But then, as I pressed a hand to my brow, I caught sight of motion. Silhouettes. Some went on horses, and some on foot. I could see nothing but their shapes on the horizon; I heard only the sweet lullaby that marked their progress.
The childish part of me wondered if they might be fairies, parading in Avalon and visible only because I had lain in the dew beneath the new moon.
Or perhaps they were a ghostly burial procession, which Buffalo Bill's articles had often invoked. I was too far west for it to be Mr. Lincoln's spectral train, but the possibility chilled me nonetheless.
Gathering the yoke and buckets, I backed toward the soddy. The wind changed, and the music drifted away. The notes reverberated within me, but the night seemed strangely alive. Tall grasses caught my wrists; the sullen night birds called out my name.
Then a golden thread of light streaked toward me, and I turned to see Aunt Birdie at the edge of the garden. She held the tin lantern aloft in one hand and her shotgun in the other. Softly, she said, "Zora?"
I hurried to her side and put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. "Here I am."
"Do you hear that?" she asked, her voice still low.
And I nodded, for when the wind shifted once more, it brought back the unfamiliar song. But because Birdie whispered, so did I. Pointing toward the horizon, I said, "I saw them, just over there. Do you think it's a haunting?"
"No, I think it's the Arapaho."
I peered into the dark, as if I might see the travelers better now that I knew I looked for men and women instead of shades and fairies. But it seemed they had already passed beyond my sight. If I closed my eyes, I could hear their song, but I couldn't swear that it wasn't my own imagination.
Handing me the lantern, Birdie tried to hide the furrow of her brow, smoothing it with her fingertips. But her unease was evident, drawing her voice and her breath taut. "Don't you mention this when you go calling."
Baffled, I asked, "Why?"
"To keep the peace with our neighbors. Petty agreed to wire off our plot, but he never did." Birdie nudged me into the house, casting a look over her shoulder. "We never intended to; didn't see the harm in letting people come and go."
I watched as she put the bolt in the door then hung the shotgun above it. "But you do now?"
"No, ma'am," Birdie said, and turned to me. "But we're three women out here alone. I'd rather not give the town fools and Indian haters something to stew about if we can help it."
Leaning into her, all I could say was "Oh."
Birdie seemed very like a shade of herself as she took the seat by the stove, reaching for the marrow bones to pick clean.
She spared me no other glance, but murmured, "Go on to bed, Zora. It's been a long day."
I did lie down beside Louella, and I closed my eyes in truth. But after that, no sleep would come.
***
The morning came quiet and passed without incident. Though sometimes it seemed all chaos, life on Birdie's homestead had developed a kind of rhythm to it. Water, then breakfast, then chores. Water, then lunch, then chores. Water, then nap for Louella, and that's when I made my escape.
"I'll hurry," I told Birdie, tying on her apron.
And that wasn't a lie—once I was out of sight of the soddy, I all but ran. Two miles wouldn't take so long without a babe in tow, but it was still a ways, and I was unsure of the time. I had no watch, and I wished belatedly that I'd paid better attention to Miss Burnside's lessons on the Greeks. Surely, our newly tall cornstalks would make for brilliant sundials, if only I knew how to interpret their shadows.
Prairie chickens lowed when I hurried through their territory, and my heart picked up. Blessedly, nothing flew at me-—I suspected that my singular luck the first time could not be repeated, and I didn't care to be pecked to death. The sun beat down, through my bonnet, through the thin cotton on my shoulders. But it was a pleasant heat, sweetened by green grass and the pungent tease of wild garlic in the air. And then I scented not water but earth. The rich, sweet scent of it newly turned over.
The gold and green of the prairie gave way to lush green. It was like someone had touched a finger to the plains and drawn a meandering line, painting it with brighter colors than the rest of the world. Cattails rose up, their heads still smooth and immature but bowing toward the water that fed them.
My mouth stung with anticipation, a heady sensation of appetite that had nothing at all to do with knives and spoons. Parting the bladed grasses, I revealed the banks of the creek.
