Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  She laughed again, muffling the sound against me. She murmured, “Shh!” before reaching upwards, fingers flying as she began unfastening the row of buttons running in a straight line down her center. I rolled us to the side, tasting each inch of flesh as she bared it, so goddamn grateful for the gift of this pocket in time that found us here – not so very long ago I thought I’d never see her again, that she was lost to me. Her skin was pale as moonlight. Her nipples swelled like heated pearls against my tongue. I lifted her skirts as she tugged at my trousers, freeing me from them; my union suit shackled my knees as I felt her thighs spread about my hips.

  “Rebecca,” I gasped, shuddering as I slid fully within her at long last. She clung, lifting to meet each deep thrust, and I lost all sense of time, flowing into her body, devouring her kisses, heady with joy and pleasure…when a sudden and plaintive cry sounded from the wagon just above, little Nathaniel awake and calling for his mama.

  “No,” I despaired, a groaning whisper only half in jest. We ceased all motion, breathless and sweating and knotted together, Rebecca giggling in hushed whispers against my neck; I growled into hers, teasing – though I would almost rather have died than stop just then – but I would not be as selfish as to keep her from Nathaniel when he needed her. We hurried to help each other straighten our clothes; I fastened her blouse, holding her close for a last, greedy instant.

  “I promise –” she began.

  “I know,” I assured. “I’ll be right here, darlin’, you go to Natty.”

  As she climbed atop the wagon above me, shushing the little one, I wrapped into my own embrace, squeezing fit to displace my insides; her scent was on my skin, her sweet taste on my tongue. I turned to the side but this position proved uncomfortable, as another part of me, unwilling to relent so quickly, was quite in the way.

  I thought, still with a sense of wonderment, You’re a husband.

  SUMMER MORNINGS on the prairie were a sight to behold; waking to the first glimmerings of light on the eastern horizon, the deep blue of night fading to yellow-gold, hearing birdsong, and the stirrings of those I loved as they woke and readied for the day. I felt blessed, beyond fortunate. All of the paths I’d traveled to get here had not been in vain. I would take a moment there beneath our wagon to thank God for what was mine, and with each new day the stain of ugly memories – the War, the Territory, loss and despair – faded a little more. I could almost believe there would come a time when I was no longer plagued by any remembrance. I would never forget those things, of course, but perhaps I would no longer suffer from their presence in my mind.

  “I think all the birds in the world are here, singing,” I heard Malcolm grumble from inside his wagon, and Tilson’s rumbling laugh. Tuesday, July the sixth it was; according to Jacob, we were close enough now that we would reach Flickertail Lake by mid-afternoon tomorrow and the anticipation in our camp grew with each revolution of the wheels. My uncle could scarce contain his excitement. The wagon above me rustled and creaked as one of the boys climbed to the opening in the canvas; Natty, I saw, as he hopped to the ground and crawled on hands and knees, never minding the dewy grass, to give me a hug. I curled close to the sleep-tumbled little boy; Natty cuddled against me like a pup and whispered, “Morning, Pa.”

  A man’s heart could hurt with the force of love. I’d been instructing the boys on how to tighten a cinch strap on a warm June evening, along with patient, docile Trapper – I was fonder of the mule than I’d been of any of the horses I’d ever known, save my dear, lost Fortune – when Cort, at my right elbow, had asked out of the clear blue sky, “Mr. Carter, mightn’t we call you ‘Pa?’ You shan’t mind, shall you?”

  I stalled in my task, throat closing as swift as if tugged by a drawstring, and bracketed the back of Cort’s head. “I wouldn’t mind one bit, son.”

  Natty knuckled sand from his eyes here in the early morning light and murmured, “Rose sure can make a squall, can’t she?”

  I smiled, resting my chin on his downy hair. “She can, at that.” The baby had roused everyone before dawn; Sawyer had climbed from the wagon to saddle Whistler, before gathering his daughter from Lorie’s arms and taking her for a ride.

  “Cort, Natty, you two about?” Malcolm called, and appeared from the tail end of his wagon, followed by Cora; he helped her down and collected her hand in his before they continued on their way. My brother crouched near my ankles, his grinning face popping into view. “Morning, you twos.”

