Chapter 12

Mayweather

John used to complain that the devil stole my tongue. 

Oh, not all the time. But he’d mutter the phrase on those occasions when I just couldn’t stop myself, when I simply had to needle some sanctimonious person who’d decided to be scandalized by my powers. And why not? A bit of sly mockery was the least someone deserved for tossing holy water at me after I saved their life, or for furiously quoting the bible at me after we’d ridden hours to make it to their land in time.

It was only fair, I thought. 

John disagreed. 

Usually, he’d wait to deliver his commentary until after we’d concluded our business. Occasionally, he didn’t. Not once did he approve of my verbal jabs or feigned hexings. He explained how my antics undermined the authority of the Midnight Marshalls, so I tried to contain myself. 

But right now, I just can’t help myself. 

There’s no John, no Midnight Marshalls to consider. Just a self-righteous sheriff who has yet to let go of my arm. 

We’re walking toward the center of town and I can see people bustling on the street ahead—and he’s marching me along like I’m some recalcitrant toddler who cannot be trusted not to chase a squirrel. His expression is stern, his mouth set in a firm line, as if he’s already stood as judge and jury over my entire being. It’s infuriating. Moreso, because I’ve seen that exact expression on John’s face too many times to count.

I draw in a deep breath and remind myself that this man is John’s descendant. He thinks he’s dealing with a criminal, that he’s protecting his town. And I fear Doc is right—we’re going to need each other before this is over. If there’s anyone who can help me drive back the darkness, it will be the living memory of John walking stiffly beside me. He might even know where to find Jesse’s remains. 

I should take advantage of this moment and do my best to convince him to trust me. And yet… 

I lean in. Sniff.

“Why, Sheriff.” My lips twist into a smirk. “Is that sage and salt I smell?”

He stops walking, drops my arm, and glares at me. 

I can’t help it—I smile up at him.

His mouth works, jaw flexing at the corner as if it’s trying to carry the entire weight of his face’s disapproval. As expected. John never liked having his authority questioned, surely this grumpy remnant will be no different. 

“Hmm?” I lift my brows in silent question—or perhaps I’d best call it a dare.

Something between a growl and a sigh escapes him. 

Then, to my absolute shock, his lips quirk. “Why, Mayweather. I suppose it is sage and salt you smell.” 

I am not prepared for this admission. 

“And if you repeat that to anyone?” He leans in, close enough for me to feel the heat of him and get another solid whiff of the salt on his skin. I’m also sharply reminded how much taller he is than me. “I’ll break my very serious commitment to truth and throw you back in that cell on spectacularly false charges.”

He grins, and despite his threatening words the suddenly playful expression transforms his face. All the sharp edges soften. His teeth flash from within a wide mouth, the lines at the corners confirming such smiles are a frequent occurrence. And the glint in his eyes promises it’s not the first time he’s mocked his own foibles.

John never joined in my teasing—and he never laughed when he was the target of a joke, no matter who said it.

My chest tightens and I quickly look away. 

I grip my skirt for balance and try to focus on Main Street. 

It’s strange how it’s both what I remember and completely foreign. 

Some of the houses we’re passing, as well as the storefronts we’re approaching, are the same as those I’d known. The paint might be brighter, or the signs in the window might blow, but the shape and size are right, and they’re exactly where they should be. But those familiar points are mixed with other styles: towering buildings of brick with facades that belong in Boston, squat boxes of poured stone, and homes fronted with massive windows and thick wooden beams. 

Most of all, it’s busy. 

“There are so many more people now,” I whisper. 

“Is that so?” Jack murmurs. He’s matched his pace to mine. “Devil’s Reach only had 1,966 recorded in the last census.”

I blink at him. “Nearly two-thousand?”

“In the town proper,” he confirms. “For the county as a whole, we’re looking at closer to eight-thousand, including the Blackfoot population on their ancestral lands—hence the broader estimate.”

Those numbers are so large. It’s nowhere near the size of Boston, yet I still feel struck. 

I swallow hard. “There used to only be a few hundred people in the town.”

