Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  “Sawyer has spoken of it,” Tilson acknowledged, with quiet dignity. “I am frightful sorry this afternoon has spurred ugly memories, honey.”

  “I would not make much of a midwife if I allowed memories to override my sensibilities.” I had regained control, suddenly concerned he would prevent me from further attendance at birthings.

  Reading my thoughts, Tilson mused, “I oughtn’t to bring you, for the time being. I know you for a fine, brave woman, Lorie, but you’s in a family way. You must consider that.”

  “Please,” I implored. “Don’t leave me behind. I am able to handle it, I promise you.”

  Tilson said, “I know you can. Don’t mean you should.”

  Fearful of losing the battle, I changed tactics. “What do you believe caused it?”

  “The babe appeared hale, an’ whole, an’ she carried to term,” Tilson said. “Sometimes there’s a distinct deformity to the child, or the birthing rope wraps about the babe’s neck. At times, like this one, there ain’t a certain cause.” He tucked my elbow closer to his side. “There ain’t any reason to figure there’s danger to your child, honey. None a’tall.”

  “You asked Mrs. McGiver if she’d felt the child in the past week,” I remembered, shielding my belly at the mere mention of trouble. Beneath the layered garments protecting me from the cold, I formed a protective bulwark with my forearm. Despite the bite of the wind and the falling temperature, which decreased nightly, there had been little significant snowfall over Iowa City and its surrounding farms. Still, I tugged at the woolen scarf looped about my neck, drawing it over my chin, trapping the warm, repetitive clouds of my breath.

  “She hadn’t felt him stir, which tells me that the babe likely succumbed in the past week. It’s a sadness all too common, I’m afraid. Ain’t much worse for a doc to witness, unless the mama herself dies along with the child. But Grace McGiver will have plenty more children, you’ll see. She’s birthed two healthy young’uns afore now.”

  “These truths provide no comfort to her this day,” I said, unduly contrary.

  “That’s so,” Tilson acknowledged. “But I know her husband for a good man. He’ll pull her through. Besides, her little ones need her attention, grief or no.”

  I murmured, “You’re right, of course.”

  I thought of Rebecca’s sons, Cort and Nathaniel, their boyish chatter a necessary and perhaps even welcome distraction, one which forced Rebecca to focus upon the daily tasks of washing and mending, cooking and cleaning. I helped her with these chores, offering what solace I was able, but her eyes could not lie; no matter how cheerful her tone when addressing her sons, no matter how capably she attended to the household, the expression in her eyes destroyed me. I wanted so badly to ease her misery, knowing nothing less than word of Boyd and Malcolm could.

  I’d found her in the barn one evening shortly after the arrival of Jacob’s letter in October, within the stall in which Boyd had stabled Fortune last summer, which she favored when seeking a moment to grieve, her skirts billowing as she sat on the bare floorboards. I joined her without a word, easing to a seat with great care; Rebecca reached a hand to assist me, the other holding fast to a page torn from her ledger, one upon which Boyd had begun a letter, last July, but had not finished.

  “I’ve told Leverett I shall not be able to marry him,” she said without preamble. Strands of hair slipped from her topknot, curving to the collar of her blouse, its top pearl button unfastened. Her eyes bore the unmistakable signs of unrelieved weeping, her nose red, and I wished I’d been considerate enough to bring her a handkerchief. She whispered, “You shall think I’ve taken leave of my senses. Lev surely believes this.”

  I shook my head, squeezing her slim fingers. “You know I do not believe you’ve lost your senses.”

  “I care deeply for Leverett, I shall not deny,” she said, punishing herself with the words. “I understand he should make an ideal husband. I am foolish to cast aside the proposal of a fine, decent man, and one who loves me, this I am also unable to deny.” Her eyes held fast to mine, strong with conviction. “But the arrival of Jacob’s letter has made me realize, more completely than ever, that I should be living a lie were I to take Leverett as my husband. I would never forgive myself if I did not attempt to find Boyd Carter in this life, and tell him that I love him.”

