And I could reach no other conclusion, even now as I rode my sorrel through the blazing August heat. Rebecca would not leave, and I could not stay. She was a Yankee, a widow, and a truer lady I had never known, other than my own mama. Rebecca was educated, well-spoken, and unafraid to speak her mind, which I admired above all else. And I admired her nearly every moment, whether she was in my line of sight, or not. Her skin was the tint of cream skimmed from the top of the milk pail, the kind I’d licked from the spoon many a time. I dreamed by day and again by night of kissing that fine skin, of unbuttoning her dress and tasting her mouth, her breasts, her belly and thighs and what was surely the damp sweetness between her legs…
Stop, I ordered, sweat beading along the full length of my spine. I was short of breath, lightheaded at the very thought of putting my mouth and hands upon Rebecca that way; it only proved to me that I did not deserve her, entertaining such lustful thoughts about a proper lady. I was no virgin, and had not been since the age of nineteen. The first instance I’d been allowed the gift of a woman’s body was with a girl who was part of a troupe the Second Corps recruits, tenderfoots and has-beens alike, referred to as camp followers.
Play yer cards right, fellas, our commanding officer had said, grinning around his cigar. They ain’t the marrying kind if you know what I mean, boys. But they’s good gals, an’ willing to spread their legs for the right price.
This particular girl’s name had been Sallyanne; she did indeed spread her legs and if I learned her surname I had long since forgot it. Long, hay-colored hair falling over plump bare shoulders, a wide, knowing smile with two teeth missing from the bottom row; nipples near the size and shade of ripe cherries. I’d been nervous as a hen in her cramped tent, and embarrassed myself nigh unto death when I let loose before even gaining entry into her body, at merely the sight of the treasure hidden beneath the layers of her skirts. Until that moment, I had only the stories Ethan Davis told of girls to satisfy my curiosity, and there before my eyes in the lantern light was a tangle of dark hair, arrow-shaped – to guide a man’s way, as Ethan always joked – and soft folds the color of the pinkest of the cosmos in my mama’s garden. Greedy, I’d wanted to touch every part of her at once. She laughed and gamely let me have another go, for no charge. Even the second time around and firmly within her body, I’d come faster than I ever had using my own hand.
I like this curly hair, she told me, fingering my scalp. You’s a good-looking fella. You’ll have a longer frolic next time, honey, don’t you worry none. You’s just too fraught this time around.
And since, there had been many such frolics with many such girls, the brides of no one and everyone, all at once. I was not proud of myself on that front. My daddy would thrash the devil out of me if he was alive and knew how many women had spread their legs and let me spill my seed within their bodies, unable to resist the momentary rush of flooding pleasure, the sweetness of holding close a warm, naked woman and feeling her breasts and belly pressed flush to my thrusting body. Until meeting Lorie that night in St. Louis, I was ashamed to admit I hadn’t given a thought to the daily lives of those whorehouse girls. I never considered where they’d come from, or who they might have loved, or been loved by, in their pasts. They’d all seemed the same until Lorie – lusty women with coy smiles and soft thighs easily parted. That fateful night we first met Lorie was the last time I’d been with a woman.
If things was different, sweet Rebecca, if I’d never fought for a Cause your husband, and you, so strongly opposed…I need to make my way beholden to no one, do you understand? I ain’t good enough for a lady with a proper way of speaking, with proper opinions…
I would be your wife, she seemed to whisper, but it was only the play of the wind over the prairie, and my damnable imagination, wishing as always for things it would never have. I supposed I should know better by now; I’d always been a fine one for wanting that which was beyond my means. I wished my daddy was alive, for more reasons than I could rightly name, but mostly – at least, just now – so that he could wallop some good sense back into me.
I knew Rebecca’s middle name, as I’d heard her uncle, Edward Tilson, once address her using it, and thought, fancying that she could hear, Rebecca Lynn, I know I rode away from you but I will never forget you, I swear on my life.
