Grace of a Hawk
Page 39
We grappled. I hated the feeling of his body fighting mine, writhing and grunting. Fallon bucked and broke my hold, striking me in the chin with a closed fist. I reeled, a loosened tooth rolling like a chipped marble over my tongue. I spat before I swallowed it, digging in my heels, steadying myself so I could punch with both fists, one then the other, like Boyd. The world became a narrow line; nothing existed but the need to overpower. It didn’t matter that I was hurting another person. It only mattered that I hurt him more than he hurt me. Strange sounds burst from my bleeding mouth; my knuckles split meeting his flesh. I wrestled him to his back and there was his face, white as a slice of moon, an ill-wish doll come to life. Black night. Pale face with its mouth flapping open. I straddled him at midsection, my knees on his elbows, and grabbed for his neck.
There were tears on my cheeks and I hated myself for it. I cried, “You tried to kill my brother…”
Fallon could not answer; my thumbs cut off his air. His Adam’s apple bulged under my fingers – it felt softer than jelly – and I hated that softness worse than my weakling tears. It made me sick and hollow across the guts. His legs jerked along the ground, up and down, behind me. I clenched with all my strength but the jelly-softness made me want to stop hurting him. A terrible thought bayed in my head. You’s murdering someone, Malcolm. Fallon laughed then, I could tell it was a laugh even half-smothered as it was, and the back of my neck prickled so hard I shuddered; had he read my mind? My grip loosened.
Able to suck a sudden breath, Fallon hissed, “Coward.”
I smashed his nose before I knew my fist had moved and his frame went slack. I dared releasing him just long enough to close a hand around the stock of the rifle I’d dropped, then scrambled to my knees and adjusted my aim square at Fallon’s middle. I ordered, “Get up!”
He coughed another laugh. “Or what?”
I stood, keeping the barrel trained on him, out of breath. “Or I kill you dead…right here.”
“You won’t,” he whispered, rolling to an elbow. Blood leaked from his nostrils and painted stripes on the bottom half of his white face. “You already would have.”
I couldn’t let him bait me. Speaking through my teeth, I repeated, “Get up.”
Aces had circled back and pawed the ground not ten paces away, reins dangling; Fallon’s horse had disappeared. I tried to think fast enough to form a plan. My hair hung in my eyes, sweat greased my skin. I knew I should fire the rifle. The round would split apart his ribcage. Maybe he was right, maybe I was a yellow coward, because the thought sickened me. The trigger was smooth and tempting beneath my finger but I found I could not squeeze it. I could not shoot someone with no defenses, not even Fallon Yancy.
He eased to hands and knees, staring right at me as he said, “Bill Little likely killed everyone in your camp by now. Bill’s crazy, and your brother shot Bill’s brother, just back there at the river.” Fallon’s teeth appeared as he smiled and I felt revulsion like I’d never known; my throat clogged up. Hunched there on the ground, he bragged, “He’ll have killed your uncle, and your cousins, and that little freak with the different-colored eyes.”
His words shook me, as he’d intended, and he lunged, grabbing for the rifle. The barrel swung in a wide arc and the shot I fired too late went stray, booming out into the emptiness behind Fallon, sending me quickstepping backwards. The rifle was caught lengthwise between us next I knew, barrel listing cockeyed at the night sky, both of us with two-handed grips on it. His face was so close I could smell the blood on it; I could smell his breath as we struggled. He tried to slam his forehead to mine but I dodged the blow. My palms slipped along the metal barrel. Our strength was an even match.
And then I saw how Fallon’s feet was planted wide, one leg angled forward, and seized this advantage, planting the sole of my boot as hard as I could into his forward knee. It snapped the wrong way and he dropped fast, with a wheezing cry. I gained control of the Henry and this time drove the end of the wooden stock straight between his eyes, grasping the rifle like it was a butter churn. I heard a crunching sound and heaved onto the grass in an explosion I could not control. My vomit struck his lolling head.
