Veins of Gold

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  The Hinkles had a large yard, and Carolyn had recently acquired a dog as well. Gentry spent long hours out there with the children, taking turns carrying the smaller ones on her shoulders as they ran back and forth, the mutt licking their ankles as they went. After Caleb had his nap, Gentry rehearsed colors and numbers with him—at least, for as long as his attention held. It was good to be away from Dry Creek and her life in general. She could ignore it for a little while, and hopefully, when she returned, there would be a letter waiting for her.

  A knock came at the door as Gentry helped dice garlic cloves in the kitchen for supper, Hannah at her side. Carolyn answered it, and when she returned she said, “That was the Johnson boy, running about inviting everyone to a bonfire.”

  “Louie?” asked Hannah.

  “Albert,” Carolyn corrected.

  “Bonfire?” Gentry asked.

  Hannah straightened, a fiendish smile growing on her lips. “Yes, of course! We should all go.”

  Carolyn snorted and returned to her biscuit dough. “And leave the kids here to tend themselves?”

  “Well, you should go, Gentry. And Pearl,” Hannah amended. “There will be music and dancing, and you can meet some of the young folk around here.” She added a wink for emphasis.

  Gentry peeled another clove of garlic. “I haven’t been to a bonfire since we left Virginia.”

  “So long?” Hannah asked, sounding offended. “Well, you must go. And I’ll come with you. That’s all right, isn’t it Carolyn?”

  “What use have I for dancing like a heathen around a fire?” Carolyn retorted, but there was the sound of humor in it. “Yes, go, but I’m not washing the smoke out of your clothes. It’s toward the lake, is all he told me. Sunset, like I couldn’t figure that out myself.”

  A warm shiver coursed through Gentry’s middle. She’d loved summer bonfires back home. Sometimes they’d get meat to roast over the flames before the music began. Gentry would take Rooster’s hands and swing him around until he got sick and she got yelled at.

  Hannah would be there. Maybe Gentry didn’t have to play mother tonight.

  “I see you.” Hannah handed Gentry a lamb’s-quarter to chop. She nudged her with her elbow. “I’m going to tell Pearl.”

  She grinned like a little girl and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Gentry heard Pearl’s gasp of excitement a few minutes later.

  By the time Gentry walked to the bonfire, the sun was a quarter set, and the sound of tuning fiddles and banjos pecked the air. She walked hand in hand with Pearl, Hannah striding beside her with Rachel in her arms. Necklace resting soundly against her neck, she looked around for spirits, then searched the passing flora for the shimmer of magic. No shimmer, but she thought she saw a streak of something ethereal in the darkening sky.

  Gentry, Pearl, and Hannah weren’t alone on the path; a few children raced ahead of their parents, and a number of adolescents half skipped their way to the growing fire. There weren’t many older persons in attendance, save for some of the musicians.

  Hannah found a slice of log to perch on, and Gentry walked Pearl around the circumference of the fire, which steadily grew until it was well taller than she. Even at a distance, the heat pricked her cheeks and made her green dress appear brown. It colored Pearl’s dark blonde hair ginger.

  When the sun reached half set, someone pulled out a goat-skin drum and began beating a steady rhythm. Pearl jumped in place, pulling Gentry toward the fire. Gentry angled them closer to Hannah, trying to ignore the glances from strangers. Soon, however, it would be dark enough that no one would be recognizable, and in that sort of darkness, Gentry could be anyone she wanted.

  An older gentleman on a banjo began plucking chords. Several of the adolescents left their seats on wood and earth. When the fiddle began, Gentry’s soul came alive.

  She grabbed Pearl’s hands in her own and splayed their arms out to their sides, then tugged her into the bodies that began to churn counterclockwise around the fire. Pearl easily remembered the steps of the dance from Virginia: two skips with arms out, two skips with arms in. Gentry laughed, and at the other side of the fire, with their arms in, she spun Pearl, switching places with her, nearly bumping into a gal and her beau, but Gentry didn’t care. The fire blazed hot, the music loud, and those not dancing clapped to the beat, creating a vibration that thrummed through Gentry’s ribs.