He snorts. “Well, there’s a lot more now. Even if a chunk of the non-native population is scattered across ranches and inherited plots of land. Whether they live in town, around the county, or in the res, they know about the infamous Mayweather McCreedy.” He leans down to speak quietly. “And I bet word travels just as fast now as it did when the town was a handful of prospectors.”

I glance sharply at him. “What do you mean…”

The surrounding whispers finally penetrate my awareness. 

“Oh.” It takes effort to get past the sheer volume of people on the streets and focus on what they’re doing. Which appears to be whispering and pointing at me. Goddess, they’re all gawking at the sheriff and muttering about the dead witch of Devil’s Reach. What a moniker. It sits less comfortably on my skin than my previous title of ‘that witch who rides with the Midnight Marshalls.’

Before I died, I liked to pretend I was over being studied like a curiosity in a traveling show, but apparently that was easier when the town was only a few hundred. Color floods my cheeks and I adjust my hat. 

“This is a poor idea,” I say quietly. “We should leave.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m taking you for tea.”

“Tea?” My voice kicks up at the end. Dammit, now I sound as nervous as I feel. I grip my skirt and glare at him. “Why is everyone plying me with tea today?” I narrow my eyes. “You’re not drinking tea.”

“Correct,” he agrees, far too cheerfully. “I drink coffee. But you, you’re a tea person.”

I huff. “So certain?”

“I am.” He slants me a glance. “You see, it all ends in tea for you. Either you’re genuine, in which case you're a long-skirt wearing, old-timey witch who can only love tea. Or, you’re an excellent con artist who has to maintain the role. Hence, tea.”

“How logical,” I grumble.

“I aim to please.” He tips his hat. 

“Do you?” I tilt my head in contemplation. “Yesterday you were furious with me and determined to believe I’m a terrible liar here for nefarious purposes. This morning you smell of sage—which you don’t want anyone to know about—and you’re apparently willing to humor me. Why is that?”

He lifts his brows. “That is a good question. I—”

“Miss Witch!” A little boy races down the sidewalk toward us. He can’t be more than five or six years old. Copper curls bounce wildly and he skids to a halt before me. “Miss Witch! My brother says you’re the bad witch. I need a curse.”

“You…” This child has rendered me speechless. “What?”

“I need you to curse my sister,” he says. “She’s awful. But witches curse little girls all the time, though. If you curse her, she’ll have to go live in the woods with the fairies and I won’t have to share my toys.”

Beside me, Jack snorts with amusement. But he doesn’t offer any help, the jerk. 

I clear my throat. “Ah, no. I will not curse your sister.”

The little boy stomps his foot. “Why not?”

I crouch down. “Because I’m certain she’s behaved better than you.”

“No!” The child unleashes an impressive gasp and looks up. “Sheriff! Tell her!”

Jack chuckles. “I think she’s got your number, Davey. You’re just going to have to share your toys with your little sister.”

Davey’s face scrunches up. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, you have to,” Jack says, sounding perfectly affable. “Now, I see your mom waiting on the corner and I bet you’re going to visit your friend, Walt. I bet that will be fun. Unless I arrest you for accosting innocent witches on the sidewalk…” He pulls out his handcuffs and gives them a flip.

The child lets out a wild laugh. “You’ll never catch me!” He turns around and blasts down the walk to his mother. 

“That kid is a pistol,” Jack says, and the cuffs disappear. “Ready?”

“No, not really.” My gaze is stuck on the child’s mother and the people around her, who are all staring at me. Margaret’s warnings reverberate in my head. “No one wants me here. I scare them.”

“Stop worrying about them,” he says. “Not everyone in town wields torches and pitchforks.”

“Could have fooled me,” I mutter. “Margaret has told me all about them.”

He ducks his head. “Breathe, McCreedy. Margaret might have left out a few details.”

I shake my head. “She was clear. I really think tea is a poor decision. If you want to talk, we can do so at the station—”

“No. We’ve done enough talking at the station. We’re trying something new.” Jack takes my hand and pulls me through a swinging door. 

His grip is warm and firm and I can’t seem to fight it.

My thoughts are a jumble. My breath catches.

