Grace of a Hawk
Page 16
“Green,” I had said, with satisfaction, leaning over the corral fence, unable to keep from grinning at the woman walking my way in the dawning light, no matter how much a fool I must have seemed, out in the dooryard waiting for her to emerge into the day. Fortune nudged my arm with her long, warm nose, reminding me that I’d been currying her hide before being so thoroughly distracted.
“You might offer a simple good morning, Mr. Carter.” Rebecca appeared unruffled while my blood grew hotter the closer she walked. She shifted a milk pail to the opposite hand, tucking back a stray lock of hair the wind teased across her nose, while I tried not to stare at her in the manner of an undisciplined youth. She elaborated, “Rather than such an enigmatic statement as ‘green.’”
“Good mornin’,” I whispered obediently. The rising sun revealed copper in her dark hair and struck the gold in her hazel eyes.
“Shall you tell me what you meant?” she pressed.
I knew even then that no good could come of our preoccupation with one another but still prayed that she asked this question in order to remain longer in my company, only arms’ length away. I admired anew the prim and proper way she always spoke. I studied her face, leaning on my forearms over the topmost beam, her lips with a soft bow along the upper, a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth before she slipped it free with the smallest finger on her right hand. I could hardly swallow, weak-kneed as a boy who’d never touched a girl. Her gaze was equally steady in its regard.
“Your eyes,” I explained at last, thrilled to watch a rose bloom in each of her cheeks. “I can’t rightly decide if they’re green or brown or gold, exactly. But so very green, this morning.”
The wind blew chill on my neck here tonight, far away from her on the lonely Territory prairie; from the inside out, I stung with cold. I pressed harder against my face, punishing myself.
Why would you say such things when you was planning to leave? Offering compliments when there wasn’t a hope of anything but hurting her. A selfish bastard is what you are.
Selfish I surely was, there was no denying, but when it came to it, I’d kept quiet about what I’d truly longed to confess to Rebecca – that her face struck at me as powerfully as the sweetest music I’d ever coaxed from my fiddle, how my fingertips ached in the same fashion, to touch her and draw forth passion and joy and contentment, each with its own series of notes. That there was a tone in her half-teasing voice which reminded me of home, of the way my mama spoke to my daddy, that of a woman who knows without a doubt that her man loves her more than all else.
But I had not spoken these things aloud. I’d ridden from her dooryard a coward, exiting her life without confessing.
Another memory sliced across my mind, this one far from sweet, as though reminding me why I so little deserved such a lady as Rebecca. A rowdy, crowded saloon in the river district of St. Louis, the night we found Lorie, a building with ornate gold letters painted on the front window, spelling Hossiter’s. Flat on my back atop a frilly white spread stretched over a rickety bed on the second floor of this place. Naked as the day I was born, grasping the ample hips of a woman whose name was Lisette, a woman with a chipped front tooth and breasts the size of ripe musk melons, nipples gleaming from my earlier thorough tasting of them. Piano music rising up from the ground floor, headboard thumping the thin-set wall. Lisette laughing and bucking faster, curling her fingers into the hair on my chest while I gave her backside a slap and enjoyed the energetic frolic, half-drunk and with no notion of what was to follow in less than an hour’s time.
You’s nothing but lowdown, treating women that way, as if they ain’t worth a thing but a place for you to spill your seed.
But even as this reproach thundered in my head I replaced Lisette, instead picturing Rebecca, blissfully nude and straddling me, dark hair loose over her soft shoulders, beautiful eyes alight with pleasure and love. I bent forward as if decked in the gut with a closed fist, groaning with longing, ashamed of myself even as I gave over to the vision, holding nothing back, overcome by the rush of images. I fumbled open my trousers, at last coming hard in my own hand, gasping as heat flooded between my knuckles, so goddamn guilty that I would resort to such measures when Rebecca was a lady, when I felt half-animal in my lustful actions. I was certain Elijah Krage had never lain with whores, had surely never dreamed of it. He’d taken only Rebecca to his bed; he’d loved her as his lawful wife and never wanted for more, I was certain of this as well.
Did he bring her pleasure with their lovemaking?