  “I know this song!” Gentry shouted over music and talk and cries of glee as more and more people filed around the bonfire. “‘Leather Breeches’—the Virginia reel!”

  “Virginia is here!” Pearl yelled back.

  The words filled her chest to bursting, and Gentry tugged Pearl around the fire a second time, laughing again when Pearl tripped and nearly knocked both of them over.

  Pearl pulled Gentry around again, releasing one of her hands to form a new dance, something like the jig Ma used to do with them. They faced forward and skipped holding one hand, then turned toward each other and skipped again. Over and over, the pattern easy and alluring, stealing Gentry’s breath and turning Pearl’s cheeks pink.

  The song calmed, and Gentry stumbled, fingers still laced with her sister’s, toward Hannah, who was barely visible among all the new arrivals. Dozens of people swarmed around the fire, maybe a hundred. Several danced, others kept time as a new song started, others chatted or simply watched.

  Gentry collapsed at the foot of the log Hannah perched upon, her skirt billowing around her legs. Her cheeks ached from smiling.

  “You look thirteen out there!” Hannah laughed.

  “I do?” Pearl asked, not realizing Hannah had addressed Gentry.

  Hannah went with the mistake and answered, “One year older and wiser too.”

  Gentry turned around so she faced the fire, planting her palms on the dry, packed earth and leaning back, her chest heaving. She was glad she’d worn her lighter dress today. The sun had nearly set, but she was baking.

  Then, just below the glow of the fire on the lake side, she spotted a seagull.

  She touched her necklace, ensuring it was still there. “I’ll be right back.” She picked herself up and dusted off her hands. She gave the dancers a wide berth, returning a few nods from the men nearby. She blinked the burning colors of yellow and orange from her eyes and studied the seagull. It flapped its wings once, but didn’t fly away.

  Yes, there it was. The subtle shimmer around its body, almost like a halo. She crouched a few paces away, not wanting to scare it.

  “If you’re one of Winn’s,” she said, “tell him to get over here. I want to see him dance.”

  The gull cocked its head to one side, examining her for a moment, before flying off toward the lake.

  Gentry watched it go for a moment, but she didn’t linger long. She didn’t want to miss anything.

  As she returned, two boys rushed by her, taking turns with a hoop and stick. Another kicked a ball, and a woman, Gentry assumed his mother, yelled after him. Up ahead, a boy about Pearl’s age with dark, curly hair and suspenders squatted near Pearl and Hannah, saying something Gentry couldn’t hear over all the blissful noise. She could, however, see the pinking of Pearl’s cheeks and the nod of her head. The boy offered his hand, Pearl took it, and they danced toward the fire.

  The next song began, another Gentry knew—“Robison County,” though with a few chord variations from the one she’d learned. Kneeling beside Hannah, she said, “Who is that?”

  “Huh?”

  “That boy?” Gentry said, a little louder.

  Hannah grinned. “That’s Albert Ryerson. Second oldest of five boys. Nice chap.”

  Gentry nodded and scanned the people prancing around the fire, their forms half silhouette. After a moment, Pearl and Albert popped out from behind the fire, skipping together, Albert occasionally twirling her under his arm. Their movements were awkward, but judging by their countenances, neither of them noticed.

  “We’ll have to move to American Fork if this keeps up,” Gentry jested.r />
  “Yes. Do!” Hannah laughed.

  Gentry turned, casting her shadow over Hannah and Rachel. “Do you want me to hold her? You can have a turn.”

  Hannah looked aghast. “I’m not dancing by myself.”

  “Then give her to someone and I’ll dance with you.”

  Hannah shook her head no, but stopped halfway through the action. Biting her lip, she looked around, face to face, and finally called, “Abiline!”

  The woman who had been yelling after the boy with the ball earlier turned about, scanning until she met Hannah’s eyes. She came over without hesitation.

  Hannah stood and asked, “Would you hold her for one song? I need to show my friend here how to dance.” She winked.

  Gentry rolled her eyes.

  “Of course.” Abiline took Rachel with gentle hands.