I’d looked over my shoulder as Malcolm and I rode out of the yard at a steady trot and saw her, watching after us. She stood with her arms crossed at her waist, gripping her elbows; she did not lift a hand in farewell. She watched until we were out of sight, I knew, and could not force the picture from my head. I damn well realized that soon enough she would become Rebecca Lynn Quade – Marshal Quade had pursued her hand without rest – and if I knew what was good for me, I would stop thinking of her altogether.
“I miss Lorie-Lorie,” Malcolm moaned for the fourth or fifth time, and his sobbing edged another notch higher. He was tuckered, far beyond out-of-sorts, and had lay crying for the past half hour, with no notion of stopping anytime soon. He curled into a pitiful knot with his head buried in both arms, shuddering.
I bent my elbow and resettled my cheek atop this uncomfortable makeshift pillow made of my arm. The small feather pillow that had accompanied me without harm all the way from Cumberland County had fallen from Fortune’s back and was swept away in the river we’d forded just before making camp this evening. I could have galloped after the damn thing; I wished now that I had. The day’s oppressive humidity lingered, unpleasant as moist palms pressing against my face; I’d shucked down to nothing but the lower half of my union suit but even being near naked didn’t help. I’d erected a small canvas tarpaulin at an angle, under which we’d positioned our heads, able in this way to have a hope of staying dry; traveling light as we were, and without a wagon, I’d not hauled along our wall tent and its wooden poles. The hot, motionless air was thick as a jar of sorghum syrup.
A few paces beyond where we lay, the horses stirred with agitation, unable to sleep in the blasted heat; Fortune issued a low, uneasy whinny. I had patted Malcolm’s back, as I would a small babe’s, when his tears first came surging, but now I could hardly bear to listen to another wail. It wasn’t that I was angry at him. It was more that I was afraid I might fold, and join him in weeping.
“I know,” I whispered, aiming for a steady voice even as my throat bobbed. I felt I had to admit it, and so muttered, “I miss them, too.”
“We coulda stayed,” the boy sobbed.
“No, we could not,” I said, and knew this for the painful truth. “We got weeks of travel, an’ weeks more of work to prepare for winter.” I ground my teeth to keep from ordering him to hush the hell up. It would do no good to be harsh when he was hurting but I clamped down on my tongue, all the same.
Wheezing between every other word, Malcolm moaned, “I miss…Stormy. What if…the boys…don’t watch out for him? I want to sit…at the table… with ever’body.”
I bit my cheek for the second time this day with my infernal tooth-grinding, cursing under my breath. I squeezed tight my eyes and gripped my forehead until it hurt; against my better judgment I let my thoughts stray to the dinner surely taking place back at Rebecca’s hearth, in the house where we’d lived for the better part of this past summer and where Sawyer and Lorie would continue to live until next spring, when they intended to continue onward to Minnesota. I pictured Rebecca placing dishes on the table, loading it with her delectable cooking until it all but creaked. She was always the last to take her place, untying her apron strings before sitting, with the ease of an oft-repeated gesture. I’d noticed every last time, watching as she reached behind her waist to release the ties before hanging the apron upon its hook near the woodstove, the exact same way she would reach back to unbutton her dress at day’s end. The mere thought of being privy to such an intimate moment threatened my resolve. I pictured the way her dress would slip from her shoulders and sink slowly to the floor, becoming a puddle of material at her bare feet.
I growled at my
brother, “Hush the hell up.”
Malcolm hushed his words but not his crying. My arm prickled with stitching needles, numb beneath the weight of my thick skull, and I flopped to the opposite side, my nose but a few inches from the slope of the dirtywhite canvas. I was determined to tune out Malcolm’s sobs; I knew he would tucker and give way to sleep after a spell. I closed my eyes, thinking I might lose my mind before this night was through, what with the heat and Malcolm’s lamenting, and my own damnable thoughts – the one thing I couldn’t outride. I was accustomed to sharing a sleeping space with my brother. Back along the trail, before we’d reached Iowa City, nothing had troubled me this way as I lay awake, not Malcolm’s sawing snores or the rasping crickets, not the horses’ shuffling or the ever-present rush of the river near which we always set up our evening camp; even the hushed rustlings of Sawyer and Lorie making love half the damn night hadn’t kept me from eventual sleep.
I ground the heels of my palms against my eye sockets and thought, I wish I’d not left the fiddle behind.
