“What?”

“It’s not something that’s spoken.”