I was sure Fallon was dead. He lay still as death, white face blackened with patches of blood, a piecework quilt of doom. Only later did I realize I should have shot him, I should have made certain. But all I could think of was getting to my family. I must get to them. I could not let myself believe it was too late. I wiped my mouth, scrabbled through the grass to find Fallon’s dropped pistol, tucking it into my trousers as I ran for Aces; in my blind fear it took seconds to gain my bearings.
I thought, River. Follow the river to town. And we did, racing back over the miles I’d chased Fallon, gripping the Henry. My first thought should have been to find the deputy who’d been at The Dolly Belle, who’d been in a consternation over the dead woman, the poor girl I remembered from last autumn. Mary had been her name, and she’d been sweet on Grady. But I headed straight for our camp. All I could think of was Fallon saying, That little freak with the different-colored eyes.
Cora, I prayed as I rode, skirting the town. I’m coming.
Aces galloped past folks settled in for the night, startling those seated around their fires; several men hollered after me but I paid no mind. From a distance, riding hard, I saw my uncle and Cora, both of them like figures drawn in black ink against the fire’s glow, and relief wilted over my entire body; I near fell from the saddle. Uncle Jacob was standing, talking with a man in leathers, but spied me and shouted, “Malcolm Alastair! Thank God!”
In short order I had my arms around Cora, felt her heart beating against mine. I pressed my face to her loose hair and she clung to my waist fit to slice her arms through it. She looked up and I saw the firelight reflected in the center of her eyes as she cried, “You’re hurt!”
Uncle Jacob and the man – another lawman, I saw – surrounded me and I told them fast what Fallon had said about the man called Bill Little.
“Bill Little?” the sheriff repeated, and his voice said he didn’t believe me. “I know him. He ain’t in town. It’s rare he’s seen outside the Territory this time of year. He ain’t responsible for the killings tonight. It was a half-breed that done it, according to Isobel Faucon.” He sharpened his gaze. “How’d you come to be so roughed up, young feller? Did you see who shot at the woman?”
I thought he meant Mary and shook my head. I hadn’t said a word about the bodies out there by the river and I didn’t mean to, not before I talked to my brother.
I begged my uncle, “Have you seen Boyd?”
Uncle Jacob cupped the back of my head with his big palm, squeezing me close. He spoke low and grim. “Young Malcolm, Boyd is yonder at the boardinghouse with Becky. She’s been shot, as Sheriff Tate here has informed us.”
“No. Oh, no.” My heart clenched up like a bug beneath a needle point. My mind flapped back, trying to remember the events before Aces and me gave Fallon chase. I could not piece the bits back together, could not remember Rebecca being there in that river camp. I prayed, Not now, not when Boyd’s been waiting to find her for so long. Please don’t let her die. Please, God, don’t let Rebecca die. Boyd ain’t gonna be able to bear it.
“She’s alive, Tilson’s working over her as we speak. The boys are in the wagon, we didn’t tell them yet,” Uncle Jacob explained, keeping his voice quiet. He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “You need care, boy.” He spoke next to the sheriff. “I’ll bring my nephew to town once I’ve a chance to clean up his bruises.”
The sheriff gave a nod and tipped his hat. I watched him walk with Uncle Jacob to the horses. I knew I had to tell the sheriff what I’d done to Fallon. I must tell him, I couldn’t wait to talk to Boyd. I was coward enough to wonder, Will I go to jail?
Tears made wet sheets on Cora’s face, falling faster. She put her hands to my jaws, soft as bird wings, and I shivered at her touch, it felt so good. She whispered, “Malcolm, you’re bleeding.”
Tell him, I thought.
“What happened?” Cora whispered. Her face was so worried for me and I studied it as if I’d never seen it before. Her cheeks made soft curves like the sides of a heart whose point was her chin. There was a little white line of a scar near her mouth, just at her top lip, where she’d once fallen against the edge of a woodstove. Her hair was messy with snarls, made red by the firelight. And in her eyes was so much love I felt swept clean by it, like a good dunking in Reverend Wheeler’s baptism creek, down the hill from the church back home. I knew her face. I knew her eyes, and I had always known them, even before I met her. I didn’t know how that could be rightly so, I just knew it was.
