Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

ain’t layin’ another hand on my niece.”
    “It ain’t Annalaura who needs a hand laid to her.” He didn’t know if Becky’s old gun could still shoot or not, but he couldn’t afford to have it go off at him before he had a chance to do what he must. His eyes began adjusting to the duskiness.
    The old woman’s mouth was set in a thin line, and those Cherokee eyes stared up at him like she was trying to put out a hex.
    “Ain’t gonna be no layin’ on of hands. You gonna leave.” Becky had stationed herself between John and the sleeping area of the cabin. With his eyes rapidly taking in the dark, John had no trouble looking over the old woman’s shoulder.
    There, in the bed, lay a tousle of blankets and pillows. Under it had to be Annalaura. He tried to take a step toward the worked-iron bed, but Becky’s old arms held the strength of a mule team driver as she blocked the way with her gun.
    “I means no harm to Annalaura. I just needs to talk to her.” He reached into his waistband.
    Before he could pull out the pistol, he heard the squeeze of Becky’s finger on the trigger. He lifted both hands in the air.
    “Hold on there, Rebecca. I’m gonna let you hold my pistol to show you that I mean no wrong to Annalaura.”
    “I got this gun offen Old Ben Thornton, and I knows how to use it, too. And I ain’t too old to push yo’ worthless body outside once I done killed you.” The steely eyes were still on his face when the cry went out into the room from the mound of covers on the bed. The sound was quickly stifled by the now moving jumble of blankets.
    “What the hell’s that?” John asked in the direction of the sound. “Annalaura?” He started toward the bed, saw Becky’s mouth move but caught only a bit of the sense of her words.
    “Pistol…my hand…real slow…” The blunderbuss lowered and circled his waist.
    He felt the old gun lift the pistol out of his waistband and knock it to the floor.
    “Knives. You got knives?”
    “Knife? Ain’t got no knife. Annalaura? What is that?” He brushed past Becky and reached the bedside in no more than three strides.
    “Mind my words. Touch her and I’ll kill you.” Becky was right behind him, though his eyes were fixed on the bundle in the bed.
    Something that sounded strangely like the wail of a tiny infant started again as Annalaura pushed herself up onto the pillow. The sight of her battered face sent waves of surprise through his body.
    “Annalaura, I ain’t meant to…my mind…seein’ you…” He reached out a hand toward her swollen cheek, but she turned her head away. He followed her eyes down to the sound of the cries.
    They came from something wrapped in one of Becky’s old shawls. He pointed to the bundle. The rancor threatened to reappear in his mouth at any moment.
    “What’s that you holdin’?” Could it be a cat?
    Annalaura turned her face back to him.
    “John. There’s a way we can make this right.”
    How could her voice come out so quiet, so settled, so steady, when the whole world had just spun itself down to hell?
    “Right? Make it right?” His whole body shook as he pointed a finger at the bundle. “That’s a baby. You done birthed another man’s bastard chile, that’s what you done.” His shouts shook his own body.
    Waves of heat swarmed over him. Annalaura dropped her head and clutched the bundle all the tighter.
    “We can try to make it right.” Her words were low like she didn’t believe them herself.
    “Right don’t come easy to yo’ mind, do it?” His words burned his own mouth as he spit them out. “You layin’ there talkin’ to me ’bout makin’ it right? Was it ‘right’ fo’ you to lie to me?” He wasn’t sure she could hear his scorched words. “Was it ‘right’ to tell me it was Isaiah Harris who done give you a baby last fall?” Without warning, even to himself, he jabbed a hand at the shawl only to feel the quick stab of cold metal under his armpit, jamming his arm upward and away from the bundle.
    Annalaura’s body shook even under the blankets. He saw her eyes puddle with tears.
    “John, ain’t nothin’ I can say to make it like it used to be. I can’t take back what I done. But fo’ the children, we got to try to make it better, not worse.” She sucked in her lower lip as she brought the still-covered bundle to her chest.
    He could hear the squalls of a newborn.
    “Worse? Hell, woman, how could it get mo’ worse? You laid with a man who wasn’t yo’