Grace of a Hawk

by Williams, Abbie;

  Tilson’s gaze was ever shrewd, the physician in him emerging forthwith. “No more toting water or riding horseback for you, young lady. I’ll warn you right now, I’ll be as tetchy as your daddy,” and I nodded acquiescence.

  Sawyer admitted, “It brings me great comfort knowing there is an abundance of birthing knowledge in this household. I know plenty about the birthing of horses…”

  I elbowed his ribs. “I expect it may be a slightly different experience when it is our child. Though, to be quite honest, there are many similarities between birthing a foal and an infant. I thought as such from the first.”

  However ill-prepared I was at the time, I’d assisted Tilson with the difficult delivery of firstborn twins in July; it brought me great pleasure to occasionally visit them and their soft-spoken mother, Letty Dawes, a girl younger than myself. She and her husband homesteaded west of town. Their twins, named Ulysses and Mabel Lorissa, had grown sweetly round, plump, and kissable; Mabel was my unspoken favorite, as she bore my first name as her second, a gift from Letty to me for the assistance at bringing them into the world. Since that day I’d helped birth seven babies, nowhere near Tilson’s overall total, of which he claimed to have lost track long before the War, but enough to recognize a pattern to the process, a progression consisting of methodical ways in which to watch for and subsequently read signs; each of these births, though messy, proved blessedly uncomplicated but Tilson carefully schooled me, most often as we shared the wagon seat riding home, in the understanding that babes, and often mothers, were lost in the birthing process. He confessed that such deaths affected him as badly as any he’d ever witnessed.

  “There is a certain amount of similarity, however unwilling I should be to make the observation with the mother in hearing,” Rebecca agreed. Her posture appeared speculative and I could very nearly hear her silent plea; that of her desire for Sawyer and me to remain in Iowa City rather than venturing away from her forever. I recognized once Sawyer and I departed it was unlikely we would ever again see Rebecca or Tilson, and no matter how frequent and earnest our future correspondence, it could never compare to the daily relationship we now enjoyed. A small, sharp point needled my heart at the notion. I dearly loved them both and was overwhelmed with bouts of guilt, as this was not enough to negate the desire to continue onward, to our original destination in the wooded lake country of northern Minnesota.

  If only they could accompany us…

  Charley was saying, “That reminds me. I bear a bit of good news, as well. We’ve new neighbors. They purchased Zeb Crawford’s claim only a fortnight past and to my surprise they are a family with whom you’ve been acquainted, Sawyer. And you as well, dear Lorie. Their name is Spicer. Henry and Una Spicer.”

  This surname, Spicer, had the effect of easing, if only minutely, the thrust of agony the word Crawford stabbed into my heart; Zeb Crawford, a beast of a man, had been the one to rob Sawyer of his left eye.

  I nodded in response to Charley’s words. “Yes, we had the pleasure of meeting the Spicer family in Missouri, months back.”

  Sawyer said, “We did indeed, but I understood them to be traveling farther west than Iowa.”

  Charley set down his fork and wiped his lips before replying. His tone was somber as he related, “They intended to reach the Western Territory, that is true, but were forced to change plans when their two youngest fell ill. They wished not to remain in Missouri and upon hearing of the availability of so many farmable acres, instead ventured on into Iowa. For now, they shall set aside their plan to reach the Rockies.”

  “And the children?” I asked, ceasing to eat in my sudden concern, clearly picturing the energetic bunch of youngsters we’d met upon the prairie that June evening, under a splendid magenta sunset; together, we’d witnessed thousands of fireflies winking over the wild grass as evening became night. Malcolm had rapidly befriended their eldest son, Cole, while I’d taken great joy in holding their youngest, Susanna, a tiny, golden-haired girl who might have been mine and Sawyer’s daughter. Even without being aware of doing so, I’d acknowledged the fact that very night; I cupped one hand over my belly, in a sudden onslaught of protective zeal.

  “They seem to be on the mend. Bad water along the trail, Henry believed. The youngsters are severely weakened but my boys are helping Henry to clear out the shanty cabin that remained on the property, so at least they shall not have to build a new structure before the snow flies. I shall also offer a hand upon my return home.”