  “Oh, my dearest,” I whispered, touched beyond measure. My heart beat in gladness even as tears inundated my vision, blurring the sight of my dear friend; I could not help but hope this meant she would accompany us to Minnesota in the spring. I asked, “What did you tell the marshal?” and only dared to ask because I trusted Rebecca implicitly, as she did me; we spoke honestly to one another. She was one of a very few people to whom I’d confessed scraps of my darkest memories; in turn, she kept nothing of her feelings hidden from me.

  “I believed Lev deserved the truth, as anything less would serve to insult his dignity,” she said, her voice rough with strain. “Though, he had guessed. Instead of speaking harshly to me, or behaving in an accusatory manner, Lev remained a gentleman. He said only, ‘I am stunned, Becky, but if this fellow Carter is your choice then I have no more say in the matter.’”

  “Oh, Becky…”

  “Please, do not offer pity, as I do not deserve it. I have offended the heart of a good man. Lev rode from here and he shall not return. I have not gathered courage enough to ask after him, and have been waiting for Clint or Uncle Edward to relay to me any news.”

  “I am so sorry you are hurting, dearest.”

  “We are all hurting,” she whispered, and held Boyd’s unfinished letter to her lips.

  “There will be word,” I said, attempting to simultaneously convince myself. “There will be word from them, I believe this. It brings me comfort to think of them together.”

  Rebecca nodded agreement, stroking her fingertips over the writing on the abandoned letter, Boyd’s scrawling penmanship that resembled nothing so much as chicken-scratching; I had no difficulty picturing Boyd as a reluctant young pupil, casting his mischievous gaze about the Suttonville schoolroom in hopes of rousing a bit of excitement during the otherwise long, dry hours of endless lessons. He’d related many a tale of strappings meted out by exasperated instructors.

  “I wish he’d signed his name, if only so that I might touch it.” And then she read aloud a line, so softly her voice emerged as scarcely more than a whisper. “‘A woman name of Rebecca Krage has allowed us a bed in her homestead.’” Her eyes blazed into mine, fresh tears tracking her cheeks as she confessed, “If Boyd was here this night, I would take him to my bed and everything else be damned. I longed so for him last summer, to the depths of my soul I longed for him, in spite of all the reasons I knew it was improper. I have existed as a proper woman all of my life, Lorie, and yet I would cast all of that aside, forever, for him to be returned to me.” She pressed the letter to her breasts, then bent her head.

  I was quick to say, “I am not shocked. If you feared I would be, please do not harbor the notion another moment.” Rebecca looked up and understanding flowed anew between us; I touched her arm as I admitted, “No doubt a ‘proper’ lady would be scandalized. Surely my mama would never have confessed such desires, certainly not in the drawing room, but I am not my mama.”

  “Nor mine,” Rebecca whispered, and a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Perhaps a stall in the barn is a more suitable location for speaking of desire.” We sat encased in the dim glow of a single lantern Rebecca had hung on the iron hook above the stall. To either side of us, horses stomped and whickered, jaws grinding over their nightly hay. The milking cow issued a low bellow then fell to chewing. The stable smelled familiar and stirred feelings of security within my heart, as always. Further, it seemed a fitting spot for hushed confidences.

  Rebecca continued, “I longed for Elijah before we wed, though I was brought up to understand such longings were unseemly and so attempted to quell them. I would never have contemplated speaking them aloud, not to anyon
e. The first night Elijah and I spent as husband and wife the two of us were so awkward and uncertain, green as sapling leaves.” She issued a soft exhalation, partly laughter, partly a sigh. “It is such a gift to speak to you of these matters, and know you shall not be startled.”

  “You may tell me anything you wish,” I said, not for the first time.

  “And I would wish the same, for you,” Rebecca replied. “You, dear Lorie, are the first woman with whom I have ever been able to speak freely, and the relief of this is immeasurable.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and prompted, “What of your wedding night?”

  “We learned together. Elijah was unfailingly gentle, considerate to his core. I loved him very much, as he loved me, but he and I shared not the depth of ease I witness between you and Sawyer.” She drew a fortifying breath. “Before I met Boyd, I never imagined myself capable of falling so suddenly, so deeply, in love, falling without a hint of warning or notion of the inherent danger. The agony of it is almost unbearable, as a knife protruding from my heart. I am reasonable enough to recognize Leverett as the better choice, all around. Boyd is incorrigible and rash. He is stubborn, and immutable in his manners. And yet, I have no control over my feelings for him. They have overtaken me as surely as would a current in a springtime river.”

