Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  I wanted to shoot him dead. I wanted to pistol-whip him until he spoke the truth. I knew I could do neither of these things; further, I knew I could not prove his deceit, not without fault, and that I must admit momentary defeat. I muttered, “I ain’t got another word for you,” and turned on my heel, boots grinding over the thin layer of ice on the fresh snow as I stalked away.

  Xavier followed close behind; before we reached the stockade wall he said, “I believe you speak the truth, Monsieur Carter.”

  I stopped and looked at him. People moved about between their lodges; it seemed a hundred different languages drifted around my head, none familiar in my ears. I had no solid reason to trust Xavier but I saw no guile in his eyes, only the hints of a night spent drinking. Xavier said quietly, “My wife means more to me than all else. She is my second wife and the mother of three of my children, and I will not have shame or dishonor come to her because of her brother.”

  His gaze shifted away, seeing into the past perhaps, eyes narrowing as he considered his next words. I waited without speaking. At last Xavier said in the tone of a confession, “Animkii is Fern’s younger brother, this is true. They share the same mother and before the poor woman passed from life, Fern swore to care for Animkii. He has already caused Fern much shame, I will not lie, but she loved their mother and will honor her wishes. You claim Animkii rode in a group that left you for dead, that stole and killed, and I am unsurprised at these things. But I will not allow you to upset my wife. I do not believe Animkii will appear here at the fort. He has never wintered with us. Likely he is in Minnesota, as Little has said. You will never reach Minnesota before the blizzards arrive, please trust my experience in such matters. You are welcome to spend the months of winter here and make plans to ride out in the early spring, but you will not speak again of these matters, do you understand?”

  Xavier’s voice was somber, unthreatening, but I understood how very much he meant his words. Though he did not strike me as a violent man, any man that considered his loved ones threatened had tremendous power to become dangerous, and to become so very quickly. I looked back the way I’d come, thinking of riding Trapper over the ice of the wide, empty prairie and risking a cold, lonely death for the both of us. I knew Xavier was right; if I dared to bring Malcolm and Cora east before spring all of us would perish out there. This fort must be our home until then and it took all my strength not to grit my teeth, to beat my fists on the earth. Despite Little’s demeaning words, I was no boy. I was a man who must think of others first; I must not heed my wish to stride back to Little’s wall tent and fire two rounds through his gut. I returned at last to Xavier’s steady, expectant gaze. I had no quarrel with Xavier Darvell and finally nodded brusque agreement.

  Hoyt Little, his mount, his trappings, and the dead Yankee’s roan all disappeared that afternoon.

  JACOB WAS PACKED to ride forth by morning’s light, his gelding loaded with supplies for the journey back to his homestead. April had drifted to May and Jacob could no longer delay returning to his family and the necessity of spring planting. By now I knew his beloved children by name and had been graced with so many stories I felt well acquainted with them. Jacob and Hannah were blessed with three sons, Daniel, Harlow, and Jesse, and a daughter, Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the youngest at nine years and seemed the unspoken apple of her father’s eye; he called her Libby and though it was endearingly apparent that Jacob doted on each of his children, Libby held sway in his heart. He spoke with such fondness of his family and the beauty of the lake country in which he’d made a home I could scarcely wait to lay eyes upon the place.

  If only…

  Our despair only grew as spring advanced with no sign of Boyd and Malcolm. Mary had not reappeared with any word, and indeed likely would not, as she’d offered all she knew. Sawyer, Jacob, and Tilson spent the days in St. Paul, inquiring discreetly after Virgil, Fallon, or the man called Church Talk. We kept constant watch; because our camp was erected south of town I found my gaze roving time and again to the western skyline, aching for the first glimpse of Fortune and Aces High carrying Boyd and Malcolm back to us. Rebecca sought the horizon with similar frequency; she was torn apart by the ever-increasing necessity of resuming our northward course before any word.

  I knew she believed if we were to move on without them it was akin to relinquishing hope once and for all, tantamount to an acceptance of their deaths. I attempted to prepare myself for exactly this possibility, to shield my heart with a layer of armor; I acknowledged that we may never know for certain, recognizing this sort of deceptive hope might linger as would a poison in the soul and prevent Rebecca from the ability to wholly recover.