  I restrained a shudder at the thought of Zeb Crawford’s homestead, where Thomas Yancy once intended to hide me so I could not testify against Jack Barrow in defense of Sawyer; however stone-dead Zeb, and indeed Jack, now were, my monstrous loathing of both had not been as successfully destroyed. I found room to be gladdened that the Spicers, a kind and loving family, could make use of his former homestead. Surely all essence of Zeb and his fanatical hatred would be summarily eradicated.

  Tilson said, “There’s a blessed amount of work to be contended with before winter, that is certain. I’m right glad for the addition of such a strong back and knowledge of horses as yours, Sawyer, my boy.”

  The endearment was heartfelt and I sensed Sawyer’s quiet pleasure at being so affectionately addressed. I knew, as Tilson had confided to me, that Sawyer reminded him a great deal of his own sons, all but one lost in the War. I further recognized that Sawyer was similarly struck by a sense of his father, James Davis, when he spoke to Tilson. In truth, my husband and Tilson resembled one another well enough to claim genuine blood kinship – both were tall and imposing in their physical build and each maintained a strong sense of calm capability; they each possessed beautifully-shaped jawlines and observant gazes. I imagined Tilson’s hair, currently pewter-gray, had once been as fair as Sawyer’s. And I knew both mourned the loss of the easy, familial camaraderie that exists between a father and his beloved son.

  “Well, I aim to be of as much assistance as I am able,” Sawyer said, with a gentle note of humbleness in his deep voice.

  “Your job is to rest, and continue healing,” Rebecca admonished, in the solicitous, mildly hectoring manner of an elder sister. “Your wife, as you well know, cannot do without you.”

  Sawyer said quietly, “I am not much good without Lorie, either.” He continued, “And I am ever grateful for your concern, dear Becky, but there comes a time in the process of resting when a man starts to feel a mite useless.”

  Charley said, “That is something to which I am able to attest, wholeheartedly. I was laid up many a long week when my hip was injured. I grew quite as fractious as a newborn and am indeed fortunate that my Fannie did not turn me out on a nearby hillside, to fend for my unfortunate self.”

  His words inspired a laugh around the table.

  With good-natured exasperation, Tilson griped, “Sawyer, you are anything but useless. You pull your weight and then some and I must admit I’ve grown downright dependent upon our conversations. I quite enjoy them.”

  Sawyer sent Tilson a grudging smile. “As do I.”

  “What word of the Carters? My boys hardly go a day without asking after Malcolm’s whereabouts. They were only that much more overjoyed to learn that young Cole Spicer had likewise made Malcolm’s acquaintance. I believe I shall hardly turn around before they’ll be riding out to find him. Grantley and Miles speak of little else.”

  No one besides me, and perhaps Sawyer, who knew of her feelings for Boyd, noticed Rebecca’s need to draw a slow breath at this inquiry; she subsequently busied herself with serving her boys second helpings. I fancied I could hear her heart in its sudden powerful beating and felt ill with the desire to make possible that for which she wished – Boyd to come riding down the lane at an agitated clip and fling open the door. I could picture it as clearly as a waking dream; Boyd’s dark eyes seeking Rebecca, his perpetual and unabashed intensity filling the little house as he strode inside and dropped to his knees at her side. He would gather one of her hands between both of his and bring it
to his lips.

  I should not have left, he would say, and for an instant the words seemed so real I fancied I could hear him speaking them, from a distance.

  I shivered.

  Tilson was answering Charley, Cort and Nathaniel contributing to the lively conversation, and no one but Sawyer noticed my sudden quiet; his hand moved to my waist, where he squeezed with gentle pressure, the gesture asking what was wrong.

  I’ll tell you later, I returned, without speaking.

  “Not yet a letter?” Charley persisted.

  Sawyer said, “None that we’ve received but they are traveling hard. We expect them to arrive at Jacob’s homestead by the end of September and Boyd will know we’re waiting for word, though he isn’t the fondest of composition. I trust he’ll send a note as soon as he is able.”

