Part Three: The Preacher’s Wife

Now you listen close, ‘cause this one’ll stir the coals in your chest if you’ve ever worn a smile that didn’t fit.
The second woman come to Sugar Holler on a night so clear you could see every star like pinholes in heaven’s quilt. She walked, not rode—feet bare, hem torn, eyes fixed on the moon like she was followin’ orders straight from God.
Name was Clara, though Enna Mae said it soft, like Clairy, the way mountain tongues do when they take the starch outta words.
Folks in town knew her too. She was the preacher’s wife—pure, proper, and polite enough to choke on it. Had a voice fit for hymn-singin’ and hands that never got dirty… least not where folks could see.
But that night, she was caked in soot. Smelled of smoke and somethin’ sweeter—like mash when the fire’s burnin’ right. Enna Mae looked her over, one brow raised.
“You runnin’ to somethin’ or from somethin’, child?”
Clairy’s eyes flashed, silver as the moon on a blade.
“Both,” she said. “And I reckon they’re the same thing.”
Behind her, the ridge flickered orange. The parsonage, folks later said, burned clean to its bones that night. Whether by candle or by prayer gone wrong, no one ever proved.
Enna Mae didn’t ask another word. Just set a jar of shine in Clairy’s hand—clear as truth and twice as strong.
“Drink,” she told her. “Let what’s holy burn away what ain’t.”
The woman drank deep, coughed hard, then laughed till tears streaked her face. The sound wasn’t pretty, but it was free.
That night, Enna Mae brought out her washtub drum, and Clairy sat beside her. When the vibration rolled out across the holler, she threw back her head and sang—a voice torn raw but truer than any Sunday hymn.
The sound carried all the way down to town. Some said it was witches callin’ the devil. Others said it was angels finally singin’ in a language men couldn’t twist.
Come sunrise, the preacher’s wife was gone. But on the edge of Enna Mae’s garden, there stood a new still, steam whisperin’ like a prayer. And from that day on, the women of Sugar Holler started bottlin’ their own kind of salvation.
Now, folks claim she disappeared. But those who’ve stayed past midnight in Sugar Holler know better. Sometimes, when the moon’s sittin’ high and the air’s thick with honeysuckle, they hear singin’—soft and far, carried on the mist.
And the old women smile, lift their jars to the sky, and say,
“Clairy’s just makin’ her rounds again.”

Part Four: The Gypsy Girl in the Painted Wagon

Now, some nights, Sugar Holler feels like it’s hummin’ for somebody on the way — you can taste the arrival in the air. The crickets change their tune, and even the shine in the jars starts glowin’ like it’s been waitin’ for new hands to hold it.
That’s how it was before she came rollin’ in.
Her wagon hit the ridge first — all painted up every color the Lord ever made, and a few He didn’t. You could smell clove, rose oil, and wild mint before you ever saw her. The mule wore ribbons. The girl wore light itself.
They called her a gypsy, but that’s just what folks say when they can’t explain a woman who goes where she pleases. Her earrings jingled like church bells with secrets, and her eyes… well, she didn’t read palms or cards. She just looked straight at you till your truth came spillin’ out, slick as butter on a hot biscuit.
Men told her things they wouldn’t tell a preacher. Women told her things they’d never dared whisper to God. And she never judged a one — just smiled that knowing smile, the kind that says I’ve seen worse and it didn’t scare me none.
Enna Mae took to her quick, said she had the makings of a medicine peddler. Together they brewed a new kind of shine — not just for drinkin’ but for healin’. Mixed it with wild lettuce that grew like gossip down the creekbank, added a pinch of yarrow, and blessed it under the full moon.
They called it Holler Eaze — good for pain of body or heartbreak, dependin’ how you took it.
But before the girl could sell her first bottle, a stranger came ridin’ in from the lowlands, claimin’ to know her real name… and that’s where this tale’ll have to pause, right on the edge of trouble.