  With a sudden burst of energy, Hannah grabbed Gentry’s wrist and dragged her toward the fire, slipping into a space between children brave enough to skip about solo. Despite her words about teaching Gentry to dance, she used the same steps Gentry and Pearl had used, arms wide and then drawn in, each with two skips to the beat of the drum. The song ended a few seconds later, but when the next started, Gentry adjusted their rhythm. They circled the fire another two times, their steps uneven as they avoided stepping on each other’s toes and the feet of the dancers swirling around them.

  A second hand caught one of Gentry’s wrists, as well as one of Hannah’s, and spun them away from the fire. Hannah laughed and tripped into Gentry, but stayed upright.

  Gentry looked over, her fast-beating heart lurching. “Winn!”

  He grinned, his teeth bright in the flickering light. Hannah’s eyes went wide at the name.

  “I beg your utmost pardon,” Winn said to Hannah with a British sort of bow, “but I must insist I take this young lady for a spin, if you’d be so kind.”

  Hannah easily relented. “By all means; I was just warming her up for you.” Hannah passed a knowing glance Gentry’s way—one Gentry prayed Winn didn’t see—and hurried back to Abiline. Gentry’s eyes followed her, noticing Rooster on the edge of the shadows, making his way to the festivities. He and the others had returned, then.

  “So it was one of your birds.” Gentry had to nearly shout to be heard. She grabbed Winn’s arms and moved him back before Pearl and Albert crashed into them, though neither child seemed to notice.

  The clappers picked up their pace, or maybe Gentry just imagined they did, but it and the disappeared sun gave her courage. She grabbed both of Winn’s hands, the faint roughness of his palms sending a thrill through her arms. “I want to see you dance!”

  “You Americans are loony.” His grin was as wide as she’d ever seen it. “As you please, mademoiselle.”

  He pulled her toward the fire, through the dancers, until Gentry felt the heat of it winding into her hair and pressing against her back. Winn dropped one of her hands and looped his arm under her shoulder and around her back, pulling her close. Her body burned where she touched him and burned where the fire touched her. Through the scent of smoke, she smelled clean earth and butternut.

  Winn pulled her around the fire in a soft but brisk skip, lacing his fingers with hers, guiding them with his outstretched arm. On their second loop, he pulled their arms in and spun Gentry around, lifting all but her toes from the ground. Gentry shrieked, which elicited a laugh from Winn. The sound of it was musical, flowing in perfect harmony with the fiddle and banjo.

  Winn was a brave dancer, holding onto Gentry for the next song, weaving their bodies in and out of the other dancers, twirling them about this couple or that one, never quite running into them. Gentry’s fingers clutched at his shirt behind his shoulder, feeling the shifting muscle beneath his skin. She looked into his gold-flecked eyes and tripped, but Winn tightened his hold around her, and she regained her footing. By the time that second song ended, her feet were nearly numb.

  Winn readied to pull her into another song, but she gasped, laughing, and said, “No, no, stop! My legs will fall off!”

  “Then I’ll carry you!”

  “That won’t be fun for either of us.” She panted, laughed, then grabbed one of his hands, tugging him through the dancers as they slowed and waited for the next melody. Dust clouded around her shoes. She found Hannah on her same log, swaying as the new song began, Rachel’s head on her shoulder. Hannah kept time patting her hand against the babe’s back.

  “Hannah!” Gentry called, the spot between her lungs burning in a pleasant way. “Hannah, where’s Rooster?”

  “Somewhere around here. He didn’t hesitate finding a nice lady to dance with.” She eyed Winn. “You must be Winn.”

  She spoke as though she’d heard all about him, not as though Gentry had simply said his name in passing. Gentry’s cheeks were already flushed beneath the layer of night.

  Winn extended his left hand—his right still held Gentry’s—and awkwardly shook Hannah’s.

  “And you are Hannah, if I heard correctly.”

  “You are correct. We’re good friends of the Abrams. And I’m happy to be a good friend of yours too.”

  Winn grinned.

  A new voice said, “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  At first Gentry didn’t recognize the newcomer; his hat shadowed his face. But he moved closer, hand extended, and the cords at the back of Gentry’s neck tightened.

  “Hoss!” Of course Hoss would be here with Rooster. All the farmhands probably were.

