But when we turned, I caught sight of Emerson, one foot propped on an overturned crate. The lamplight bronzed his hair; it touched the soft curve of his lips and outlined the strong line of his jaw. I loved the way his suspenders cut into his shoulders; my flesh tingled with the contemplation of how smooth or how rough his cheek might be.
He played the waltz with knowing hands, strong hands—and I wanted him to play me just the same. Even if I could only say such a thing to myself, I did have to admit it.
Then, as if I had stirred him, Emerson raised his head and looked, unerringly, into me. If his fingers lingered longer on the strings, I didn't know—but I felt them. If I had a breath, it slipped from me; trembling on a vibrato note, I closed my eyes against the disappointment of losing his gaze in the next turn.
Rubbing his very smooth cheek against mine, Theo murmured, "You're never going to see me, are you?"
It took me a moment to realize what he'd said, but when I did, I felt it like a dagger. Pierced with guilt, I pulled back. There was no sense in denying it; that would heap insult on injury, neither of which he really deserved. "Theo, it's not..."
"Well," he said, with remarkable civility. "It was good, at least, to hear you call me by my given name this once."
He didn't turn me out on the floor-—I'm not sure he had it in him to be rude, even if he wanted to be. No, he passed me back into Mr. Maguire's arms before he walked away.
Watching him slip outside without incident or commotion, with his back held straight and his head high—it was then I realized he had not lied to me.
Theo de la Croix believed in chivalry with his whole heart, and I had just broken it.
***
Though it meant carrying Louella a long way in the dark, I was glad when the music ceased. My novelty made it difficult to sit out, but my miserable spirit made it just as difficult to dance.
Shuffling outside with Birdie, I saw her eyes turn keen. Subtly, she turned, skimming her gaze across the wagons and buggies that waited for their drivers. I had not the heart to tell her that the rich, red velvet phaeton wouldn't be there; there would be no last-minute offer of a ride home.
"Up," I murmured to Louella, shifting her onto my shoulder. I cut my way through the crowd, thinking that I would point us toward home and Birdie would naturally follow.
"Hey there, Birch," a man said—Carl, from the restaurant. Clammy hands, weak grip, I thought ungenerously; I had danced twice with him, but thank God none of the waltzes.
Emerson stood at his buckboard, his hat pushed far back on his head. He looked quite ready to leave but stayed nonetheless to reply. "Carl?"
Carl ground his cheroot out on his boot, wandering lazily in Emerson's direction. Even in the dark, I made out the shadow of sweat on his shirt, the sheen of it on his skin. "Everybody was real surprised to see you today. Pleased, mind you. Just surprised."
"The barn had to go up," Emerson replied.
Carl laughed, but it wasn't a friendly sound. He clapped Emerson on the back, too hard to be genial. Something percolated there—nothing I could see, but the bitter tang of it spiced the air between them. "That's the spirit. Shame we don't see you in town much."
Thunder rolled, but beneath my feet. Rubbing Louella's back, I turned, as if to find Birdie. But I can admit I was eavesdropping. Birdie made it easy, for she had disappeared.
"Jubilee's a fifteen-minute ride," Emerson said, moving to hitch his buckboard. "I get to West Glory when I can."
Pushing his hat back, Carl shook his head. "We hear rumors, you understand."
"I reckon you do."
When Emerson didn't bow or apologize, Carl pressed. "It's bad enough you're doing all your trading with those upstarts in Jubilee, but Jim Polley said you've got injuns camping your land right now. Who else are you gonna mix with?"
"Pretty much anybody," Emerson said, grabbing the iron rail to step into his buckboard. "As long as I get a fair shake and a fair price, that is. Gibson pays for the furs I bring him."
Something about that set a fire. Swift as a fox, Carl went after Emerson, stepping onto the wagon's sideboard and pointing an accusing finger. "You remember who you're talking to, boy."
"Mr. Birch," I called out.
I don't know what possessed me. None of it was my concern, and I had a babe in my arms. Birdie would be furious if I put her daughter in harm's way because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. But, I reasoned, what could possibly happen in the middle of a crowd, with all the eyes of West Glory around us?
Carl and Emerson both looked to me, and Emerson said, "Miss Stewart?"
Pretending a cheerful ignorance, I walked right up to his buckboard. Throwing a sugar smile in Carl's direction, I gave all my attention to Emerson when I said, "I just wanted to thank you again for that seedling. Louella's having a fine time watering and feeding it."
"Seedling?" Cloying with false sweetness, Carl reached out to pet one of Louella's curls. Uncharitably, I turned before he could.
"That's right. Our future apple tree—the only one on the whole lot."
Emerson glanced to Carl, then back at me. An unfathomable shade darkened his eyes. His voice was pulled thin as taffy, and I felt that thunder again, rolling through the ground. It was a faint tremor, just enough sensation to give me goose bumps. "You've got it in full sun, I hope."
"Oh no," I lied. "Was I supposed to? I didn't realize."
Emerson pressed his tongue into his cheek. "A tree makes its shade; it doesn't grow in it."
Shifting Louella on my hip, I said, "Can I move it, do you think? I don't want to murder the poor thing."
Perhaps realizing that I had a great number of questions for Emerson, Carl cut him an ugly look, then bobbed his head at me. "Beg pardon, Miss Stewart, I've got to go borrow a candle off Mrs. Bader. Pleasure dancing with you."
"Likewise," I said, smiling brightly until he walked off. Then I turned to Emerson, lowering my voice, "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Emerson said. "I can handle Carl Tucker."
I raised a brow. "As can I."