“I love you.” I had never spoken it aloud before. My heart swelled something powerful. “I love you so.”
Cora’s lips trembled. My words stole all her words, I could tell, and so I said, “I know you love me too, you don’t have to say a thing.”
Tears shone fresh in her eyes as she nodded. She said yes, but with no sound.
And I knew I could not be a coward, not ever again. Tonight I had ridden with Boyd as a man. A man did not shirk his duties, did not shy away from his responsibilities. I took Cora’s hands into mine and kissed the back of each, never taking my eyes from hers. Only then did I find the strength to draw a full breath and call over to the sheriff.
“Sir, don’t go yet. I got more to tell you.”
THE LAUDANUM SERVED its purpose, stilling the trembling in Rebecca’s limbs; her breathing evened but I agonized in the space between each new inhalation, strung with tension as I waited to hear the next. Tilson was solid as a stone fortress and I loved him fiercely for it, recognizing the depth of his strength as he worked over his niece, a woman he loved dearly; a woman who was almost the last of his kin. His lips made a grim line, his brow furrowed deep as plow ruts in turned earth, but he was resolute.
Tilson kept a quiet commentary as he worked; Sawyer assisted him while I kept Rebecca warm with the heat of my body alongside hers. Tilson, stern as a regimental taskmaster, ordered that I was not to watch his and Sawyer’s ministrations, and so I did not. I murmured to Rebecca, cradling her as best I could, and did not let my gaze venture below her waist. The cleansing scent of vinegar finally overpowered that of blood. Their hushed words met my ears from a distance.
The round missed her spine and stomach both, thank God, but we must staunch that blood.
Tell me what to do.
Bring that lantern closer, Sawyer, hurry now. Be ready with the witch hazel.
Got it right here. What else?
Run that needle through the flame, back and forth. Just like that. Now handle only the end! Don’t touch the point!
Rebecca’s collarbones appeared delicate as slender willow stalks; the hollow at the base of her throat was beaded with sweat and beat with each pulse of her heart. Her head rested against the pillow, tipped to the left and therefore towards me, the lantern light glinting along the hollow of her cheek. I studied her without letup, glutting myself on the sight. Her skin was fine as a rose leaf, made all the more pale with blood loss. Her lips retained the bluish tint of a chilled body and I tucked her closer, close as I dared.
Her eyes sometimes moved beneath their closed lids, back and forth – was she dreaming? Did she continue to know I was here with her? I prayed so, and prayed she would remain blessedly unconscious while Tilson cleaned both entry and exit wounds and then stitched her torn flesh. She’d bled so much upon the bed that fear rendered me dizzy. I refused to think of holding Grafton’s hand while the surgeon worked over him in a sweltering field tent in Georgia.
I will not think of that. I will not remember the smell of blood or the rasping sound of the bone saw, or the way his arm jerked with each pass of the blade…
Rebecca’s hands lay palm-up upon the bedding, the underside of her arms pale as swansdown in the lantern light, blue veins like small rivers along her wrists. I rubbed a thumb over her fine skin, following those rivers. I traced the curve of her jaw; my skin was rough as a bison’s hide, far too rough to deserve the feeling of such softness. I felt that my heart lay there on the bed along with her, vulnerable as a soap bubble, able to be destroyed by a single touch.
Do not let her die, oh Jesus, please. Do not let her die. Again and again I prayed these words, in a litany of desperation.
I sensed Sawyer’s concern though he spoke not a word to me as he followed Tilson’s blunt instructions. And I understood fully, and for the first time, what my oldest friend had been through when Lorie was in harm’s way. I understood why he had ridden after her against all odds, had risked everything and faced death on more than one occasion to ensure Lorie’s survival. That without her, his life was nothing more than a bitter day-to-day existence, a dry husk of what it could have been. I could have tortured myself nigh unto death with recriminations – why had I ridden away from Rebecca’s dooryard? Why had I been so goddamn stubborn, so blind? But I kept those thoughts at bay by murmuring to her, brushing aside strands of her damp dark hair to speak into her ear.