What about Marshal Quade? Likely he never lay with whores, either.
Rebecca deserves no less.
Stop this. You’s a pitiful wretch, wondering things that ain’t your concern.
I wiped my hand on the scratching ground. Stalks of prairie grass swayed about my prone body as I sprawled with arms widespread; the stars wheeled and spun and my head reeled with a dizzy ache. I fancied, for a strange moment, that I lay at the bottom of a fresh-dug grave, the grasses bending their topmost tips like the curious heads of mourners who’d come to see Boyd Carter buried. I ground the base of my palms into my eye sockets until checkered patterns flared in reds and blacks, blacker even than the darkness behind my eyelids.
I believed if I uncovered my vision and looked downward I would behold the dust-gray uniform I’d worn so proudly in 1862, that of a recruit in the Army of Tennessee. All buttons fastened proper-like, rips mended, stained material freshly pressed to swathe my dead body. Surely my old Enfield rifle would be at my side if I reached to the right, closing my fingers about the familiar hardness of the barrel. Properly laid out for burial, armaments tucked close, rifle oiled and musket blade polished to a blood-free shine. I was so cold I may as well have been dead.
“Rebecca,” I whispered.
CORA DON’T MUCH like horses, as you know, but I been telling her about how Lorie-Lorie rides Whistler, an’ how much she loves it. I told Cora I do believe she might like a ride on Aces.”
I eyed my brother across the breakfast fire; he chewed industriously, as if unaware that I intended to disagree with whatever else he was about to propose. He appeared innocent as a preacher’s wife, freckles and all, but then he couldn’t resist and peeked at me; one corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing grin that reminded me so much of Beaumont I shook my head. I could not help but smile, in return.
“You want to scare the bejesus outta the poor little thing? Her daddy was horse-kicked.” I kept my voice low, leaning closer to Malcolm and pointing my fork at his nose for additional emphasis.
Malcolm shifted and his brows arched as he began his wheedling. “I know. But I figure I’ll ride along with her so she’ll see that it ain’t near as frightful as she thinks. I figure if I was scairt of a horse then I’d wish somebody would get me on one so’s I wouldn’t be scairt no more. Boyd, I swear –”
“You swear what, little feller?” Grady asked, coming up from the creek bed carrying his shaving kit. Despite the decided lack of womenfolk for him to impress, Grady suffered our teasing and shaved if he woke early enough. My own jaws itched with a beard near eight weeks gone; it was mid-October by now and had I access to a hand mirror I’d surely behold Daddy’s face looking back at me. But then again, a beard kept me a mite warmer.
Malcolm pleaded, “Mightn’t I let Cora ride with me on Aces High? We spoke of it only just yesterday.”
Quill joined us in time to hear the last statement. “If anyone could talk her into it, you could, son. I believe you could talk a bird from a tree to light upon your hand.”
Malcolm beamed at this compliment, sending me a pointed look with brows quirked, one that clearly asked, See there?
I set aside my plate and was about to respond when, over Malcolm’s right shoulder, I saw Cora climbing awkwardly from the back of the wagon, hampered by her shawl. My heart issued a twang similar to the sound indicating a fiddle string needed tuning; her hair fell in snarls, as not one of us possessed a brush or comb, including Cora, and the
weather was far too chill to allow washing its length in the river. She owned one dress and it had long ago grown ragged with wear, torn at the waist along its seam. But a genuine smile spread over her thin little face as she looked Malcolm’s way; he dropped his fork with a clatter and rose to meet her, kindly taking her hand into his and chirping, “I was wonderin’ when you’d wake. You recall what we talked about yesterday, about you ridin’ Aces with me?”
Cora nodded, looking up at him with near-heartbreaking devotion, lacing their fingers and cupping Malcolm’s hand between both of hers, patting him almost as though unaware of doing so; I felt a powerful lashing of guilt. She was so attached to him and we planned to leave her behind in the Territory, forever; with her family, to be sure, but even so…
“I ain’t got no extra trousers for you, but you don’t mind ridin’ in a skirt, do you, Cora-bell?” Malcom had adopted Grady’s nickname for the girl. “What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” Cora answered slowly, tilting her chin in the direction of the picket lines, hardly able to contain a flinch at the sight of the horses.
