Grace of a Hawk

by Williams, Abbie;

  I thought, The Frenchman…

  “Yonder fellow.” Jacob indicated with his pipe. All three men shifted, hands moving to their armaments; when it became apparent this individual was indeed bound for our camp, we stood, Sawyer assisting me, then angling so I was behind him.

  “Boys!” Rebecca heralded, but as she called to them I realized the man striding our way was none other than Mary from the saloon, clad in boots and trousers, and a heavy jacket too large for her frame, long hair concealed beneath a wide-brimmed duster similar to Tilson’s.

  The men, reaching this same conclusion, swept the hats from their heads as she came near; Mary, with a note of irony in the movement, executed a small, formal bow but refrained from doffing her own headwear. She said, “Good evening. No need for alarm, it simply proves easier to navigate the town when dressed as a man.”

  “Please, do sit,” I invited at once, indicating our fire. “Thank you ever so much for coming. We’d begun to fear you would not.”

  Mary settled on her haunches with the ease afforded to her by men’s clothing, folding her long legs and resting wrists to knees, a masculine pose which would prove impossible had she been clad in customary skirts. As tall and lean as she was, her femininity was neatly disguised by the bulk of the leather garments.

  “To bed,” Rebecca told the boys, kissing their foreheads, nodding at the wagon. “I’ll join you shortly.”

  “Mary Henriksen, late of Ohio,” she said, leaning to offer her hand to Tilson, nodding at Jacob as she affirmed their acquaintance. And then to Sawyer and me, “Beg pardon. We exchanged introductions earlier this day, but please do remind me of your given names.”

  “Sawyer and Lorie Davis,” I said. “Might you care for food, or drink?”

  “Thank you, no, Mrs. Davis,” Mary said. “I mustn’t linger long or my presence on the main floor will be missed.”

  If only she knew how well I understood.

  “I am Edward Tilson, my dear, and this is my niece, Rebecca Krage,” Tilson said, as Rebecca knelt at Mary’s side; the two women regarded each other, Rebecca with the scarcely-concealed desire to beg for answers, Mary with outright surprise.

  “Rebecca, you say?” Mary asked. “Why, I’ve heard of you. Might you be known to young Malcolm Carter as Mrs. Rebecca?”

  “I am,” she breathed, hands clasped at her breasts. “Please, what news have you?”

  Mary’s jaw squared; her manly garb and the darkening air would have fooled any onlooker. She said, “I best back up,” and sighed deeply. Not without sympathy, she continued, “Word reached us last autumn that both of them were killed. Though he is a born liar, Jean Luc was not lying about that particular detail.” So saying, she regarded each of us with an expression both wary and watchful. I did not believe I imagined the note of regret buried in her tone.

  Jacob prompted, “What can you tell us about my nephew signing on to drive cattle into the Western Territories? Was that the truth?”

  There was no mistaking Mary’s tension, the brief downward flicker of her eyes, the subtle lifting of her shoulders with the inhalation of a deep breath. But her voice was steady as she said, “That is also true. The night I met the Carters, they had only just arrived in St. Paul. The elder brother spoke of a storm which destroyed their possessions. He appeared at the end of his rope, hiding this for the sake of the boy, I could tell plain. It was me who suggested…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed and I was stunned to observe moisture in her eyes. She roughly thumbed aside any telltale tears. “You see, I knew of a party that needed a wrangler because one of their men, Dyer Lawson, was killed before they could ride out from St. Paul. The man heading that drive was my…my friend. His name was Grady Ballard.”

  I met Sawyer’s gaze; he saw, as did I, that this man’s name held great meaning for Mary. She cared for him, perhaps even loved him, even though loving someone was the worst thing a whore could do to herself.

  I asked quietly, “What of this Mr. Ballard?”