“I’m here with you. I will not leave your side. I love you to your very soul, Rebecca, I have been in love with you from the moment I first saw you there in your uncle’s office in Iowa City, when you nudged me with your elbow.”
When Tilson said gruffly, “Boyd, hold her steady now. I’m about to stitch, she’ll feel it even through the drug,” I nodded immediate acceptance and curled my right arm in a protective half-circle over Rebecca’s shoulders, keeping all my weight braced on my own hand; if she struggled, I would apply only what pressure was required to keep her still. I made the mistake of looking at their work and my stomach fell to the floor. Tilson’s hands were stained red, the stitching needle poised to do its work; Rebecca’s legs were splayed apart. Sawyer held a cloth, this also soaked in Rebecca’s blood; beyond them, the basin water was tinted crimson. I gulped and Sawyer said sharply, “Boyd.” There was no mistaking his tone and I ground my teeth, nodding again.
I rested my lips upon Rebecca’s hair, inhaling of her as I whispered, “You are my life, darlin’, you. I ain’t got no life without you. I won’t leave your side again, I swear to you. Hear me, please hear me.”
“Steady now,” Tilson said.
He bent to begin his work, I saw from the corner of my gaze, Sawyer clasping hold of Rebecca’s knees so that her inadvertent movements wouldn’t inhibit Tilson’s stitching. I felt flayed alive. Tilson plied the needle and Sawyer held firm. Rebecca jerked and moaned, eyes opening a slit, dulled by the drug. Her shoulders twitched, her head rolled side to side. She cried out and sweat ran down my face as she struggled. Blood loss rendered her weak, but she fought against our hold.
“She’s bleedin’ afresh,” Tilson said, terse with tension. “Quick now, staunch that flow!”
Oh Jesus, Jesus…
My trousers were soaked in her blood.
SHADOWS ENVELOPED my skirts as I stepped fully onto the boards of the bridge. The scent of summer wildflowers remained strong, the hum of bees pleasant in the background. The brightness at the end of the tunnel glinted with the allure of unexpected colors, gleaming blues and bewitching greens, as facets of a prism twisting in the sunlight. It was very beautiful, captivating my attention. Time passed; how much I was not certain, too occupied with marveling that such light could exist in an otherwise unremarkable bridge.
After a time I stepped closer and then c
loser still, now encased in cool dimness. Only a few paces more and I would be near enough to reach my hands into its brilliance. Quietude reigned here beneath the covered tunnel. Surely my ears had misled me; I thought, for the faintest of seconds, that I’d heard Elijah’s voice out there, somewhere beyond that light. I blinked, faltering. My mouth went so dry I could not manage to swallow.
I thought, How can that be? Elijah is…why, he’s…
Pain seeped into this peaceful scene where I stood rooted, cutting across my waist, and I was elementally frightened. More than I’d ever known anything, I knew I did not want to cross to the far side of that covered bridge. A name rose from my heart and I summoned it forth, clinging to the promise of it with all my strength.
Boyd, I whispered. And again, praying he would hear. Boyd.
His response, his presence, was heated and immediate, and the covered bridge and its otherworldly light rippled as the surface of a creek when disturbed by a thrown stone. Relief expanded throughout my body.
“I’m here, I’m right here,” he said, and he was indeed next to me, so close I could feel his solid length, strong as an oak.
I could not open my eyes, nor could I summon my arms to move. My chin tilted towards the heat of him. Don’t let me go.
Boyd cupped the side of my neck, restraining his passionate touch to its gentlest measures, and the image of the bridge shattered and then disappeared. He rested his lips to my temple. “I will never let you go again. This I swear to you. You stay here with me, darlin’, I’ll hold you through this. I’ll hold you, you hear?”