  I knew, at least in part, that Sawyer was attempting to offer Rebecca relief from her worry with these assurances, and tried to glean a sense of comfort, as well. I could hardly wait for the chance to inform Boyd and Malcolm of the news of our growing family; Malcolm would have waltzed about the table, begging me to join him, if they were here. Boyd would play the fiddle for us and we’d have an impromptu dance lasting well into the wee hours. The ache of missing them swelled anew and I squared my shoulders to repress a second shudder in as many minutes.

  “Mama, I miss Malcolm,” said Cort, heaving a sigh and seeming to read my mind. “And Mr. Carter. He played music right nice.”

  At my left, Rebecca seemed as tightly wound as a pocket watch; she replied in a calm non-sequitur, “Finish your food, dear one.”

  Conversation continued and I was the only one to observe the slight tremble in her fingers as she tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one ear before resuming eating.

  IN THE dimness of our little cabin, hours later, Sawyer undressed me with motions both adept and tender. As ever, my blood quickened, pulsing with anticipation; he knelt, pressing his face to my naked belly, and I threaded my hands into his silken hair. It had grown just enough for me to twine within my fingers, as I would a horse’s thick mane; it was a sensual pleasure I had long enjoyed, that of hair in my grasping hands. He kissed my navel, whispering, “Our child is here, within you. I could not be happier, my sweet love.”

  “Nor could I,” I whispered, clasping his head to my body. His tongue created a small, hot circle and I giggled and gasped at the same moment, which then made me laugh. “That tickles,” I murmured, stepping deliberately free of my trousers. Bare, I stood before Sawyer in the lantern’s glow, watching as he smiled up at me, both hands curved around my backside.

  “My Lorie-love,” he whispered and I lowered my fingertips to his cheeks, tracing over the strong, angular bone structure, removing with great care the patch he wore over his absent eye. He flinched only a fraction – I might have missed it, was I not so attuned to him. I caressed the puckered ridge of scar tissue there left; he watched me without speaking.

  “I am thinking of the first night I looked into your eyes. At the fire, while Malcolm went with Gus to fetch the presents they’d bought for me.”

  He said softly, “I remember well.”

  I stroked his face. His hands tightened their grip on my hips.

  “When I dream, I am still able to see with both.” His words were hoarse. “I almost wish I did not, that it would stop.”

  “It is only that much worse, when you wake and cannot,” I understood, and he nodded and bent his forehead once more to my stomach, resting his temple. His wide shoulders gleamed in the golden light; he still wore his trousers, and I requested, “Come with me, love.”

  He stood, lifting me into his arms, depositing me upon the surface of the bed, constructed of tightly-woven ropes stretched taut over a wide frame, then topped with a down-filled tick; our very own bed, for which I had been shamelessly grateful every moment since its placement here in the space intended for us. I rested on my elbows, crooking both knees and savoring the sweet and intimate delight of witnessing the desire on my husband’s handsome face as he removed the last of his remaining clothing. The same desire melted over my limbs and erupted in my heart, setting it to thrashing. My nipples formed rounded peaks and a wordless invitation rose from my throat.

  Sawyer rested one knee upon the bed, between my bent legs, and a certain large swelling brushed my thigh, his cock firm and so familiar, beckoning to me. And then his expression changed markedly; I sensed the nature of his concern as it crossed his features.

  “I only just…” he began.

  “It was nearly the first thing I asked Rebecca,” I reassured, amused and touched at the amount of disquiet present upon his face. “There is no reason we cannot make love.”

  “Are you certain? I feel like a selfish lout. Wanting you this way, needing you so much, that you must think it is all I think of…”

  “Sawyer James,” I scolded, smiling now at his uncharacteristic fluster.

  He drew a fortifying breath and summarily ceased his anxious rambling. Instead, he cupped a knowing hand between my legs, stroking within, where I was slippery heat; his strong fingers grew quickly wet with my need.

  “Lorissa Davis,” he murmured in response, kissing my neck, plying his tongue upon my breasts, one after the other, until I gasped and cried out.

  Eyes closed as pleasure coursed along my skin, I faintly recalled my original intent, which was to take him into my mouth. This was a gift we alone shared, one I felt was sacred to our marriage, to our joining. With Sawyer, lovemaking became far more than a satiation of physical need; it became a consecration – holding him deeply inside, witnessing his powerful release, experiencing my own – there could be no more holy act. I had never known lovemaking could be a thing of beauty and grace, not until I had fallen in love with Sawyer and learned to trust him.