  “Get that coffee going, would you?” I said. To Cora, I added, “Good morning, honey.” I was overjoyed that she appeared to be further thriving in our company; no more threat of hers and Malcolm’s separation loomed before us. We would care for her, and keep her as our kin, for always; there was not a doubt in my mind that someday she and Malcolm would marry. His devotion to her was evident as his freckles, well as I knew that there would come a time all too soon when it would no longer be seemly for them to share a sleeping space. But for today, I put those thoughts aside.

  “Good morning, Boyd,” Cora said, cheerful and beaming. Her hair hung in two long, neat braids, courtesy of Rebecca’s efforts, her clothing mended and a new dress in progress, again at my wife’s capable hands. Cora’s face was browned from the sun, her two-colored eyes shining at the promise of a day spent at Malcolm’s side. She was worlds different than the terrified little girl we’d first known on the Territory prairie.

  “Me an’ Cora are out to collect eggs,” Malcolm informed. “Natty, you wanna join us?” He raised his voice to call, “Cort, you up? C’mon!”

  I scooted out behind Nathaniel as Cort leaped from the wagon to join the egg hunt, anxious to get my arms around Rebecca. She was still tucked beneath the quilt, already reaching for me as I stumbled in my haste to clamber into the narrow wagon. I squeezed beside her on the rumpled pallet, groaning with pure happiness to gather her close, nuzzling her warm skin, resting my lips to her temple as she burrowed against me.

  “Good morning,” I murmured into her ear, loving the way she shivered at my tone. I had to be careful or I would be full-sprung, with no hope of making love just now, everyone awake and milling about, but my body responded at the merest suggestion of touching. She didn’t help matters any, sliding one hand down my belly and grasping me through my trousers, as I growled against her neck. I muttered, “Dammit, woman.”

  She responded by taking my chin between her teeth and I was about to damn it all and roll her beneath me when Jacob called, “Nephew! You about?”

  Rebecca giggled as I groaned, stealing one last kiss before facing the day. I tugged my suspenders into place as I joined my uncle in the dawning light; he winked at me, the beads in his long beard catching the first rays of sun. I was reminded afresh that he’d been parted from his wife and children for many weeks now. I would have understood if he were to saddle Sundog, his gelding, and ride hard for the northern horizon, leaving us to our own devices. But I knew him better than that; his grin was wide and jovial in the morning light. Sometimes, but most especially when he smiled, I caught a glimpse of my mama in his features.

  “By tomorrow evening we’ll be dining at my hearth,” Jacob said. “I can hardly contain myself. Hannah will be jubilant. Lord above, I’ve missed her so.”

  “I am fair excited to meet her. Since reading all your letters, I feel I already know her and your little ones.”

  “Ain’t so little these days,” Jacob said, as we fell into step; so many chores to begin the day, livestock to water and wagons to hitch, the fire to be tended and breakfast made. Tilson was up, hunkered by the embers to set out the coffee pot to catch the small flame beneath the iron grate. Lorie sat on a small quilt near him, bundled in her shawl, the two of them talking quietly. Tilson’s wounds – he’d taken a blow to the back of the head, delivered by Virgil that terrible night – had healed nice and neat. I watered Admiral, Trapper, Juniper, and Aces High, while Jacob cared for Sundog, Kingfisher, and the mules that pulled Tilson’s wagon; by the time I returned to
the fire, Lorie was the only one sitting near it.

  Clouds on the horizon tinted the air a gauzy yellow. I claimed a seat beside her and settled to sip my coffee. In the distance were the cheerful sounds of Malcolm, Cora, and the boys collecting eggs; Rebecca had joined them, bucket in hand to gather their findings, while Tilson had ambled to the river to speak with Jacob. Birds trilled; the wolves we heard by night were quiet now, returned to their dens. I saw that Lorie appeared exhausted, the skin beneath her eyes smudged with sleepless shadows, and leaned to knuckle her scalp. I observed, “You’s tuckered, Lorie-girl.”

  She nodded in response and I thought of the afternoon Malcolm and I had helped her prepare for her handfasting to Sawyer. We’d adorned her in Mama’s wedding dress and tucked flowers in her pretty hair. Hoping to coax a smile, I said, “I was a-thinking of the evening you an’ Sawyer wed.”

  Her face blossomed. “It was exactly a year ago this day, Boyd. We were whispering about that this morning, before the sun rose.”

