Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

skidded too close to the ladder opening in his attempt to follow Doug.
    Lottie, sitting in front of the hearth of the potbellied stove, ignored the ruckus as she played with her Christmas porcelain-faced doll. Annalaura poked her tongue into her cheek while she watched Cleveland. A chill ran down her back in the mildly warm quarters. She feared her almost twelve-year-old knew more than he should.
    “I’m goin’ to Aunt Becky’s. Nothin’ for you to fret over. Just watch after the youngsters, and I’ll be back in time to start supper. There’s plenty to eat for dinner in the cupboard.” She gathered the breakfast dishes into a basket and readied herself to take them down to the smoke house. “Have Lottie wash these.” She looked at her daughter, who did not let on that she had heard a word her mother said.
    As Annalaura turned to back down the ladder with the basket over one arm and a handful of skirt in the other, she hoped that Alex would not drop by before she could return. Better yet, she prayed that he wouldn’t come at all. If she could hold him off just a while longer, this nightmare might be over. She had made a desperate effort this morning to keep him from knowing.
     
     
    The usual trek took Annalaura almost an hour as she carefully picked her way down the frost-covered dirt lane. Water puddled in the deep ruts, some of them deceptively icy in the January morning, making the journey all the more treacherous. If it didn’t also mean a broken neck, she would have welcomed a fall. Maybe that would be the best thing after all. As she walked those last few yards past Aunt Becky’s dead, snow-covered garden, even the blue wool coat Alex had given her could not keep away the chill sweeping over her body.
    Shaking from more than the weather on this white sky day, she tapped at the door of the old cabin on Ben Roy Thornton’s place. Her first few knocks were soft and unsure. She knew what she had to face inside, and it was a coward’s way not to get to it. She knocked harder. With her ear to the door, she listened for Becky’s slow shuffle.
    “Aunt Becky, open the door. It’s me. Annalaura.” She fought to keep the fright out of her words.
    Slowly, the door opened a crack, and Annalaura stumbled into a murky interior made no brighter by the low-burning fire in the old fireplace. Rebecca Murdock, at sixty-one, was still spry enough to step out of her niece’s way. The smell of black-eyed peas, but without the soul-warming scent of ham hocks, came from the big iron kettle setting on the fireplace grate.
    “Whoa, girl. What you doin’ rushin’ in here like the night riders is after you, and here it is broad daylight?” Becky shut the door, dipping the long, low-ceiling room into even more dimness.
    The old woman waved an arm in the direction of her wrought-iron bed while she made her way toward the oak-wood table. Annalaura headed for the four-poster, the nicest piece of furniture in the room by far. Weary from more than her walk, she let herself sink into the bed’s feathery soft ness. Across the room, Becky seemed to lose quick interest in her visitor as she picked up her pipe from the table and tore a sheet of paper. Her back to Annalaura, Becky stepped toward the fireplace and held the rolled-up paper to the flame. She brought the lit strip to the bowl of her cob pipe. Drawing in a heavy breath to ignite the tobacco, Becky walked back to her chair and finally trained her eyes on her niece.
    Annalaura swallowed hard, worked her mouth to start the stream of words she knew she had to get out. Just as she started to speak, Becky raised a palm toward her. Annalaura remembered. It was the same “wait” sign she recalled Grandma Charity making when the old Cherokee wanted to ready herself for bad news. If waiting helped bring on the second sight, Annalaura wanted it to pass quickly. Her courage was rapidly waning.
    “Aunt Becky, I need to see that conjure woman.” Her mouth was so dry she could only hope that her aunt’s hearing was still good enough to catch her words.
    She hadn’t given much thought to it before, and maybe it was because Rebecca was getting older, but the resemblance between her Aunt Becky and her Grandmother Charity was startling. Becky’s nose had a decided bent to it, and her skin had settled into a clearly defined copper undertone. Becky’s hair, still mostly black, was twisted into one long braid that hung over her left shoulder. It was almost as straight as