  Her eyes were raw with pain. I sensed she retained control with great effort; only the presence of her boys kept her from abject anguish. Cort and Nathaniel had thrived on the journey, the two of them browned by the constant sun, delighted to run wild through the prairie grass, chasing gophers and collecting rocks near the riverbank after suffering the morning lessons Rebecca insisted upon and with which I assisted, thinking with fondness of the copy of Roget’s Thesaurus open atop Mama’s lap. Rebecca’s sons were young enough that neither comprehended the full extent of their mother’s pain. Of course they understood she was concerned over Boyd’s and Malcolm’s whereabouts, as were they, but did not dwell on matters over which they had no control.

  Both boys chose to demonstrate their love with simple gestures, such as bringing her armloads of flowers they spent afternoons collecting; Nathaniel had a habit of resting his cheek to her upper arm that made my eyes prickle with unshed tears. As the birth of my own child grew ever eminent, I found myself imagining her as she might look at Nathaniel’s age, of how she might behave. With this notion in mind, I rested a palm upon the most immense of the swelling curves comprising my entire front side; my body had become a sight at which I marveled when I undressed in the dim evening confines of the wagon.

  “Soon they’ll not fit in my grasp,” Sawyer had whispered only a few nights past, cupping my breasts, resting his face between as I twined my fingers into his silken hair; we’d not made love in a month, as I’d grown far too rotund and unwieldy. Sawyer gently shifted position, holding me close with both hands curved about my backside, tucking his chin atop my hair while I clung to him, wrapping my legs around his thigh, letting its solid strength press against the juncture of my thighs.

  Resting my lips against his heartbeat, I’d whispered, “There is not a task in this world your hands cannot accomplish.”

  Now, we surrounded our evening fire, the western horizon blazing with bright orange light, bisected by thin, horizontal stripes of indigo clouds. I sat near Sawyer, his right hand resting on my knee, mine upon the hillock of my stomach. I had not ventured far from the wagon since morning and though I’d not spoken a word to indicate my growing distress, Tilson’s practiced eye alighted upon me. He sat alongside Jacob, just opposite, the two of them smoking their pipes; speaking around the slender wooden stem, Tilson observed, “Lorie, you’s having pains, ain’t you?”

  His calm words occasioned an excited bustle at the fire; all eyes sprang to my face.

  “It’s time?” Sawyer’s words were tinged with both reverence and caution; at once his hand moved from my knee to cup my belly.

  I’d felt the first stirring in my womb in the early morning hours, initially no more than intermittent shivers. Uncertain whether these indicated advancing labor I’d not spoken of them; with the passing daylight hours, however, the ache across my lower belly grew increasingly difficult to ignore. Troubled by the gathering knots of apprehension, I simply nodded in response to Tilson’s question; beneath the layers of shift and skirts, my knees began to tremble. I reprimanded, You must be braver than this, Lorie. You are no coward.

  “When did they begin?” Tilson was already rising.

  “Before dawn,” I whispered, clinging to Sawyer’s forearm; he felt the trembling in my grip and kissed the side of my forehead. I admitted, “But they’ve gr
own in strength in the past hour.”

  Rebecca’s eyes shone with understanding. “Sweet Lorie, do not fear.”

  Tilson knelt beside his niece and peered at me. I withstood his perusal, watching his face, on the alert for any signs of alarm. Upon our arrival in April, Sawyer and Tilson had inquired at the boardinghouse near the river and the owners promised a room so that I might be allowed to give birth within a bed; Tilson scolded gently, “Honey, I wish you’d have bent my ear before now. If you’s too far along I’d rather not risk carting you into town.” He pressed, “How far apart?”

  “Perhaps two minutes.” I clenched my teeth as another contraction advanced.

  “There ain’t a thing to match the joy of holding your firstborn, young woodcutter,” Jacob said. “I remember your mama and daddy well and good, Sawyer. I know how dearly they’d welcome this grandchild.”

  Powerful emotion overtook Sawyer’s expression as he said in his familiar throaty voice, “I believe they’ll know, Jacob, I truly do.”