  Mary ground her teeth. “I knew Grady well. I thought not to see him, or any of his party, until this spring, but one of them arrived late last October, intending to return to his home in Kansas before winter struck, or so he claimed. It was he who brought us news of the attack, and of Grady’s passing.” She drew a small, tight breath before her words tumbled as debris over a falls. “Grady was familiar with that route, never had trouble before. Virgil’s tale didn’t set well with me from the first, I’ll not lie. I knew Virgil for Grady’s friend, but I never took to him as Grady and Isobel did. Virgil is a weasely sort, always made me nervous. He made Emilia nervous, too, and I always believed it was why she left The Belle last summer.”

  “Who is this Virgil?” Sawyer asked.

  “Virgil Turnbull,” Mary said, with discernible fire in her tone. “He and Grady were raised up together, back in Kansas. Was Grady who got Virgil a job driving cattle when no one else would take him, one-handed as he is since the War. They’d driven cattle together a dozen times in the past few years. Grady was no one’s fool, I swear this to be true.”

  “Turnbull,” Tilson muttered in acknowledgment, elbowing Jacob. “That’s the ‘Trundle’ we heard of, earlier,” and Jacob nodded immediate agreement.

  “Do you believe Grady is dead?” I asked, and the pulsing swell of Mary’s desire to believe he was not was tangible in the air around her. “Do you believe the tale that this man Virgil told, of an attack by Indians?”

  What it cost Mary to answer, I could not accurately guess; my heart clenched as she whispered, “I could not stomach Virgil’s tale, I’ll not deny, but I no longer believe Grady is alive somewhere out there. He would have returned to St. Paul by now.”

  Rebecca’s face was pale enough to resemble a bare skull. Her hand shook as she pressed a fist to her lips.

  “Why would this man Turnbull lie about being attacked?” Jacob pressed. One question atop the next, just like Malcolm, he added, “Why would my nephews travel so far off course without leaving word?”

  Mary explained, “Mr. Carter was in a fix when he arrived in St. Paul, as I said. He was seeking work at The Belle, but Jean Luc had no positions for a man to fill. Jean Luc needed a woman to take Emilia’s place, since she ran off. That very night I told Mr. Carter of Grady’s need for another wrangler and Grady appeared not a quarter-hour later. He and Mr. Carter spoke, and struck a bargain. As I said, Mr. Carter was desperate. He needed money and agreed to take the job. Grady was in my company that night, later, and he always talked to me, trusted me with matters important to him. I am no green young thing, fool enough to think he loved me, but he cared for me, on this I’d bet my last dollar, and I cared for him, a great deal. The news of his passing pains me yet.”

  I reached and took one of her hands; rather than drawing away, she curled her long, tense fingers about mine.

  “What else?” Jacob asked, solemn and intent as he studied Mary, seated directly across the fire from him; red light gleamed along the facets of the beads braided into his beard.

  Mary wiped her nose with the back of her free hand. “I don’t know why you received no word from Mr. Carter. Grady gave to me two letters that night, written by Mr. Carter’s hand. In turn, I gave them to Cecilia and she promised to deliver them to the post office by morning’s light.”

  “The woman we saw today?” I asked, thinking of the way Cecilia had fetched her employer once we started asking questions.

  Mary nodded affirmation.

  “Where is this woman? Might we speak to her?” Tilson asked; he had placed his comforting touch upon Rebecca’s back. “Or would this Jean Luc prevent it?”

  Mary’s knowing gaze flashed to Tilson. “I will ask Cecilia, in your stead. She never spoke of failing to deliver the letters, but I feel responsible. Grady trusted me with them and I should have seen them delivered with my own eyes.”

  “Did you see Boyd or Malcolm again before they left?” Sawyer asked. “What occurred that night?”

  “I did not see t
hem again after they left The Belle. Neither had eaten in a good few days, I’d have wagered. Mr. Carter appeared haggard, and the boy could scarce keep from gobbling. I played a round or two of cards with the little feller.”

  “Was he well?” I begged.

  “He was a sprightly little thing, sweet as honey. It was plain to me that Mr. Carter looked after him. The first thing he said to Grady that night, after Grady offered the job, was that he wouldn’t take his brother through any territory that wasn’t safe.”

  My breath was short and Sawyer rested a calming hand between my shoulder blades. I prompted, “You said Malcolm spoke of Rebecca?”