  “That is the way of it, sometimes,” I whispered, clutching her free hand in mine. The heat of her was almost shocking; speaking of Boyd raised the temperature of her entire being.

  “I miss him so dreadfully. The house echoes without his voice, without the physical presence of him.” She heaved with a sharp gasp, as though stabbed between two ribs. “Oh, Lorie…what if…”

  “We will find them,” I vowed, interrupting. “There is a reasonable explanation for their absence. I do not, I swear to you, believe them dead. The waiting is dreadful, I’ll not deny, but we’ll find them and you will tell Boyd of your feelings, dear Becky.”

  “I despise waiting.” Her sweet voice emerged as a growl. “Come spring, Lorie, if there has been no word, I shall wait no longer.”

  And I harbored no doubts of her sincerity; given what I knew of Rebecca Krage, a fine, strong woman, and the truest friend I could imagine, I expected nothing less.

  THE FIRE was banked for the evening hours, Cort and Nathaniel retired to their loft bed. In light of what would have been a celebratory dinner, given the arrival of the newest year, Sawyer and I lingered in the main house after dinner, joined at the hearth by Tilson and Rebecca. I sat near Rebecca in one of two rocking chairs, a length of fine, spun wool stretched across our laps; there was always work to be done, even while stationary, and Rebecca was attempting to instruct me in the art of knitting, for which I possessed a shameful lack of skill. She proved unfailingly patient, guiding my fingers over the needles when required, exclaiming over the smallest of achievements. Tilson smoked his pipe, chatting quietly with Sawyer, who’d not yet taken up a pipe of his own despite Tilson’s continual insistence that smoking was an inevitable consequence of advancing age.

  “I’ve only advanced to a quarter-century,” Sawyer had joked the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, November the eighth. “Perhaps when I’ve advanced closer to the half-century mark.”

  “Son, that’s a slight at my age, ain’t it?” Tilson had fired back, jabbing at Sawyer’s shoulder with the stem of his pipe. “I ain’t a day over a half of a century. Well, mayhap more’n a day.”

  This cold night, snow having fallen steadily for the past twenty-four hours, we were reluctant to retire, remaining guarded, fearful to welcome 1869, or to dare to hope it might bring about any news – good or otherwise. The rocking chairs issued a creaking rhythm against the floorboards. The fire snapped, releasing a shower of crimson-hearted sparks. Tilson’s pipe tobacco smelled pleasant, combining with the scent of dinner, biscuits and smoked pork laden with gravy. Tin cups of mulled cider for Rebecca, Sawyer, and me, while Tilson contented himself with two fingers’ worth of whiskey. Despite the lull of the warm room, a restless knot near my heart worried itself ever tighter, a sensation not unfamiliar; many hours had I lay awake, stretching outward with my mind, attempting to find them.

  Malcolm, I’d begged, to no avail. I could not reach him as I could Sawyer. Even still, I cried the boy’s name night after night, pleading with him to respond. Sweetheart, answer me. Where are you? What has happened? I know you are out there, this I will never cease to believe.

  My gaze flickered to the candles Rebecca had placed in the windowsills this night, following a custom long ago established by her mother, a way in which to tangibly welcome the incoming year as it arrived with the midnight hour. The small bright flames appeared doubled by their reflection in the panes, swaying with the breath of the air. A wreath of pine boughs hung on a nail driven into the door, which Rebecca had helped the boys to construct, attaching the slim boughs to wire she’d curved into a circle roughly a foot in diameter. At the top, she’d affixed a length of red grosgrain, a proper Christmas wreath to spice the house with its green scent.

  The baby kicked at my belly as if delivering a message; she was prone to bouts of activity this time of evening, as though the slowing of my daily movements sparked a yearning to roll about. I often envisioned her as a tiny, precious fish, playful and gorgeously tinted, swimming about the confines of my womb. I set aside the knitting needles and rested both hands upon the commotion.

  “She hears your voice,” I said to Sawyer, who grinned and leaned to add his touch to mine.

  “And yours,” he said.

