by Tess LeSue
She didn’t care. Even through the tears her gaze was firm. “He has nightmares,” she told Deathrider, “and gets upset if you take his dog away from him. You have to let him keep the puppy.”
“He doesn’t have to do anything!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Deathrider said honestly, “so I can’t promise anything.”
Running Elk was out of patience. He pushed his daughter aside and plunged into the tepee. White Buffalo dashed in after him, and they could hear the manic barking of a pup.
“Perhaps she has a bear cub in there,” Two Bears mused. “I once knew a woman who kept a bear. She was a powerful witch. Maybe White Buffalo is a witch.” He paused. “If she is, you won’t be marrying her.”
“I won’t be marrying her even if she isn’t a witch.”
They were interrupted by Running Elk emerging with an armful of writhing fur and flailing limbs. An Indian puppy was wriggling and yipping and licking Running Elk’s chin. The chief tilted his head back to avoid the flicking pink tongue. But it wasn’t the puppy that sent a shock through Deathrider, even though he recognized it. It was the boy. He dangled over Running Elk’s other arm, cheerful despite the chaos, his dark curls corkscrewing in every direction, his blue eyes laughing.
“Wilby!” Deathrider felt like he’d been struck by lightning. What in hell was Georgiana’s son doing in a Lakota village?
“There,” Running Elk told his daughter smugly, “I told you the white man would help. They all know one another.”
“Tom!” Wilby threw his arms out and launched himself at Deathrider. Deathrider caught him awkwardly. The boy hugged him fiercely. “Tom-Tom-Tom.” He patted Deathrider on the back of the neck. “Where’s Mama?”
“Tom?” Two Bears’s eyebrows went up. “Since when have you been called Tom? Don’t you have enough names already?”
Deathrider ignored him. “Wilby?” He held the boy at a distance. It was definitely Wilby. And the dog was definitely Woof. He wasn’t imagining it. “What in hell are you doing here?”
“Playing hide-and-seek!”
“You what?”
“She found me!” Wilby pointed at White Buffalo. “Now you found me! Can we find Mama now?”
“Are all white people so careless with their children?” Running Elk asked Two Bears.
Two Bears sighed deeply. “This is why I can’t let him choose his own wife. What if he chose a white woman? I don’t want my grandchildren wandering lost.”
Running Elk nodded sagely.
“I had thought . . . ” Two Bears began.
“No!” Deathrider and Running Elk said simultaneously, cutting him off. They both knew marriage was on his mind.
“I have travels to make,” Deathrider said shortly, tucking Wilby under his arm and starting for his horse. Woof followed along, yipping.
“You see,” Running Elk told Two Bears, “white people are too erratic. He would be a terrible husband.”
“I would!” Deathrider agreed, calling back over his shoulder.
Two Bears sighed again.
Running Elk gave him a sympathetic look. “I warned you when you took him in that he would bring you pain.”
“You did.” They watched Deathrider mount his horse and settle the white boy on the saddle in front of him. “You are wise not to keep the child,” Two Bears said sadly. “It is hard to watch them go.”
“That is the way of the white people,” Running Elk grunted. “They are always moving, never happy. Even their children run away.” He glanced at his daughter, who was weeping as she watched Wilby gallop off with Deathrider. “I don’t understand the appeal.”
He walked off, leaving Two Bears and White Buffalo watching until the last trace of Deathrider’s dust had faded from the air.
31
TIME LOST ALL meaning in the Lava Lands. Forever after, Georgiana would equate the feeling of grief with the grotesquerie they found in the gray and bitterly hot stretch of land between Fort Bridger and Fort Hall. Despair would feel like dust and thirst and the baking heat of the closeted space under the wagon, and the deepest, blackest hopelessness would taste like the sulfuric springs and geysers that spat from the scorched earth. It was as close to Hell as any landscape was likely to get, Georgiana thought as they wound between the great rocky cones that rose from the ground. The springs around them ran hot and cold, and billowed steam; the waters were undrinkable, red and yellow and chalky in color, some with the metallic taste of hot blood, some the flavor of yeasty beer gone bad. On all sides, geysers vomited great explosions of stinking water into the sky.