Then we’re in a brightly-colored shop.

As abruptly as he took hold, Jack releases my hand. I take a quick step to catch my balance, and I soak in the atmosphere around me. The air is a heady mix of herbs, coffee and baked goods. Light streams through a pattern of stained glass along the top of the windows, and crystals make rainbows dance across bold blue walls. 

A gleaming counter of bright river rocks runs along the far wall. It must be magic, because the rocks appear to be in glass, with bright blue ripples forming a river down the length. The chairs are a charming mix of pink and green and yellow. Mugs in a boldly swirled glaze line a set of shelves. Patterns of flowers, beasts and the familiar terrain of Devil’s Reach are splashed across canvases. And a big menu promises a world of drinks and delights—I don’t understand what half of the items are, and I can still know that. 

 It’s a glorious land of color and scent.

“This is a good place,” I whisper. 

“It is.” Jack motions me forward. “Let’s sit.”

He leads me to a table covered in a cloth featuring a circular pattern of ravens, branches and bees. A design that praises transformation, growth, and perseverance. Oh, this is a very good place—even better than Doc’s. For the first time since awakening in the earth, I feel like I can draw a complete breath. 

As we sit, I study Jack. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you suddenly willing to humor me?”

His lips quirk. “I will answer that, but first we order.”

Great, as I have no idea what to order. 

I turn to study the board, and instead find myself looking at a woman with a head full of spectacularly multi-hued strands of hair. Some appear to be dyed, while others are braided with beads or wrapped with thread. She's holding a small pad and a pen, and wearing those terrifyingly tight jeans, which somehow look exactly right on her curvy frame. Her shoes are pinot. And her shirt reads ‘Hallowed Grounds,’ the script is decorated with images of steaming mugs and fresh bread.

“Hey, Sheriff,” she says. “Assume you’ll want your usual triple-shot americano.”

“You know me well, Moon,” he replies, and motions for me. “Far be it for me to decide what Mayweather McCreedy chooses for tea.”

“Mayweather.” She sounds oddly satisfied. “It’s about time you brought her to me, Sheriff.”

I look up and find a deep pair of brown eyes. 

My entire body freezes. 

I know those eyes.

“Henry.” I shove my chair back and lurch to my feet. I want to reach for her hands and clutch them as if our lives depend on it—and it hurts to not. Sucking in a breath, I press my fists into my stomach and hold her gaze. “I’m sorry. I doubt you’ll understand. I barely understand. But… but you have his eyes.”

She smiles. “So, you’re Mayweather.”

A sharp gasp of understanding escapes me. “You’re a Moon Crow.”

Her lips, painted a fascinating shade of glimmering burnt umber, curve upward. “Actually, I’m a Schwartz.” She must have watched my face crumble because she quickly takes hold of my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Sorry, sorry. That’s a joke within my family. I like to say I visited New York and got a husband as a souvenir…”

Jack coughs.

“Everyone’s a critic, Sheriff.” She scrunches her face at him. “And sure, that joke is only funny if you know.” Her gaze shifts to me and she gives a rueful laugh. “Yes, I’m of Henry Moon Crow’s blood.”

Say hello to Henry.

Is this woman what the revenant meant? 

An unexpected hope flares bright in my chest. If this is what it meant, then there’s a chance some of the Jesse Wilks I’d known remain. Maybe he’s trying to offer me help and comfort in the shape of Henry’s memory.

Of all the people I would wish for in this time…

It should be John. But I know in my heart it’s Henry.

“I wasn’t expecting…” My eyes burn and I want to pull her close and hold tight—tight enough that she can’t vanish like the mists of a dream. Swallowing hard, I cover her hand with mine. “That is to say, it is an honor to meet you—one I was not expecting. Henry was always so determined not to have children. I don’t know if it is right of me to say it, but I am so grateful he broke that vow.”

Her lips twist. “Don’t be grateful yet.”

“I’m sorry?” My head tilts in confusion. 

“The day is young, Mayweather.” She pulls away and taps her pad. She gives a thoughtful hum, as if what’s written is far more important than drinks. “I’ve got one triple shot americano and a special blend coming up. Then perhaps we’ll talk.”