  “I’ll be.” I hadn’t realized. “Well, happy anniversary, sis.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled anew.

  “Sawyer and the little one still out riding?”

  “They are. I am dearly blessed with a patient husband.”

  “Rose has herself a pair of pipes, that’s for damn sure,” I said, and Lorie made a small sound, half of a laugh, slapping at my shoulder.

  Rubbing at her eyes, she muttered, “I’ve never heard the likes, truly, Boyd.”

  “You know what my granny would have said? Come to think of it,” I reflected, slapping my knee, “your little one shares her name. Granny would have rubbed the babe’s gums with a little hooch an’ she’d be right as the rain. Likely sleep the night through.”

  “I understood whiskey to be a remedy for teething rather than crying,” Lorie countered.

  I shrugged. “Granny was fair liberal in her use of it. I s’pose that would explain Daddy an’ Uncle Malcolm’s fondness for the stuff.”

  Lorie giggled. “And yours, I would imagine.”

  “Ain’t a doubt,” I agreed, giving her a wink.

  “I am ever so happy for you and Rebecca, Boyd. You can’t know how happy I am.”

  I thought afresh of everything Lorie and I had been through together, of how she’d cared so immediately for Malcolm all the way back in Missouri when we’d first found her. Later, the two of us had been forced to leave Sawyer in the company of Thomas Yancy and Zeb Crawford on the Iowa prairie, and to endure a hard ride from the Rawleys’ homestead to get back to Iowa City; I thought of the way we talked as openly as any two friends. I couldn’t imagine my life without Lorie any more than I could imagine it without Rebecca, Sawyer, or Malcolm.

  “I do know,” I said quietly. “I count my blessings every day.”

  Lorie’s expression brightened as would the sky when the sun burst from behind a cloud bank, her gaze lighting past my right shoulder. I looked that way to see Sawyer riding near with Rose tucked in his right arm, the lead rein held expertly as always in his left hand. He grinned at us, taking Whistler in a graceful walk, making a loose circle about the camp. In a hushed voice, he called, “She’s asleep, I don’t dare stop!”

  “We’ve been discussing the benefits of whiskey for a good night’s rest,” I explained.

  Rose, bundled in a small blanket, fit as neatly in her daddy’s arm as a dovetailed drawer fits to a dresser. Lorie rose and shook out her skirts, setting aside her shawl; Whistler nickered at the sight of Lorie’s approach and came to a halt, nuzzling her mistress’s waist. Lorie kissed Whistler’s rusty-red face and then moved around the mare’s left side to rest her folded hands, and then her chin, on Sawyer’s knee. She said, “Bless you, mo ghrá.”

  Sawyer let go the rein to cup Lorie’s face; the tenderness present upon his was overpowering. I’d grown so used to his eyepatch it seemed strange to imagine him without it; how quickly we become accustomed to things, even dire things.

  “Whiskey,” I suggested again.

  The temperature swelled as the day progressed, all of us traveling in our usual fashion, the wagons strung in a loose line with ours at the forefront, Rebecca at my side as I drove it, busy with her knitting; she grasped the edge of the seat beneath us whenever we struck a particularly rough patch of earth. The landscape had altered as we traveled, becoming rockier; lakes and creeks and ponds would appear around bends as though by magic, the sun sheeting over the surface of these waterways, glistening blue promises at our sweating skin.

  The trees were thick, all manner of pines and cedars to spice the air with their scent; pinecones crunched beneath the wagon wheels. The way the trees hemmed in the horizons reminded me of the hollers of Tennessee. Cottonwoods and willows rustled their slender leaves on the lakeshores, beckoning as if to invite us to dally and swim. Game was abundant, deer and elk, hare and prairie fowl and fish. Despite spying their scat, I had yet to glimpse any large predators – black bears, moose, timber wolves, or catamounts, not especially eager to spy any of these. I would not allow the boys from my sight, my rifle always within reach.

  On the other hand, we came across no signs of human habitation; Jacob explained that the Indian folk lived far from any beaten paths, preferring their solitude. The animosity amongst whites and Indians was undying, especially since the Dakota War, as Jacob further elaborated, but it was his opinion that we had little to fear from any groups we may come across. Jacob spoke Hannah’s native Winnebago, as did his children, and I was reminded of the Darvell family; should we ever cross paths with them again, would I have the courage to tell Fern I’d done my best to kill her brother? That I wished to God I would have killed the bastard, and made him suffer first. It was my sincere wish that we would not encounter the Darvells again in this life, despite what they’d done for Malcolm, Cora, and me.