Frogs peeped sweetly, and I ducked when a dragonfly streaked past. It was big as a hummingbird, I thought, rather larger than his delicate, blue-winged cousins that visited Mama's garden.
Following the bank, I savored each step, each breath. After filling myself with the dry, roasted land for so long, drinking in water-washed air made me giddy. I wanted to pull off my shoes and go splashing; I wanted to lie in the shallows and let the current comb my hair.
The creek widened at a bend, and I stopped short. Epona grazed nearby, barely lifting her head to consider me. Nearby, the remains of a simple lunch warmed in the sun—a half-eaten apple, a crust of bread.
And there, on a bed of flattened reeds, Emerson napped in the sunlight. He'd covered his face with his battered hat and tucked his arms behind his head as a pillow.
He was a scandalous vision. His toes twitched as he dreamt. He'd rolled his sleeves up and unbuttoned his shirt a bit, baring bronzed skin. His suspenders, pulled off his shoulders, pooled at his waist. It was like I'd stumbled into his bedroom before he'd dressed.
And I had slept in his bed, wrapped in rough linens that smelled of his skin—it was too vivid to bear. Unrefined desires stirred in me, raw, luscious wanting that led somewhere I didn't entirely grasp.
Leaning down, I dipped my fingers in the creek and flicked water at his feet.
"I heard you coming," Emerson said from beneath his hat.
I laughed, a sudden sound that startled me; I was silly and ridiculous. "But you decided to greet me half-naked all the same. Your manners are atrocious, Mr. Birch."
"So I hear. Mostly from you."
Rising on his elbows, Emerson pushed his hat back to bare his face. And something about it moved me so-—perhaps how soft he looked, just out of sleep.
How dark his lashes were. His smooth brow and strong jaw complemented the pretty delicacy of his mouth, and I was ... staring at that mouth.
I looked away, as if I had to break the connection before I could look at him again in a more seemly way. And I came over to sit near him, but not too near. Recovered, I hoped, I said, "Then you must perversely enjoy my correction, or why would you be here?"
Emerson studied my face, his own half-smile growing. "Guess I hate thinking about you wandering around with nobody to snip at."
"So you admit you think about me," I teased.
But he caught me in a trap of my own devising. Reaching out, he curled a knuckle and smoothed it down my arm, and wavered not at all when he replied, "More than I meant to."
Twelve
A shock of infatuation caught me by surprise.
At least, I wanted it to be a surprise; I wished I could claim innocence. But in truth, I was a liar—and my own dupe. I hadn't found myself here by accident; I was no naïf led astray by wolfish intentions I didn't understand.
I chose it. I walked here with head up and eyes forward. And now, admitting that, I both ached and rebelled. What would Thomas think? I wondered, and then I realized-—he would think nothing at all. If he could, I'd be in Annapolis, a newlywed, a doctor's wife.
Instead, I sat in new, green grass and reached up to catch Emerson's hand. Hooking my fingers around his, I said, "Aren't you forward?" But it came out wrong; my voice faint like powder and unlike myself entirely.
Emerson frowned, sitting up the rest of the way. "What's the matter?"
"Don't read my mind," I joked weakly, trying to soothe myself to composure. "It's rude, and you already have any number of marks again
st you."
Then, proving he couldn't read my mind at all, he asked, "You mooning over that dandy?"
He sounded so petulant, so very cross, that my contemplative state broke and fell away. Thomas would never have spoken so plainly—and Emerson Birch would. He was a different man entirely, a new possibility grown from the ashes of the last.
Sprawling onto the grass, I gazed into the bright blue sky and said, "No, but my aunt's trying to make me court him all the same."
"I could call," he said.
I rolled toward him and said, "You'd get shot."
"What does she load with? I'd survive birdshot."
My chest tightened, and I squeezed my hand. "Don't joke about it. There once was a boy I loved very much, and he's gone now—it's not funny at all."
Emerson wasn't refined like Theo; he didn't speak smoothly or eloquently, but he was keen in a way Theo couldn't hope to be. Stretching out on his side, Emerson repeated one of the first things I'd told him. "You don't handle arms."