Making music filled me with great and unbridled joy. I’d learned at Daddy’s knee, first by listening and later with an instrument of my own, made for me by Uncle Malcolm. If asked to, I couldn’t rightly explain just how I made the fiddle sing; I only knew that when I took up my bow and skimmed it over the strings, music flowed forth. It seemed that the notes were in my head already and that my hands and fingers knew what to do with them, moving of their own accord. You’s a natural talent, Daddy proclaimed when I was just a sprout, and hadn’t I been as proud as a peacock, there beneath his beaming praise. Music resounded from one side of the holler to the other in those good old times, and plenty of nights there’d be dancing and singing, too. Whiskey, and bright stars against a blue-black canvas of night, Mama’s sweet smile and the love of a family of my own. Knowing I was safe, a blessed time when I was not the eldest member of the Carter family; when there was someone else I could depend upon to make decisions. Christ, it had been so damn long since I’d had that security. I hated to admit to needing comfort but I was lonely as hell, even with Malcolm at my side.
He’d finally quieted and I drew a slow breath through my nose. Just as fast I went cold, eyes opening.
What in the hell?
In response, a gust of wind heaved against the tarpaulin and I sat with a jolt, startling Malcolm. The air over the prairie had altered from oppressive and humid to late-autumn frigid in the span of time it took me to sit upright.
“No,” I whispered, staring dumbly at the canvas, which obscured my view of the western horizon. I lurched to my knees, grabbing for my rifle and boots. Over the rising scream of the wind I heard Aces and Fortune in a sudden frenzy of snorting and stomping; any creature with a lick of good sense would already be running hell-and-gone in the opposite direction. Fortune reared, issuing a high-pitched whinny, and I finally stumbled to the conclusion that the horses had reached much earlier this day; I’d been too preoccupied with my own misery to heed their warning. From the distance came a sound like a steam whistle, growing ever louder. My heart burst into my throat.
“Christ Almighty,” I croaked. “Malcolm –”
“What’s –”
“Grab your boots an’ c’mon!” I cried, lurching from beneath the canvas, never minding my lack of clothes; we had to get to safety. Distracted I may have been, but it was no excuse – as I would learn all too soon. The wind’s chill stole my breath as I tugged on my boots without releasing my rifle. Lightning sizzled and its brief illumination showed me the towering funnel cloud. For the space of a second flash, a trio of rapid heartbeats, I stared, slack-jawed and mesmerized. The sight was one of certain doom, a rank of Federals charging with muskets at the ready, a mounted cavalryman closing fast, saber angled to strike…
“Sweet bleedin’ Jesus,” I muttered, but barely heard my own words over the raging, teakettle-shrieking of the wind. My fingers clenched around the stock of my rifle, as though I had any chance of preventing the advance of such a creature with bullets. It seemed to me that I moved through a swamp, my heels sunk in tar, when in truth my feet hit the ground like those of a cantering horse. I clenched hold of Malcolm, who was carrying his boots, too stunned to jam them into place, and hauled him along behind. Wind scraped our hair and blasted our faces with what felt like small pebbles. There was a sharp cracking of thunder and hail exploded from the sky, near the size of marbles. These bounced from the ground and gathered in piles, striking our heads and shoulders as we freed Aces and Fortune. They could not be left tethered beneath the trees.
“Follow me!” I shouted in Malcolm’s ear, making certain he followed. Then I ran, carrying my rifle, leading my horse. Once away from the cluster of cottonwoods beneath which we’d set up camp, I stopped running and grabbed for my brother’s shoulder. I understood that we could not huddle here and hold fast to our horses; they were spooked and could kick us to death, even if that was not their intent. An agony of indecision ripped at my gut – I could not set them free to bolt and leave us stranded, but mounting and attempting to ride frantic horses through the dark was foolish, at best. I spied a stand of brush close to the creek and yelped, “Yonder!”
Malcolm did not hesitate to obey and we tied the horses to the wind-whipped brush, fingers fumbling with the familiar task in our haste; I prayed it would be enough to hold them. Both Aces and Fortune reared and danced, fighting their tethers, but we could do no more for them just now. I would not risk harm to Malcolm.