“C’mon,” Malcolm encouraged, bouncing her hand in his, determined to boost her confidence. “You ain’t gonna get hurt, I swear. I’ll keep you safe.”
I thought of how tenderly Rebecca and Lorie would mother her, were we all together in Iowa. I thought of Rebecca’s no-nonsense tone and the feeling of calm always surrounding her, that of things getting done because she said so; with her abundant capability she would mend Cora’s dress and see to it that the little girl wanted for nothing, ever again. I knew this, and pictured it all so clear it stung as would nettles dragged over my bare hide.
I imagined Rebecca settling Cora on the stool near the woodstove to comb through those snarls, murmuring softly, her touches gentle and reassuring; the selfsame stool where she had once worked so diligently over me, assisting Tilson as he cleaned the wounds on my back, gashes left behind by splintered fragments of the wagon. Rebecca had rested her hand on my neck that morning, in an unmistakable caress – a soft touch that flew straight as an arrow to my tailbone.
My heart began clubbing as one question screamed through my head with enough force to rip my hair by its roots.
What in God’s name are you doing out here, so far from the woman you love?
Overtaken by the need to rise, to move, I stood, fork falling with a clatter. The conversation at the fire was focused on convincing Cora to give riding a try and no one paid me mind as I skirted the wagon and stalked a few dozen paces away, angling southward. Hatless in the early day, I stacked my wrists and rested them against my forehead, studying the horizon, a wavering mass of golden-brown grasses far as I could see, rimmed in orange-tinted light.
Too late, too late, you’re too late.
The words beat an ugly refrain against the inside of my forehead; forcing them aside was like trying to drive a shovel blade through parched earth, but I did it, contradicting, No. It ain’t too late. And maybe it was nothing more than the strength of my desperation to believe it was true, but a flicker of awareness alighted upon me. The feeling was so strong that the hairs on my nape stood straight, all at once. Hope spiked my heart.
If you’s lucky as you ever been in your life, she ain’t given up on your sorry hide yet.
Are you crazy? Are you vain as a peacock? She’s more than given up on you. You left her behind! Quade is there, and he cares for her. What makes you think she would consider you, anyhow?
But these excuses ceased to matter as I stood there staring at the prairie to the south.
Go back! The notion was as powerful as the twister. Go back to her, before it’s too late. Before Quade makes her his wife and you ain’t got a chance in hell.
You are hundreds of miles from her. Weeks of hard travel.
It don’t matter how long, how far. How can you not know this?
I imagined turning Fortune in the direction of Iowa and riding hell-for-leather, all the way back to Rebecca’s dooryard. I clenched my teeth, panic mounting in my gut and swelling under my skin – what if she and Quade were already married? Somewhere in my mind was the memory of Lorie saying they planned a spring wedding, but plans often changed. It was midautumn already. Behind me, Malcolm’s high, delighted laugh rose like smoke on a fair day; Cora had agreed to ride with him this morning. I turned in a helpless circle, seeing nothing but a grayish haze, riddled with indecision – what further risk would I bring to my brother if I acted on this sudden intent to return, all the many miles back to Iowa City?
Without getting the cattle to Lawson’s you ain’t got a penny to your name.
But without Rebecca you ain’t got a life worth living. You’d be poor as the most pitiful wretch you could imagine.
I could ride twice as fast alone. I could get back to her within the month.
My entire frame, inside and out, ached with want of this, even as I knew it was not an option I could consider.
You can’t leave behind Malcolm, or the girl.
You’ll be lucky to return to St. Paul before winter strikes.
But –
Oh Jesus –
“Tennessee! Shake a leg!” Grady called.
We’ll get to Lawson’s, I decided, gritting my teeth. We ain’t more than a week away now, Grady only just mentioned, an’ you owe it to him to finish the job. You can get your pay an’ then you an’ Malcolm can lit south as fast as the horses can gallop.