  “Have you settled upon a name for the little lady?” Tilson asked. He knew we anticipated a girl; at the top of our list of possibilities were both Ellen and Felicity, in honor of our mothers.

  “I would name her for you,” Sawyer had said the first night I’d dreamed of holding our daughter to my breast. “I would name her Lorissa.”

  “I’d like her to have a name of her own,” I’d responded. “Besides, if we shared one there may be confusion.”

  “I’d call her my little Lorie-love, as so to alleviate any confusion,” Sawyer had explained.

  Now, at the hearth, Sawyer gathered my fingertips into his and brought my hand to his lips, bestowing a kiss upon my knuckles. He explained to Tilson and Rebecca, “Lorie has determined it stands to reason that we first see her before choosing a name.”

  I cupped my husband’s jaw, love for him as visible upon my face as nose or eyes, but I did not mind anyone’s observation of this. It was no secret. I thought of those nights on the trail from St. Louis, the two of us running through the darkness to steal a moment away from the wagon and our camp, and therefore allowed blessed time alone together. And, with sudden and unrestrained urgency, I wanted him between my legs and held deeply in my body – my body made full with his seed, the evidence of our love growing daily. Because Sawyer’s access to my thoughts, not to mention his ability to simply read my face, was so very strong, I saw the trace of brief surprise lift his brows; I’d been ill with both morning sickness and unrelieved worry for weeks now, and we’d not made love beyond holding one another close. A hint of his old, half-wicked grin lit his eye and lifted one corner of his lips.

  “A reasonable determination,” Tilson was saying, tamping the bowl of his pipe, and I refrained from a bout of nervous coughing, cheeks ablaze at the unreserved heat of my thoughts.

  With no words, Sawyer asked, How quickly might we excuse ourselves?

  At once, I ordered.

  The door to our shanty had scarcely closed before I tore the clothing from his body, from my own, need rising within me as hissing steam from a boiling kettle, ready to explode with the force of its increasing pressure. In the orange light cast by our brazier, aglow with embers, hampered not by the trousers about his ankles, Sawyer took me to the bedding. There he spread my lips, both upper and lower, claiming my mouth, gliding to the root with the first stroke, issuing a hoarse, groaning cry as my body swallowed whole his engorged length.

  I clamped m
y legs about his waist, blood flowing hot and feverish, the fear we’d been crushed beneath these past months subsequently bursting to fragments. I realized it would return to strangle us the moment we ceased to make love and gripped his head, angling to take deeper his questing tongue, his taste, the immediacy and necessity of him. Hungry kisses, the need for satiation, to consume one another and blot out all else in the world – no words, no sense of our earthly names for those moments – we existed as us, requiring nothing more.

  Later, short of breath, sweat sleek along my ribs and between my breasts, gliding down Sawyer’s temples and over the planes of his chest, we fell still. I lay flat upon our feather tick, ankles latched low on his spine; Sawyer’s booted feet remained upon the floor as he bent over me, underskirt bunched about my hipbones, blouse crumpled beneath my elbows. My breasts appeared rounder and fuller than I’d ever beheld them; they seemed to expand a little each day, just as did my midsection.

  “Lorie-love,” he worshiped in a husky murmur, bending to lick the salty dampness from the hollow between my collarbones. “I could eat and drink of you and need no other sustenance, all the days of my life,” and so saying, tasted my nipples, which shone with a tint as of port wine, taking me lushly between his lips, caressing with his tongue until I could not catch what little breath I retained. I slipped the eyepatch from his face, tossing it to the side, grasping fistfuls of his golden hair, feeling him again grow as hard as a splitrail fence post, still engulfed within me.

  “Yes,” I gasped as he flowed into steady motion, overcome as the rhythmic tightening I’d never known before Sawyer rendered the rest of my body motionless.

  “My Lorie, mo ghrá,” he groaned, taking my lower lip between his teeth, shuddering with the impact of release. Pressing soft kisses to my jaw, he whispered, “I would see you happy again, darlin’, and cast out the worry from your eyes.”

  “Shhh,” I soothed, caressing his hair. He rested his forehead to mine and we studied one another at close range. “I am happy, beneath everything, I promise you, my love. I long to see the strain lifted from you as well. Oh, Sawyer…”