This was the world of her grief.
As they hit the ravaged reaches of the Lava Lands, Matt had them traveling during daylight again. It was too dangerous to traverse the springs in darkness. Once they were back in their tents at night, and not cowering under the wagon through the worst of the day’s heat, Matt no longer slept with them. He stayed close, unrolling his bedding just outside the door of the tent, but he was no longer at her back, one arm heavy across her, anchoring her. Once he’d gone, Georgiana felt like the last tethers keeping her tied to the ground had broken free, and she was adrift, lost in a half-light of grief. She spent the days in a trance, swaying next to Matt in the jolting wagon, holding Susannah’s hand, not speaking. If she could have, she would have slept every moment of the day. Only in sleep was there any relief from the pain. Except when the dreams came . . .
In her dreams, Wilby was still alive. Night after night in her dreams she ran along the riverside, sweating, her heart racing, feeling an overwhelming sense of anxiety. And then Wilby would appear out of the cool emerald grasses, everything would grow quiet and still, and a sense of blessed peace would take her. In her dreams his face was crystal clear: the tiny pearly baby teeth when he smiled, the impish gleam in his blue eyes. The joy she felt at seeing him was overpowering: it was as though the world was a flower and was opening to her, revealing the majesty and mystery of being. She had Wilby. And that was all that mattered.
Then she’d wake up to the oppressive heat of the tent and to the stark horror of reality. She’d feel the crushing grief all over again, as fresh as the first day. It was wearing. But she would take the grief if it meant she could see Wilby again, even if it was only in her dreams.
“Oh, thank God,” Matt sighed late one afternoon as they rattled and shuddered to the end of another wretched day. “We’re almost there.”
“There” was Steamboat Springs.
“Just you wait.” He reached behind Georgiana and ruffled Susannah’s hair. “We’re nearly out of the woods. Boys,” he called, sounding exuberant with relief, “go on and ride ahead until you see a big piece of water! That’s where we’ll be stopping.” The twins whooped and rode off. “Be safe!” Matt yelled after them.
Georgiana noticed numbly that the ground was now spattered with grass. Eventually, they rolled onto a carpet of the stuff. It looked strange after so many miles of the grassless wasteland behind them. Strange and wonderful. There were hills, green hills, not just rocky upcroppings, and trees, real trees. Georgiana had forgotten how pretty trees could be. But prettiest of all was the large spring nestled among the grass and hills and trees.
“See all those bubbles?” Matt asked Susannah, pointing at the churning water. He’d given up trying to speak to Georgiana directly days ago. She knew she should be polite and speak when spoken to, but somehow, she couldn’t. She felt trapped down deep in her own body, unable to do more than just sit here and let the world roll by. Just staying upright and breathing and blinking (and not screaming) was almost more than she could handle.
“You know what those bubbles mean?”
Susannah wrinkled her nose. “That it tastes as bad as the stuff Phin got me to drink?”
Matt laughed. “No, honey. Not this time. This is pure carbonated water. And you know what we’re going
to do with it when we camp for the night?”
Susannah shook her head.
“Make lemonade!”
Georgiana watched them as though from a great distance. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be happy, she realized suddenly. She couldn’t even imagine it. The idea of smiling seemed immensely foreign. As did caring about a trivial thing like lemonade.
Before they’d even camped, there was a great gathering of people at the waterside. There was whooping and laughing and cheering. They were celebrating the end of the Lava Lands. Georgiana watched dully as they fell into an impromptu party, mixing great batches of lemonade (with liquor for those old enough to take it), singing and telling tales of their great journey through the wasteland. Georgiana didn’t feel the slightest stirring of joy as she stared at the spring. She felt like she hadn’t really left the Lava Lands behind, and perhaps she never would. Her world was as barren as it had been before. No cup of lemonade forced into her hand could change that.