  “Let me,” I whispered, and he recognized my intent.

  “Darlin’,” he groaned, as I rolled to my knees and grasped him, caressing with my thumbs the hollows created between his hipbones and groin. There was a small pearl of white at the tip of him and I opened my lips over this, swirling my tongue; it was a taste I knew well, that of his aroused body. His fingers dug into my hair. I felt him swell even more fully within my mouth and he shifted at once, lifting me into his arms and taking me instantly to my back. My legs tightened instinctively around his hips as his length, the splendid hardness of him, filled me.

  He held momentarily still as I quivered beneath him, taking my lower lip into his mouth and lightly suckling. He murmured, half-teasing, “I must pause, or I’ll be finished…” and bit my earlobe, sending a spasm of pleasure along my jawline on the same side.

  I loved that we were able to jest and laugh in the midst of loving. I arched my neck so that he would kiss it, which he did, grasping my hips in his strong hands and taking up a slow, steady rhythm. Smiling at him, clinging to his shoulders, I said innocently, “You are so thoughtful, love.”

  His grin deepened. “Your sweet mouth on my…well, I can hardly contain myself.”

  I snorted a laugh this time and he laughed as well, almost uncoupling our bodies. I squirreled closer, wrapping my arms and legs all the more fiercely about him, meeting him thrust for powerful thrust as our laughter died away, our motion taking us all across the surface of the bed. Sawyer lifted my right ankle and hooked it over his shoulder. I gripped the bedclothes with both fists. Sweat trickled along his temples and to his jaws, gleaming upon his chest. I bared my teeth as I shuddered with the force of what his body called forth from mine – the pulsing surges that spread outward from my center and swept through me, leaving me weak, sated in their wake. He kissed the inside curve of my lower leg, opening his lips and lightly clamping his teeth there as the intensity of focus rendered us wordless, so completely entwined that I could not tell where I stopped and he began.

  “You,” I murmured, utterly replete, holding close his exhausted form some time later, the candle guttering in its holder.

  Sawyer rose to his forearms and smoothed
tangled hair from my forehead. I studied his mangled eye socket and tears leaked over my temples as I lay flat on my back, loving the satisfied weight of him draped atop me; my joy that he was alive, that he had not been taken from me, would never cease. I caught hold of his ears and tugged closer his face so that I could press my lips to the disfigurement of his scar, which he allowed. At first, when he was no longer required to wear the poultice beneath the eye patch, he’d been hesitant to let me touch or kiss the spot. But I insisted. I wanted to show him it did not upset or repulse me in any way. Simply telling him was not sufficient; I knew my actions must speak for me.

  “Yes, you.” His voice rasped with emotion.

  I was fearful to reply in absolutes, to say that we would never be without one another again; life had taught me that to speak of such things was to perhaps negate them. I clung to him and whispered instead, “Let us take no days for granted, not ever.”

  He kissed away my tears and shifted us, so that I was sheltered against his chest rather than directly beneath him. I ran my palms along his ribs, coming to rest around his torso. After a spell, he murmured, “I always worry that I crush you, after.”

  “You do not crush me.” I adopted the tone I thought of as wifely, and then, with the inevitability of longtime habit, synonyms riffled through my mind: wifelike, uxorial, filial. Sawyer and I had entered into this particular discussion before, and so with no small amount of asperity I reminded him, “You have said yourself my hips are ample.”

  Sawyer snorted this time, which tickled my sweating skin; I squirmed, giggling in my half-hearted attempts to escape. He allowed no evasion, instead pressing little kisses along the side of my neck as he agreed contentedly, “That I have, my sweet wife. You have lovely ample hips.”

  Atop our churned-up blankets I attempted to jab his ribs, where I knew it deviled him to be tickled. I would be dishonest if I did not admit that I loved provoking him to tussle with me, delighting in the strength of his warm, nude body curling around mine; he pretended to let me have the upper hand, allowing me to pin his shoulder blades to the feather tick. “That sounds like a compliment intended for a breeding mare!”