“Oh. Okay. As you…” I’m left blinking in her wake. “...like.”

I slowly return to my seat and look at Jack.

He lifts a shoulder, settles back in his chair.

Huh. I take it we’re waiting for our drinks before any more conversation takes place. That’s fine. As much as I want answers, I also need to find my bearings. Jack is being too kind, too thoughtful this morning. I have not known him long, yet it’s clear he’s up to something. As for Henry’s descendant? I don’t know. There’s such warmth in her place and person, but she’s trying to hold it back. 

Why?

I sigh. I might as well write the question on my forehead. 

Unfortunately, I already know the answers won’t be easy. It takes effort not to study the woman as she makes our drinks, but I manage to contain myself. Barely. Whatever this is about, I’ll face it when it arrives at the table. 

“All right.” She returns and places a steaming mug of coffee before Jack. “A big hit of caffeine for our sheriff. And for the Reach’s risen witch?” A cup of patterned leaves appears. “A special blend.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Jack clutches his mug. “Join us?”

“Maybe.” She’s watching me intently. “Depends on her.”

Understanding strikes. 

“The tea is a test,” I say.

“Yup.” She inclines her head. “Every few years we get someone claiming to be one of the famous witches. Mehitable is the most common—she’s the one the town believes saved us. But Mayweather happens on occasion. And every time, they come here. Convinced they’ll sway Henry Moon Crow’s kin to their side with some careful research and a handful of strategic compliments.”

“You’ve got the doc’s ear,” Jack says. “But Moon here is a harder sell.”

“I am,” she agrees cheerfully. 

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s see.”

I pick up the mug and let the warmth seep into my fingers. 

The bold scent of Jack’s coffee reminds me of morning around the campfire—it also threatens to overwhelm the softer scent of the lightly hued blend in my mug. I lean forward and draw in a deep breath.

A sense of bone-deep calm tangles with a terrible grief.

In my hands is my past, a legacy of what I’ve lost.

“Oh, Henry,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

Even though I already know what I’ll taste, I take a slow sip. Closing my eyes, I savor the flavors. It tastes like early morning on the homestead. Like the life I’d known, and which I’ll never have again. My right hand tightens on the mug, while my left presses hard overtop my heart. My breath escapes in a soft rush. “The blend is sage to settle the nerves, juniper to clean the spirit, red willow to soothe the burn of power, sweet grass to dispel negative energy and wild ginger—because I love it.” 

“Something anyone could learn,” she replies, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

Slowly, I open my eyes and lift my gaze. “The Sheriff called you Moon. That’s your name?”

“It is,” she says, watching steadily. “Moon Schwartz.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Moon,” I say. “I suppose you’re waiting for me to tell you what this is? And I suppose the frauds and delusionals who preceded me knew—or guessed—that this is the blend Henry made for me. A restorative, to balance my senses and my power after a long trip or a bloody battle.”

“They did,” she confirms. “The tale is less known than Mayweather’s final, fatal confrontation with Mehitable. But enough versions persist for it to be known or guessed—though they never agree on whether the blend was made for Mayweather, before her treachery, or for Mehitable.”

She doesn’t offer which version she believes. 

Clever. I take another sip. “I suppose those frauds and delusionals had their preferred versions of the tale.”

“They did,” she says again.

I give a pensive hum. “Well, I suppose it’s my turn—though I have yet to understand why anyone would knowingly pretend to be me. Crazy, sure. But fraud? What’s the point? So far there’s no profit and too much time in jail.” I shrug and drink some more tea—I’m not wasting this. Then I glance up. “If the recipe for my tea was passed down to you, then I have to assume the truth was as well.”

“That’s what my family believes,” she replies, voice quiet.

“Excellent.” I nod. “I’ve barely had two days in this time and I’m sick of people confusing me with my sister.” My brows arches and I hold her gaze. “On the day of the final confrontation, Mayweather didn’t ride with the Midnight Marshalls—not because she betrayed them, but because Mehitable had betrayed her.”

Jack lets out a quiet snort.