She saw Matt’s expression falter when she didn’t drink from the cup. She should feel something. But she didn’t. She drank the lemonade because it was expected of her, but it tasted no better or worse than the sulfur springs of days ago. No one expected her to join the party, and she didn’t. As soon as the tent was pitched, she retired for the night, watching the shadows leap against the canvas and hearing the sound of music and voices from an immense distance, like hearing noises from the shore when you were miles out at sea.
* * *
• • •
THEY STAYED AT Steamboat Springs for a few days. The journeying had been hard and had taken its toll. People lolled by the water or went rambling, discovering smaller springs, some as cold and fresh as a cupful of heaven. Or so they said. Georgiana didn’t go and see for herself.
“How long are we here?” she asked Matt after a couple of days.
He shrugged. He was giving her that look he gave her lately, the one that made her feel like she was a wild animal and he was working out how dangerous she was. Whether he should shoot her or run. “Until I feel everyone’s ready to move on,” he said carefully.
“I’m ready to move on.”
He looked dubious.
“I have to get to my son.”
Now he was giving her that other look he had. The one that was full of sympathy and pity and care and something else—something that looked an awful lot like love. Before Wilby’s death that look would have meant something to her. But not now. Day by day her heart had grown as barren as a desert.
“We’ll go as soon as we can,” he said, his voice tender. The Georgiana from before would have melted to hear that tone in his voice. “Just as soon as the animals have recovered and the people are robust again.”
“I need to get Leo.”
“I know.” His hand moved to touch her, but he hesitated at the last minute and then dropped it helplessly to his side. He frowned for a moment. “Would you take a walk with me?” he asked.
She shook her head. The thought of walking anywhere was too much. She was so tired.
“We need to talk,” he said gently. “About the future.”
What future? She had to get her son. That was the only future there was.
“Come on,” he insisted. She was too weary to even bother resisting. It seemed easier to plod along beside him than to keep protesting. He led her away from the camp, around the edge of the spring, which made disconcerting bubbling noises.
The sound of birds was also disconcerting. There’d been no birdsong since Green River.
“We ain’t far from Fort Hall now,” Matt said gruffly, not looking at her.
Fort Hall. That was one step closer to California. From there, they would turn south, to the goldfields: to Leo.
Georgiana was so preoccupied that she didn’t notice Matt’s growing frustration.
“The trail splits at Fort Hall,” he reminded her.
She nodded. She knew. She was hanging on by a thread just to get to California; she knew all too well what Fort Hall meant.
“Goddamn it,” he said. He stopped walking and ran his hands through his hair as he turned to face the springs. He took a deep breath. “Goddamn it,” he muttered again.
He didn’t look like he was going to move again anytime soon, so Georgiana sat down on a fallen tree. From here she had a clear view over the springs to the campsite. Threads of smoke rose into the hot August sky.
She heard the rasp of Matt’s whiskers against his palms as he rubbed his face.
“Look,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and turning to face her, “I know that you’re in no state to be making decisions right now. I know you near about got the heart ripped out of you. But we’re just about to Fort Hall, and we don’t have any more time.”
She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Goddamn it,” he said again. “The wedding,” he explained. He clearly found it hard to get the words out.
“What wedding?” She still had no idea what he was talking about.
“Our wedding.”
Georgiana stared at him, astonished. What on earth did he mean, our wedding? There wasn’t going to be any wedding. Wilby was dead.
She felt a burn spreading through her. Her hands and feet prickled with heat. Her son was dead, and he was talking about weddings?
“I know getting married is the last thing on your mind,” he sighed, “but I’ve done a lot of thinking on this, and it’s best for everyone if we get this thing done.”
“Best for everyone?” Somehow, he’d broken through her numbness. The world was no longer at a great distance. It came rushing in. “It’s not best for me.”