  Winn’s gaze moved from Hoss’s arm to his face, perhaps recognizing him from before. This time he released Gentry’s fingers to shake Hoss’s hand properly. “We have, my good man. In Dry Creek.”

  “Ah, yes. Well.” Hoss hefted a long, smooth stick that looked like it’d been screwed off a broom. “Care for a challenge?”

  Winn blinked. “I’m not familiar.”

  Hoss jerked his thumb to the side, near where Abiline had retaken her spot. There, in the space outside the dancers, men were doing stick pulls. Gentry knew the game. Two men sat facing each other, the soles of their feet pressed together, and held the stick horizontally between them. They pulled, and the stronger man would lift the weaker to his feet. It was like an absurd sort of arm wrestle.

  “Hoss—” Gentry began.

  Winn interrupted, “Sure,” as though Hoss had offered him a stick of candy and not a feat of strength.

  Hannah’s lips formed a tight O, and she looked at Gentry. The men walked toward the space and Gentry sighed. “This will be fun.”

  “Indeed. I don’t even care if I lose my seat.” Hannah stood and followed Gentry’s path. “Is he . . . where is he from?”

  “Canada.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think men pierced their ears in Canada.” She pursed her lips, thoughtful.

  Gentry and Hannah squeezed in among onlookers as a stick-pull match between two men Gentry didn’t recognize ended. Hoss raised his staff to draw attention to himself, opening the space for him and Winn. Gentry folded her arms, unsure what to think. She glanced over her shoulder to search for Rooster—she thought she found him, but it was too dark to tell, and he wasn’t angled toward the light. When she looked back, Winn and Hoss had taken their positions sole-to-sole. Winn had taken the easier inside grip on the stick, while Hoss’s thick hands took the outside.

  A seagull landed on a nearby rock, unnoticed by the bystanders.

  “Go!” shouted a man off to the side, and the men’s arms pulled taut, their shoulders quivering ever so slightly. Winn’s back was to Gentry, and his hair covered most of his face and neck. Hoss faced her, his lip pulling back slightly, his teeth clenched together.

  Winn’s rump began to lift off the ground. A glimmer of victory shone in Hoss’s eyes, and he heaved back with a grunt, nearly throwing Winn over his head. Winn stumbled, nearly falling over. The men watching laughed.

  Gentry took a step forward, but she relaxed when Winn turned around, chuckling as well. His smile was sincere, and he off
ered a hand to Hoss to help him to his feet.

  “Can’t beat a farmer,” he said.

  Hoss responded in turn, but Gentry didn’t hear it. A new pair scrambled out to the arena, and a few men came up to Winn and Hoss, chatting.

  Gentry noticed the music again and turned away from the game, toward the musicians, her fingers itching. She knew this song—“Briar Picker Brown.” It was nearly at an end. Memories of Virginia strummed through her blood, and she wondered . . .

  “I’ll be right back,” she told Hannah, and she jogged to the bonfire crowd, picking her way around it just as “Briar Picker Brown” ended. She touched the arm of the fiddle player, an older man whose hair was half gray.

  “Request?” he asked, eyes bright.

  “Yes. Is there a chance . . .” The musicians were away from the light. She was out of practice, but the darkness hid her, didn’t it? “Would you like a break? I would love a turn at the fiddle.”

  He looked surprised. “You play?”

  “I used to.” She had played often, before Pa sold the fiddle to help pay for the trip out west. “If it’s a bother—”

  “By all means, young lady.” He handed her the fiddle and the bow. A few loose horse hairs danced at the end of it. “My arm is tired,” he joked.

  The banjo player looked over, as did a few bystanders, probably wondering why the music hadn’t restarted.

  Swallowing, pulse beating hard, Gentry leaned toward the others in the tiny band. “Do you know ‘Turkey in the Straw’?”

  “It’s a requirement to know ‘Turkey in the Straw,’” said the fiddler behind her.

  “It’s my favorite.”

  The banjo player smiled. The drummer began a quick beat on his drum, and the banjo player began plucking familiar chords, repeating them, waiting for Gentry to jump in.