  “Mrs. Lorie, shall the baby come tonight?” asked Nathaniel, kneeling beside me.

  “I dearly hope so,” I said, cupping a fond hand about the boy’s head.

  “How does the baby get out?” Nathaniel further wondered, blue eyes gone wide as he considered this perplexing dilemma perhaps for the first time. His gaze bounced between my belly and my face.

  “Through a rather difficult but exceedingly natural process, young nephew,” Tilson said, saving me from any sort of explanation. “Lorie, are you able to travel into town? Tell me true.”

  I knew Sawyer would choose for me to give birth upon a bed rather than within the confines of the wagon or one of our wall tents, but would honor my wishes before all else; if I chose to remain here, on the prairie, then remain here we would. Though the open sky offered me comfort and the evening was calm and lovely, I told Tilson, “I am able to travel.”

  “Come then, let us hasten.” Tilson rose, casting orders about. “Nathaniel, run to fetch my satchel. Cort, hitch up Sawyer’s wagon, g’on now!”

  Nathaniel returned from their wagon, satchel in hand; I knew well what it contained, having grown quite accustomed to utilizing its contents since last summer. Tucked neatly within, each item stowed in its proper place, were folded lengths of linen, vials of chamomile oil, witch hazel, vinegar, and laudanum, two small wooden bowls, three precisely-edged cutting tools, an iron clamp and iron forceps, these instruments practical but unmistakably menacing in appearance; the shaking in my knees increased twofold. The controlled violence my body must experience was unavoidable now in a way it had not been even a scant week past. I’d understood plainly the time for birth would eventually come, and harbored no delusions concerning my role in the process; it was simply that the buffer of months, and then weeks, between speculation and reality had served to calm my nerves up to this point. The eminence of labor pressed upon me, smothering my sensibilities; for the very first time, wild thoughts I’d kept at bay assaulted.

  What if I die in the process? What if I am dead before morning’s light? What if this is the last time I’ll look upon Sawyer’s face?

  My insides heated with pure fear. Sawyer, carrying me to the wagon, felt my agitation. His gaze was steady, his breath upon my cheek as he held me in the shelter of his arms. “I am here. I will not leave your side.”

  I managed a small, tight nod, hearing Rebecca and Jacob and Tilson, all of them talking, determining that Rebecca accompany us while the boys remain behind in Jacob’s care. Though I already possessed his full attention, I clutched Sawyer’s ears and admitted, “I am so frightened.”

  “Lorissa Anne Davis,” he said sternly, intent upon shattering my distress. His single eye held mine, unwavering. “You are the bravest soul I have ever known. My sweet love, you are fathoms braver than you even acknowledge. All will be well, I swear to you.”

  Rebecca sat with us on the wagon seat while Tilson rode Kingfisher, flanking us to the right as we rode the half mile into town, a route that had never seemed so riddled with deep ruts and jolting bumps. Tucked between Sawyer and Rebecca, a new surge of panic strove to destroy my composure and I demanded, “What is today’s date?” Though I’d written an entry in my journal only yesterday morning and had of course recorded the date at the top of the page I could not at the moment recall. My child was on her way into the world and I could not name the day of the week.

  Rebecca, holding fast to my right hand, brought it to her lips and kissed my knuckles. In the gloaming she appeared young as a girl, her dark hair trailing over one shoulder in an unpinned braid, lovely eyes aglow with joy for me, no matter how deep our collective pain. She intoned, “It is Sunday, the second of May. And before May third, I’d venture to suppose, you shall hold your daughter in your arms.”

  Her words of comfort intertwined with those of Sawyer’s, and perhaps something even beyond, an understanding that rose up out of the ground beneath the wagon wheels, the scent of new grass and turned earth, the quality of the westerly light reaching to touch our faces – and with that orange radiance came a stirring in the deeps of my being, an awareness of forces outside our control. A similar notion had overtaken me the evening of my handfasting to Sawyer, and in the fireglow of sunset I recognized the strength of my connection to them, to Sawyer and Rebecca, to Tilson and Boyd and Malcolm, to Jacob Miller, our souls fitting together as necessary pieces of a larger entity, linked in ways I could not begin to fathom.