  As for Church Talk, all I could say with any sort of truth was that he would not survive much longer were I ever to catch sight of him again.

  Cort and Nathaniel rode on the wagon with Tilson, or walked, by turns; they were fond of minding Malcolm’s cat, Stormy, a large, purring, much-spoilt creature grown fat on field mice. Malcolm and Cora rode together on Aces, ranging ahead with Jacob and Sundog; they would ride out until they appeared as only small dots, sometimes sinking from view as they crested a rise in the earth before the slower-moving wagons caught up. Lorie took a turn riding Whistler, the first she’d attempted since our journey from St. Paul began; she stayed near Sawyer as he drove their wagon, Rose bundled into her cradle in the wagon bed, and lifted her face to the sun, letting it bathe her tired eyelids.

  Tilson smoked his pipe, its scent reaching us as we bumped along; I realized it had been a damn long time since I’d craved a smoke. And, as always, Rebecca and I talked of anything and everything, eager to gain all possible knowledge of each other as insistently as our bodies craved our lovemaking. Riding along with her at my side, I could satisfy my urge to touch her by braiding our fingers and stealing kisses.

  We talked of our upbringings; Rebecca’s mother had been raised in Tennessee and had spoken often of her birthplace when Rebecca and her brother, Clint, were children.

  “I feel as though I’ve been there, Mama told so many stories,” she said. “Mama was never able to return, not once she and Papa settled in Iowa, but a part of her heart was always there, nonetheless.”

  “You an’ your mama was close?”

  “Oh, very much so. I am ever so grateful she was able to know the boys before she passed. I miss her dearly.”

  I told her of my youth in the holler, of my brothers and cousins, aunts and uncles, Daddy and Mama, all the trouble I’d raised and the strappings I’d received, of playing all day in the crik on Sundays, when we were allowed a day of rest. I spoke of riding to War and leaving behind all that I held dear for the notions of glory and honor, and the promise of a quick Southern victory.

  “That night in Iowa when you spoke of Elijah leaving to fight,” I remembered, tracing the b
ack of her hand with my thumb. “I watched your face in the firelight an’ I wanted to take you in my arms. I felt goddamn guilty, seeing you suffer an’ wanting nothing more than to step right around that fire and gather you up. It ain’t easy for menfolk to think on what they leave behind, to think on what their family’s feeling in their absence. It’s selfish as hell, when you think about it.”

  “I was ashamed at my outburst that night. And yet, listening to you and Uncle Edward speak of what you’d seen was more than Elijah ever confessed to me. He believed it was not proper for me to hear of certain things.”

  “I can’t say I entirely disagree. I don’t like thinking of those images in your mind, not one bit. But I promise I won’t keep things from you, Becky darlin’, proper or no.”

  I found such release in speaking freely to her; I’d never understood what boundless relief existed in the sharing between man and wife. She opened to me in every sense of the word, body and soul, as I did to her. There were no secrets left between us. I told her of the women I’d been with as a soldier, of the women I’d paid for use of their bodies. I told her of the nightmares that stalked me, of killing and desperation and bitter hopelessness. Of the ache of the loss for the family that had raised me, the forfeiture of kin and homeland. Of how the promise of our own family, mine and Rebecca’s, eased that ache and fulfilled my heart, in turn planting a small seed of hope that perhaps in time the animosity between the opposing factions of the War would wither and die, never to return. Her listening was a blessing I could not have imagined.

  “I believe Jacob shall not be able to refrain from riding ahead.” Rebecca nodded towards the scrap of color on the horizon that we knew to be my uncle, to the left of Malcolm and Cora.

  “Believe me, was I so close to the promise of you, I’d be hell an’ gone ahead, just to get to your arms. Uncle Jacob’s been a right miracle. That night we came across him as we rode into St. Paul I thought I was maybe seein’ things, that it couldn’t possibly be my mama’s brother just ahead there. Then I saw Cort an’ Natty…and I about tore apart the wagons searching for you.”