  “Yes, the boy claimed his brother was in love with a Mrs. Rebecca and his words brought Mr. Carter pain, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Tears washed over Rebecca’s face; she pressed hard against her mouth as Mary continued bluntly, “Mr. Carter refused two separate offers that very night, of girls ripe for him. But hardly did he flicker an eyelash. Handsome devil, he could have had the both at once. Izzy didn’t care but Cecilia was in offense at the refusal.”

  “The same woman who was entrusted to deliver his letters?” Tilson asked; I’d been about to ask the same, increasingly wary. Jealousy and offense amongst that lot – the lot of which I’d been a part for nearly three years – was dangerous as a dose of poison.

  Mary nodded again.

  Sawyer asked, “What of when Virgil Turnbull returned to St. Paul in October? What was his story at that time?”

  Mary eyed the heavens, deep with nightfall, the advent of darkness forcing her to take her leave. I restrained the urge to grasp her arms, to make her stay. Speaking hastily, she said, “Virgil claimed that In’juns drove off the stock and killed all of them in the party, which would have been Grady, Quill, the Carters, and the little Lawson girl. I hate to give you folks false hope, I do, but I ain’t survived being a whore without learning to notice things, little things, and something about Virgil’s tale was off. For a long time I expected Grady to show up here, but enough time has passed that I no longer believe he will, as I said.” She closed her eyes for the space of a breath. “Virgil rode into St. Paul in the company of two other men that day. The three of them was gaming and drinking at The Steam House, not but a stone’s throw from The Belle when I spied him. Wasn’t Virgil surprised when I appeared at his table.” She released a small, humorless huff of laughter. “He didn’t seem to realize a whore can walk across the street same as any old person, that it ain’t against the rules.”

  “You say he was gaming and drinking? Seems cold for a man who’d lost his entire party to a murderous attack,” Jacob observed.

  “That’s his way. I asked him straightaway where was Grady and the others, and Virgil pulled off his hat and told me they were killed, calm as a summer afternoon,” Mary said, the muscles in her cheeks tightening. “I asked him why he hadn’t seen fit to find me first thing, as he knows well Grady was my friend. I asked what happened to them and he said they were set upon in the night hours, but that he managed to escape and was lucky enough to meet up with these new fellers.”

  “Who were these men he was with?” Tilson asked.

  Mary said, “One I knew from around, a half-breed name of Church Talk. He’s never been a customer of mine, I don’t take on half-breeds unless Jean Luc says I must.”

  Jacob said, “I have heard of this Church Talk. Ojibwe. He was given the handle for his fondness of quoting Scripture.”

  “What of the other fellow?” Tilson pressed.

  “He was a stranger to me, and hardly more than a boy. Light of hair, slender.” As Mary spoke, a bootheel seemed to increase its pressure on my heart. I saw understanding dawn upon Sawyer’s face, and Tilson’s –

  “What was this boy’s name?” Sawyer spoke so intently that Mary leaned slightly away from him, startled.

  “Yancy,” she whispered. “He wore a blouse with frilled cuffs and in my head I nicknamed him ‘Fancy Yancy’ even as I stood there at the table.”

  “Oh, dear God…” Rebecca breathed, and I feared she would faint; Tilson bolstered her with an arm about the waist.

  “You know him?” Mary asked, her bewildered gaze flowing over each of us in turn, perceiving our evident shock.

  “Are any of them about St. Paul now?” Sawyer asked, and his thoughts were racing, making ferocious leaps, as a horse pursued by starving wolves.

  Mary’s too-large hat listed to one side. Straightening it, she said, “No. I would tell you if I’d seen any of them, I swear. Virgil tends to visit The Belle when he is in town, though perhaps he won’t in Emilia’s absence, as he favored her. But Isobel would tell me if she’d spied him, as she’s fond of him, God knows why. I know you folks ain’t got a reason in this world to trust me, and to be honest I am here now mainly for Grady’s sake.”