I ignore him.

In this moment, Moon is what matters. What she believes—and what she knows. Placing my mug on the table, I cup my hands around it. “My sister asked to meet, she said she wanted peace between us. She lied. She had laid a trap, one that twined her power with mine. Whatever I had made her stronger. Whatever I did to defend the town and my team would only feed the storm coming for them.” 

Moon slowly lowers herself into the seat beside me. 

She doesn’t interrupt, and that gives me hope.

I just met this person, but I can see my lost friend in her eyes. That steady kindness that’s rarer than gold. I desperately want her to believe me. More. I want her to like me. “The only way to stop her was to use that bond against her. Henry and I brewed a special tincture, one that would render me as dead. We’d bury me in the earth, because of all the elements, that is the one I’m strongest with. We thought the earth would protect me while the Marshalls defeated Mehitable.” 

“What the hell?” Jack sounds baffled. “I’ve never heard this version before.”

“I have,” Moon says, voice very quiet. Her eyes are wide, and her fingertips tremble.  “It’s what I was taught.”

She knows. 

She believes me. 

The relief is incredible. I want to rest my head on the table, but I have to finish. To be honest, I doubt I can stop—the truth of the past has to be cleansed. I draw in a deep breath. My voice shakes as I add, “They were supposed to come back for me when the battle was done. But they didn’t.”

“No,” she whispers, “they didn’t.”

I tear my gaze off the mug and stare at her. “Do you know what happened? Do you know why they left me?”

Her mouth works for a moment. “Only part.”

“Will you…will you tell me?”

“Not here,” she says. “I won’t bring that into this place.”

My heart sinks, because there’s no way she’d say that if his story ended well. It also makes it wildly less likely that Jesse sent me here for comfort. I swallow hard and ask, “Can you at least tell me if my horse lived?”

“Yes, she did.” Moon pushes away from the table and stands. “There’s a lot we have to talk about. Later. You should come to the ranch. I’ll call you and…” She pauses, sends me a rueful grin. “And I’m guessing you don’t have a phone or a car. Right. I’ll come to see you at the McCreedy house.”

I smile tentatively. “I think I’d like that.”

“You do know this test is hardly proof someone returned from the dead,” Jack says, tone deceptively bland. “Knowing a tea blend is not the first step toward resurrection, even if it was nicely blended with the Reach’s special mythos.”

Moon shoots him a look. “I know, Jack. I also know that this is the first time anyone has passed my test—my first test. Never fear, there’s more to come.” She leans past him and clasps my hand. “We’ll talk soon, Mayweather.”

She vanishes behind the counter.

“Huh,” Jack says.

I glance at him. “Not what you expected?”

“Nope. This did not go as planned.” He drains the last of his coffee, then salutes me with the empty mug. “I’ve got to say, Mayweather, you are good. Really good. I’ve never seen anyone get through Moon’s tea test before. Which makes me really curious.”

I really shouldn’t ask. 

I can’t stop myself. “Curious about what?”

“How you can know all that about the tea and the fungi and that version of the Mayweather story, and not know what happened to the Midnight Marshalls.” He dons his hat and regards me from under the brim. “For someone who’s so thorough, I find it hard to believe your research didn’t extend to that.”

“And yet.” I send him my nastiest smile.

He leans closer. “Why not?”

“Pick whatever reason you like,” I tell him. I almost leave it at that. And if his expression had been pure mockery, I would have. But mixed with the doubt and distrust is a glint of genuine interest. “Do you actually want to know?”

“Yes, Mayweather,” he says, “I do.”

I clear my throat. “I need to learn what happened to Jesse Wilks.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “What, you’re not after John Goodnight?”

The sound of him saying my love's name drives something into my chest. My back straighteners. “Right now, I need to find out what happened to Jesse.” I give him a tight-lipped smile and rise from the table. I point at him. “And you know what, Sheriff? You’re going to help me.”

“Am I?” His brows lift. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re convinced I’m up to something. You want to know what it is, right? Great.” With a sweep of my hand, I motion for him to precede me out the door. “I’m offering you an easy way to find out.”