A seam closed within me—I cannot say it was healed. But it was mended well enough, a truth said and recognized, honor paid the past, and so I nodded. Then I changed the subject, because the last one was finished.
"Tell me why Birdie can't bear the sight of you."
"You're a real romantic," Emerson complained. Dropping onto his back, he covered his face with his hat again.
Stealing his hat, I fanned my face with it lazily. "You're a stranger to me, Mr. Birch."
"I told you, call me Emerson."
I made a face at him. "I hope you didn't expect me to compromise myself just because I like looking at you, Emerson."
"Well, not right away, Zora."
"I think you should tell me who you are," I said. I brushed the brim of his hat against my lips and shivered. The felt was creamy soft, and warm—it felt like the promise of a kiss. "And I'll tell you who I am. Then we can both be sure we're a risk we care to take."
Swift and deliberate, Emerson reclaimed his hat and sat up. But instead of declaring me a pain, or simply riding away to simpler pleasures, he dug a handful of soil from the creek side, then reached for his unfinished apple.
He held my gaze as he bit into it, then tossed it aside. Producing a single seed from his mouth, he pressed it into the pile in his hand and said, "This is who I am."
And he called out—not to me, to the earth. To the grasses and wildflowers and rushes all around us. To land already waking—I felt it all shiver around me. I expected the cattails to come to life, to weave around me in a cloak, and wild roses to grow a briar crown for me to wear.
They didn't. But the seed in Emerson's hand sprouted before my eyes. Fragile tendrils unfurled, first green and new, then thickening into reddish stems and fledgling leaves as they rose toward the sun. A seed became a sapling, the promise of an apple tree to come.
"Give me your hand," he said, and carefully slid the burgeoning tree into my palm. Then he raised his gaze to mine again, and he said pointedly, "It'll need watering."
Full of wonder, I stroked the newborn leaves with my fingertips. "Extraordinary. A miracle, even."
Emerson stroked his thumb against mine, and I think he meant to say something.
But I interrupted, gentle with him because I suspected he was raw and new as this apple tree in my hand. "But I want to know you. Your thoughts and your philosophies, your flaws and your scars. You make my blood run again, and don't be mistaken—I'm going to be very sorry when you leave today and I haven't kissed you. But you must be more than novelty."
Silent for a long moment, Emerson seemed weighed with thought, some struggle on his brow. Inside, I wavered, because I had spoken my heart plainly—I did want his hands on my face, his lips tenderly on mine. But I couldn't bear to fall for him only to discover later that the magic was all we had.
Finally, Emerson let go of my hand, and I admit, I despaired. But he pushed his hat back on his head and stood, offering a hand to me. I took it, and he pulled me rather more close than he should have, but I forgave him that when he said, "Very, very sorry?"
I pushed him away with my shoulder, swallowing my laughter. "You awful thing."
"Come back Wednesday," he replied.
And for the first time in a year, I had a reason to count the days again.
***
Come morning, Birdie flitted as much as one could flit in a soddy. She hummed as she dressed Louella, laughing when the buttonholer slipped, instead of cursing it like she usually did.
"Just fry some of those eggs," Birdie told me. "There will be biscuits and coffee when we get there, I imagine, and we'll spend the rest of the day sewing or cooking. Nobody's going hungry today."
I nodded, cutting off the tiniest slice of salt pork to grease the pan. Birdie's excitement seeded the atmosphere, and I couldn't help but share it. I had heard of a barn raising but never seen one. I understood it was half frolic, half Herculean feat—a great deal more would happen than just the building of a barn.
The men would raise the walls, hopefully by nightfall, with boys running their errands. We women would cook and can and, most importantly, trade information. No doubt there would be news from back east, as well as clever recipes and tricks we'd learned on our homesteads.
And what made me tremble was knowing it would be West Glory's first chance to hire me as their springsweet. The notices had been up long enough to draw interest. We'd know by sundown if anyone thought my gifts might be worth two dollars a scry.