But what about Cora…
I turned back for camp, shutting out all other thoughts with every scrap of determination I could muster. I would explain my choice to Grady this morning, as we rode. I would talk to Malcolm. He would understand – hell, he’d be outright glad. Right then I convinced myself I could do this thing; right then, I truly believed it could happen. As though conjured by my thoughts, my brother ran and caught at my elbow, tugging.
“I’m gonna fetch Aces. You help Cora up,” Malcolm ordered, excited at the prospect of riding; he’d set so dutifully atop the wagon seat these past weeks, just to be near her. He grinned at the girl and ran in the direction of the horses. Grady had saddled Quartermain and Quill was busy tucking away the last of the cooking tools, ready to move out; Virgil appeared as a small dot in the distance, riding in to claim a few hours of sleep. Cora stood near the remains of the cookfire, silent, looking up at me with her peculiar eyes. She was so small I felt like a giant in her presence, a creature from one of Granny Rose’s old stories.
I longed to ask her, How’d you like a new mama, little one?
But of course I could not make such promises. Royal Lawson was Cora’s uncle, never mind that he was a stranger to her; Lawson would not want his brother’s child riding away, and in the company of non-kinfolk, so shortly after arrival at his homestead. Though, for all I knew, Lawson would welcome someone willing to take on the burden of a niece unknown to him. I was determined to try. If Lawson was willing, Cora would return to Iowa with the boy and me. I owed that much to Malcolm and to her.
I crouched way down so our eyes were on a level. “You certain about this?”
Cora worried her lower lip with her teeth, at last nodding.
“Best set aside that shawl, honey, an’ I’ll help you up.”
Malcolm approached, his steps jaunty, leading Aces. He called, “This here is my boy! Like I told you, he’s about the best horse there is. He’s been wanting to meet you.”
Cora stowed her shawl in the wagon bed and I lifted her into my arms; she was slight as a sparrow. I swore I’d hefted a sack of potatoes heavier than her. A hard knot of protectiveness formed in my chest as her small hands rested on the sides of my neck, with such trust, the same trust that allowed her to sleep so soundly tucked between Malcolm and me.
Quill hitched the mules as I carried Cora to Aces; he called, “You’re a brave lass, Miss Cora!”
“Mr. Boyd,” she whispered.
“Yes, ma’am?” I smiled at her formality; she never failed to add the title before my name.
“I got you,” I assured, settling her over my right forearm so I could reach out with my left hand. With no words, just a look, I told Malcolm to keep quiet a moment; he was bouncing with energy but nodded his understanding. I took Aces by the bridle, the chestnut horse so familiar to me; I’d known him from a foal, same as Fortune, and bore the animal no small affection. He was a tall horse, high-strung with youth, but as good a boy as Malcolm claimed. Aces lifted his upper lip, exposing the top row of his big yellow teeth in a horsey grin.
I murmured, “Hold up now, fella. See there.” Aces whickered and snuffled his nose against my waist, expecting a treat. “You’s a bit spoiled, ain’t you? Now listen,” and I sensed Cora peeking at the animal. “I’d like you to meet this here young lady.”
Malcolm coughed and adopted an unnaturally low tone. “Well now, good morning. My name is Aces High. Might I ask your name?”
He could hardly finish speaking for laughter, and Cora lifted her head. Seeing a ghost of a smile on her face, I played along. “Good morning to you, Aces High. How are you this fine day?”
“Right as the rain,” Malcolm said in the deep voice. “You ain’t told me your name, m’lady.”
Cora giggled, the first I’d ever heard of such a sound from her. Heartened, I said, “This here is Miss Cora Lawson. She’d like to take a ride with you this morning, if you’s of a mind to let her.”
Virgil rode into camp. It was only because I held Cora in my arms that I noticed a strange expression eradicate her smile as her eyes flickered to Virgil. He didn’t take especial notice of what we were doing as he dismounted and headed for the coffeepot, as he always did upon returning from night watch, but I did not believe I imagined the way Cora’s slight frame went suddenly rigid, far beyond that of her concern over our proximity to Aces; surely I was mistaking what appeared to be trepidation in her eyes? What could she have to fear from Virgil?