“I beg to differ,” he said tersely. “You need me.”
“I don’t need anything but my son.” Pain flashed through her at the words. Because the words made her think of Wilby more than of Leo. Oh God, she did need him. And she couldn’t have him. Never, never, never, never again.
Matt blanched.
“I can’t get married. I’m in mourning,” she told him fiercely.
He nodded. “That’s as may be. But things are different out here. We do what we must, and that means we don’t always cater to fine sensibilities.”
“It’s not a sensibility,” she cried. Her composure was cracking. “It’s common decency.”
“Common decency won’t save Leo,” he said grimly. “And I don’t fancy you and those little ones waltzing into Mokelumne Hill and putting yourselves at the mercy of Wendell and his boss. You’ll find yourself pressured into marrying Wendell Todd before you’re even there. Marrying me will mean that ain’t a possibility no more. That’s why you propositioned me in the first place, remember?”
She clenched her jaw. She wasn’t so grief-stricken that she’d lost her reason. His words struck a nerve.
“Georgiana . . . ” His eyes were soft with golden light. Pleading. “You wanted to marry me.”
“That was before.” There was a swelling in her throat. Like she had swallowed an apple whole.
“I know.” He took a step toward her but stopped when she flinched. “I can’t even imagine the pain you’re in right now. If I could stop time right here, right now, I would. I’d give you a season by the springs to feel your hurt. To heal. But I cain’t do that. Time’s marching on, and once we start marching on with it along that trail, we’re going to reach Fort Hall. And at Fort Hall, Joe’s party turns to California, and mine . . . ” He stumbled and had to clear his throat. “And mine . . . doesn’t.”
“I release you from our arrangement,” she said numbly. Was that what he wanted? Was that what this was about?
“I don’t want to be released, goddamn it!” He lost his temper at that and kicked at a tussock of grass.
Exhaustion rolled over Georgiana in a heavy wave. She almost sank back down under the weight of it. “What
do you want?” she asked. She just wanted to go back and curl up in her tent. She wanted the world to go away. She didn’t want to see anything, hear anything or feel anything.
“I want you,” he said helplessly. “I want to help you. I want to get your son back. I want to keep those children of yours safe. I want to sleep next to you at night and not be lying outside your door like a pet dog. I want us to do this together.”
Georgiana let his words roll over her. She could barely take them in.
“Honey,” Matt said, moving toward her and taking her hands. “I know you’re lost right now, but trust me. Please. Let me help you. Trust that you’ll come through this blackness, and I’ll be there. We’ll be there.” His thumbs stroked the backs of her hands. She felt the urge to melt into him, to surrender to him. “I know it won’t be the wedding you deserve. I know it won’t be a happy day, and that ain’t right. But marrying me at Fort Hall is your best option right now. We’ll go with Joe. Seb can lead my party to Oregon City—he’s done the trail plenty of times before, and he’ll be fine. Please, Georgiana, let me come with you to California; let me help you get Leo back safe; let me protect the twins and Susannah. Let me be your husband.”
He was so earnest. Georgiana found herself crying. Once she’d longed for a man to say those words. For him to say those words. He was everything she’d ever dreamed of. So why didn’t she feel anything but sorry for him? Sorry for all of them.
“Ah, honey,” he sighed. He lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed them. “You’re going to have to trust that this will pass. I don’t expect you to act happy or to be wifely. I won’t exercise any marital rights or demand anything from you. And if, when all of this is over, you want to divorce me and kick me all the way home to Oregon, that’s fine too.” He tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Right now all your energy is where it should be, focused on your little ones. And on Leo. I don’t expect any different.”
The feel of his hands on hers was calming. The low murmur of his voice was more calming still. It was like those days spent under the wagon back in the horror of Sublette’s Cutoff, when he soothed her until she could sleep. She’d missed the anchor of his touch. When he touched her like this, murmured to her like this, she could stop holding on so tight. And when she did, the pain eased off a bit.