Straightening, Birdie gave Louella a little push. "Take your apron and go pick me four green tomatoes, the biggest you can find." Then to me, Birdie said, "If we slice them thin and fry them, we should have a respectable enough dish to offer."
"I'm sure it will be fine." I nodded, taking an egg and cracking it swiftly. I started to reassure her that they couldn't expect more than what we had to offer, but instead I screamed.
A fleshy, bloody mess quivered in my pan. It was an awful thing, contorted and foul smelling, and I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Far more sensible than I, Birdie plucked the pan up and emptied the mess directly into the fire. She said without accusation, "I take it you didn't candle those eggs."
"I brought them in fresh last night!" I pointed to the rest lying in the bowl and looking like innocents when plainly, horrifying monsters lurked within. "How could they have turned already?"
Birdie glanced at the heavens, perhaps begging strength. "They're fertilized. I'd say by the look of them, they would have been chicks in another two weeks."
Opening the front door, I fanned myself with it, but my stomach roiled again and again. Honestly, I wanted to compose myself. I wanted very much to smooth myself over, but no amount of reasoning within soothed me. Reason could hardly contend with the grip of raw, base horror.
With no time for my dramatics, Birdie plucked up the bowl of eggs and shoved them into my hands. "I suggest you go dispose of these."
I thrust them away from my body, holding them at arm's length. I'm sure my panic came through quite clearly when I asked, "How?"
"Put them in the compost," Birdie said, pouring salt in the frying pan to scrub it clean. She moved so efficiently that what she said next sounded reasonable on first consideration. "Break them up with a stick so they don't explode."
But only nearly.
"Explode?!"
"Zora!" Birdie put the pan down hard. "Quit being a hysterical ninny. We still need breakfast, and we've got a long walk ahead of us."
How ashamed I was at that moment. I kept my tongue and slipped outside, still carrying the bowl as far from me as I could manage.
Of all the things to set me to screaming like a child, it had been nothing reasonable. No, I could endure any number of trials-—whole weeks' worth of meager meals, dirt floors and robberies, forced courtship and apparent abandonment—but I had been reduced to terror by bad eggs.
***
I let Birdie and Louella walk ahead of me, which was some feat considering how sho
rt Louella's legs were. Perhaps I thought to indulge in sullenness, and to be fair, I kept quiet for the whole of the walk. But once I caught sight of the barn raising, I couldn't bear to sulk anymore.
By my estimation, the Baders were doing quite well. Their house was made of gleaming new lumber, the windows glass, and the door fitted with a screen to let air through during the day. Fencing marked off part of their plot, protecting several cows and four spindly calves.
I noted a chicken coop, and a hog run, a pony cart, and a plow. They had tamed the prairie for a mile at least, a wheat field still green and tender stretching toward a copse of trees in the distance. That land was especially green, no doubt lining the creek that snaked through their property and ours.
But that wasn't their only water. They boasted a new metal pump beside the house—drawing water from the depths, no doubt it rose pure and clean and clear. They had claimed a very lucky piece of land in the run, indeed. Plenty of water, plenty of good earth.
Now I understood why Birdie had fretted about slicing our green tomatoes thin. In Maryland or Oklahoma, we all did our best to keep up appearances, but how could we seem anything but poor neighbors compared to all this?
"All right, we're here," Birdie said. "Knock that puss off your face."
It seemed she and Mama both possessed a preternatural sense of all things occurring behind them at all times. Once, when I was very small, I had stuck out my tongue at the back of Mama's head, and she promptly sent me to stand in the corner.
Since I could only imagine what sort of punishment Birdie might visit on me for the same, I put on a smile as we walked into the cloud of West Glory women spread across the lawn.
"Birdie, look at you," a ginger-haired woman said, already opening her arms to pull her in. "And look at those tomatoes. They came in early! What's your secret?"
"Prayer," Birdie replied. Then she directed the woman toward me. "Caroline, this is my niece Zora. Zora, this is Caroline Edwards. She's the one who keeps me in laces and crinolines to stitch."
I offered my hand. "It's good to meet you, Mrs. Edwards."
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