  Necessary…and yet unbearably tenuous.

  Smote by the sensation, I closed my eyes and beheld our existence in a great and immeasurable context – a blink of sunlight in an otherwise vast darkness. I curled my fingers through Sawyer’s and Rebecca’s, on either side, quelling the urge to gather them as close as I was able, to override the strange perception that our bodies retained less substance than soap bubbles, with the ability to lift free of the confines of what kept us anchored to solid ground and drift away.

  Sawyer felt it too, I knew he did; he squeezed my fingers in his warm, strong grasp, sending the thought directly into my mind, I am here and you are safe. I will let nothing harm you, this you know.

  But I knew even Sawyer could not prevent all harm, could not prevent our eventual separation.

  At last I whispered, “I venture you’re right, Becky.”

  The boardinghouse was situated a block from the river, the town in typical high spirits in the pleasant evening air; chatter and laughter rolled from all directions, the clatter of buggy wheels along the streets, the scent of pipe smoke and dust and roasting meat, the glint of candles flaring to life in the window lanterns of nearby saloons and shops. As Sawyer jumped from the wagon seat and reached to lift me down, the entrance to The Dolly Belle caught my eye amongst the other establishments, with its ostentatious red globes and steady crowd; the building sat catty-corner across the street, angled so that a woman on its upper balcony was allowed plain sight of us. I watched her grasp the railing, leaning over it to peer our way; she lifted a slender arm, beckoning to us without calling out.

  “It’s Mary,” Rebecca recognized, clasping my elbow with a fervor belying the quiet statement.

  Mary gestured again, indicating her fervent wish for us to approach; perched a floor above the street and cast in the gloaming light she appeared ethereal, swathed in white garments, her arms long and pale, fragile-seeming. Her movements were minimal enough not to garner overt notice but she clearly desired a word. Sawyer turned to look over his shoulder at what had claimed our attention as Tilson tethered Kingfisher to the hitching rail.

  “She has news for us,” Rebecca understood, and sudden tension flowed from her body. All of her passionate energy, so long repressed, rose to the surface, no longer able to be contained; I almost expected to see her skin split with the subsequent force. She said, “I shall speak to her and return directly,” and grasped her skirts, lifting them just enough to hop from the wagon seat without assistance, every bit as nimble as her sons. She paused to speak with Ti
lson, who bade her return quickly, before hurrying towards The Dolly Belle, her long, dark braid bisecting the back of her pale dress. The entire town was suspended in the distinctive light of dusk, all objects leached of color, tinted by ash; Rebecca disappeared into the crowd.

  Despite the tension aroused by Mary’s request for a word, Sawyer wasted no time carrying me into the boardinghouse; one of the five available rooms was fortunately unoccupied and at our appearance, Mrs. Jeffries, the owner’s wife, sent her daughters running with sharp commands in order to make it ready for us. A winding staircase with a carved banister led the way to the second floor. Following Mrs. Jeffries, who clutched her ample skirts to navigate the steep steps, trailed by Tilson, Sawyer carried me straightaway to the room designated for our use. He placed me atop a four-poster bed stripped of its fancy bedding and outfitted with a layer of plain ticking by the younger of the Jeffries girls; I hunched around the clenching pain in my abdomen, seeking to center and perhaps contain it. The young girl hovered to the side, asking, “What else might I fetch?”

  Tilson placed his satchel on a rocking chair near the bed and began rolling back his sleeves. He told her, “A basin of water, if you would, little one.”

  Mrs. Jeffries left behind the lantern, with promises to bring another. She offered kind congratulations and then invited Sawyer to come downstairs for a bite to eat; when he politely refused, she pressed, “Mr. Davis, surely you do not intend to remain here while your wife labors?”

  “I do indeed, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat brim before removing it altogether.

  Mrs. Jeffries inhaled through both nostrils and pressed a fist to her midsection in a manner conveying her disapproval of this statement; I was reminded at once of my mother. Clucking her words, she scolded, “It is most unseemly for a husband to witness such a thing, Mr. Davis.”

  Tilson chuckled. “Dear lady, you couldn’t force this man from the room at gunpoint.”