  She bowed her head; when she lifted it her face had softened, grown somehow younger in the firelight. It was the face of a girl who’d never spent hundreds of nights spreading her thighs for an onslaught of men, who’d never been forced to feign enjoyment or learn to observe her employer’s mercurial moods, down to the smallest gesture, in order to avoid punishment or blame. She whispered, “Grady would want me to get to the bottom of this sorry situation. If I can be of help to you folks I will, this I vow.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and she squeezed my hand.

  “I’d best return,” she whispered. “I don’t dare visit your camp again, but I will get word to you, if there is any to be had. It does not do to anger Jean Luc, please know this. I will get word to you if I hear anything.”

  “Come, lass, I’ll accompany you back to the edge of town,” Tilson said. “I don’t much like the thought of a lady walking alone.”

  The momentary vulnerability that had shone through Mary’s countenance promptly vanished, replaced by the hardness which she’d adopted to survive. “I thank you, Mr. Tilson. It’s been a long while since anyone’s mistaken me for a lady, especially in this get-up, but I appreciate it all the same.”

  Later, alone in the wagon, I lay in Sawyer’s arms, tears pouring brokenly forth, inundating his shirt. He murmured, stroking my hair, understanding I could no more contain these tears than I could beams from the sun in my cupped hands. He let me speak without interruption, understanding without being told my need to release tears and words, both at once; I could feel the tension emanating from his body, his internal battle to accept that Boyd and Malcolm may truly be dead, no matter how we fought the notion, no matter how we longed otherwise.

  “Mary spoke to them, Sawyer…she saw them, saw my sweet Malcolm. How can Rebecca bear it?” I could hear the choked, muffled sobs coming from her wagon; worse, somehow, than had she been outright wailing. “Fallon was here, he must have found them somewhere out there on the prairie… what if Mary is right, what if they are dead? Traveling here eased my worry… allowed me to think of other things, but now that we are here and they are not, I cannot bear it, oh Sawyer, oh God, hold me…”

  At last he spoke, whispering against the tangles of my hair. “I will hold you always, my Lorie. I will never let you go.”

  I gave over to the tears I’d kept at bay as we traveled, burying my face against the familiar scent of him. His arms were of iron, banded about me, keeping me whole. Our daughter pressed her heels into my ribs, as though concerned at the storming of emotion to which she was unwittingly privy. After a spell, when the moon had set and the camp was dark and still, I calmed, cradled between husband and daughter, thusly secure; Sawyer glided his palm in small, soothing circles over the crest of my distended belly, finally succeeding in settling the babe to quietude. I whispered, “Being in that place today…”

  “I saw how you went pale,” he murmured in response, pressing a kiss to my jaw.

  “It is strange to feel brave in many regards but so vulnerable in others,” I whispered, shifting so that I could rest my nose to his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse against my cheek and his breath upon my forehea
d. I elaborated, “Before Mary arrived, I was thinking of the night I dared to sneak from Ginny’s, to the docks, for Deirdre’s sake.”

  Sawyer knew the story and cupped the nape of my neck, kissing my right eye.

  I sensed his concern, his willingness to do battle with anything that caused me harm, even my memories. I whispered, “I stole from the saloon because I knew Deirdre needed me, no other reason. I cared not for my own worries that night, I cared only for helping her. For Mary to venture forth, even in a clever disguise, means she cared more for Grady than she willingly admitted. She loved him, or she would not have risked herself to help strangers such as we are to her.”

  “I believe what she told us was the truth,” Sawyer said.

  “Do you believe…” But I could not finish the question. Clinging to hope that Boyd and Malcolm had survived was the worst sort of delusion; a desperate wish, a pipe dream with no more substance than exhaled smoke. Tucked close to Sawyer’s warmth in our wagon, I rebelled at the thought of continuing on without them, of reconciling ourselves to the acceptance of never again seeing their faces or hearing their voices in this life. And then I thought of something else Mary had related to us.

  “Mary spoke of a little girl traveling with them. How little, I wonder? Old enough to journey such a distance, I suppose.” Thinking of the boy’s tender nature, I whispered, “She would have taken to Malcolm.”