“Stay put!” I yelled to my horse, resting a palm briefly to her neck, praying she would heed these words.
My heart beat too swiftly to fall; instead I clenched Malcolm’s elbow and dragged him a goodly distance, shoving him to the wet ground and laying atop him, bracing my forearms about his head, protecting him just as I had the night Zeb Crawford fired his rifle into our wagon. Hail clattered around us, loud as artillery rounds. The grass crushed by our bodies scratched my face and bare torso while the rest of the prairie flapped in a frenzy of motion. I could not resist looking up into the storm and lightning seared my eyeballs. When I blinked, crooked blue-white lines jangled my vision.
Holy Jesus, I thought, ears ringing with the storm’s fury. The sky is screaming. It’s screaming at us. Holy Jesus.
We can’t die here, I thought next. How many times had I thought the same goddamn thing, as a soldier? Sawyer at my side on the battlefield, both of us covered in filth and gore, begging for grace. I’d been as good as dead a hundred times as a soldier, and yet here I lay, less than a day’s ride from the Minnesota border, at the mercy of a goddamn storm.
The thick black column roared our direction from the western horizon, perhaps a hundred feet from my nose. I stared, overcome with the horror and wonder of it – both at once, a strange mix of feelings – unable to tear free my eyes. I caught a better glimpse each time lightning flared. Driven forward by its swirling momentum, the twister appeared to pulse and grow, snapping trees as though the heavy trunks were nothing but spindly matchsticks, creating noise as violent as that of twelve-pound howitzers. Our canvas tarpaulin flew and disappeared like a moth into a flame; the twister appeared to have eaten it. I gaped, my skin stark and wet. A chunk of hail gashed my forehead. Our clothes and blankets, and then – holy God – the small creek was sucked into the storm’s mouth. I struggled to believe my eyes, watching water flow upward into the air, a spell cast by an illusionist, something not real, certainly not possible. The water rose, danced, twirled like a dust devil, and became part of the whirling madness.
It’ll pass, I thought, finding a measure of calm even as the howling of the wind seemed to rip the thought right out of my head. Surely it was the Carter vanity, or perhaps my own foolish pride, but I’d always figured I’d know my time of dying, and this moment was not it. Death had aimed for me plenty in the past and I well understood that there would come a time when I could no longer dodge its reach, God help me.
But not this night, I thought, and bent my face to Malcolm
’s hair, damp beneath my cheek, beset by love for him. Not this night. Hold tight, boy. It’ll pass.
If there was one lesson that had penetrated my stubborn head in this life, it was that. Whether it be a storm or a battle, the anguish of combat or love, and eventually life itself – everything passed.
FALLON’S RUN AWAY,” was the first news Charley Rawley bestowed upon arriving in the dooryard.
We had not been blessed with Charley’s company for over a month and he appeared unexpectedly this evening. Leaning on the corral fence, dawdling for a spell in the intoxicating sunset light, I had watched him approach since his horse blinked into view as a small black dot on the horizon, glad to see him but cautious nonetheless; only news of significance retained the power to draw Charley from his family and their homestead many dozens of miles south. The single word creeping through my thoughts as I watched him cantering in had been Yancy, but the Yancy of whom I sought news, and deeply feared, was Fallon’s father, Thomas. Sawyer, in the barn brushing down Whistler, came out into the evening at the sound of Charley’s greeting. As ever, at the sight of my husband a powerful surge of love, and simple gladness, quickened my pulse. I thought of what I’d told Sawyer just last night and felt a renewed flooding of tenderness.
“Run away?” I parroted, standing clear of the corral gate as Charley dismounted and led his gorgeous blue roan within. I closed the gate and summarily climbed the bottom rung, as was my habit, so that I could latch my elbows over the top-most beam. Wearing the trousers Malcolm had left behind for my use and Sawyer’s broad-brimmed hat – my own inadvertently stomped upon by Hattie the milking cow, and now unwearable – I regarded the intelligent, well-spoken man we had come to trust as a friend.
“Rawley,” Sawyer said, shaking Charley’s hand.
Grace of a Hawk Page 2