After a skipped beat, when his face smoothed and he peered at me as if I were some vexing creature he couldn't quite place, Emerson finally sat up. Tipping his hat, he said, "I enjoyed the chance to play, thank you."
Confused, I almost asked him if he'd gone a bit funny in the sun. Then I realized he wasn't quite looking at me, and I turned to see my Aunt Birdie almost at my shoulder.
"Good evening, Mr. Birch," Birdie said. She took Louella from my arms, soothing her when she woke with a start. "Thank you for the music tonight; it was lovely."
"Just what your niece came to say," he replied. "Thank you both. Much obliged."
With a tight smile, Birdie stepped back. "Come on, Zora. Time to go."
There would be no arguing with that. Taking the lantern that hung from Birdie's fingers, I followed. The long, odd day weighed my shoulders down; it was a strange, submissive relief to be told what to do.
Then, behind me, Emerson called, "I'll give your regards to Miss Enid, Zora."
Swallowing the sharp tang of subterfuge, I only waved in reply. Could Birdie see through me? Did she know Emerson and I intended to meet again, secretly, on his way back from Enid Station?
"Who's Miss Enid?" Birdie asked—and at the same time, answered my query.
I squeezed the lantern handle tight to steady my hand. Though I should have felt a measure of it, I told her, without shame, "A friend from Watonga; she might need a well."
"Mmm," Birdie said.
And we said nothing more on our long walk home across the nighttime prairie, nothing but a candle and our bravery to keep us.
***
I had found most of my days in Oklahoma Territory exhausting enough to easily invite sleep. Certainly, the barn raising should have left me dozing on my feet.
Instead, I lay in the ponderous dark, trying to make out the shape of the stove, the oil-papered windows, anything at all to look at, to cut the anxious tangle of thoughts in my h
ead.
I thought I'd been very still, lying as I always did, like an Egyptienne: arms folded on my chest, and legs crossed at the ankles. It was the only way we three could sleep, really—the pallet on the floor was only as big as Birdie's widest quilt.
But Birdie nudged me and said, very low, "What's the matter with you? Ants in your britches?"
"I can't sleep."
"Obviously." Slowly, carefully, Birdie lifted the covers so she could roll on her side without displacing them. This little shifting stirred Louella, who sat up just long enough to rattle off a mouthful of nonsense before dropping down to slumber once more.
Birdie waited until Louella's breath evened, then she said to me, "You need to try. It's going to be a long couple of days for you, duck."
Covering my mouth to keep the sound inside, I nonetheless groaned. Four appointments to find water—now appointments I'd have to walk to keep. I'd forgotten about them entirely.
Four appointments, eight dollars. That was half a cow or staples for a month or enough rose-print calico for the three of us to each have a new day dress. Birdie made eight dollars a month with her sewing; in two days, I could improve our circumstances immeasurably.
The weight of that much responsibility pressed my breath away and left me struggling in the dark. My throat hurt, as if it strained to stopper my emotions. Rolling toward Birdie in the dark, I whispered plaintively, "I had to dance with Royal Wakes tonight."
"I know. I'm sorry." She put her hand on my cheek, but it didn't comfort me the way it would have if Mama had done it. Perhaps because she went on to say, "It's hard to keep still when you want to shout, but you're a good girl for going along."
It was misguided comfort, because it crystallized for me so many trembling discontents I'd felt of late. As inspiring as the sky was here, as proud and strong as my Aunt Birdie was, we did a frightening lot of looking away. We worked that patch of garden because it was our freedom but locked the doors tight and held our tongues because we lived on this land alone.
The conflict of our very existence stuck in me like the prick of it pushing ever deeper.
Somehow, looking for a new world, for a life of service, for days of good works, I had instead come to a place where it was usual—it was expected—to ignore sins and grievances and injustices just to get along.
Beautiful land stretched in every direction; here on the plains, I had learned to feel the rhythm of my body, its connection to the waters that flowed through the earth. I had come all this way to discover my own magic, my own weaknesses—my own strength.
And now it was a tide coming in, crashing against rocks, etching permanent scores with every beat. I felt no keening desire to run back to the city and my mother's kitchen. But the plans I'd made in my parlor—newspapers spread, western fantasies filling my head—they had dissolved.
Birdie had been right. I had run away. To a place that existed in thrilling newspaper serials and fantasy and nowhere else; and there, in the real dark of the Territories, with real lives moving around me, depending on me—
I was afraid.
Fourteen
As I filled Aunt Birdie's basin for the morning's water, a beating of hooves caught my attention.
Slipping from beneath the yoke, I came round the front of the house to see Theo and his fine phaeton approaching. The sun burned behind him, a very dark Apollo indeed.
I went to meet him, a coil of shame tightening inside me. He looked not at me but beyond. Even when he spoke, he addressed the soddy or the horizon or the stormy clouds thereon—anything but me.
"You should hurry and get your bonnet. The Polleys are expecting us just after breakfast."
Wrapping my arms around myself, I tried to step closer. But even with my hip at the step, the phaeton rose high above me. I had to tip my head back and speak aloud, instead of offering the confidential murmur I intended. "You don't have to do this; it's far too much to ask—"
"I made a promise to Mrs. Neal," he said, twisting the reins around his hands. "I'm a man of my word."
Rather than argue it, I simply nodded and headed inside. I took my bonnet from the peg on the wall and said, "Mr. de la Croix is here." Suddenly his formal name lay on my tongue like ashes, but I had no right at all to call him Theo, either.
Unaware of my internal distress, Birdie brightened. She shooed Louella outside with a pat on the bottom and took me by the elbow. Instead of hurrying she measured our pace.
"Mrs. Bader is keeping lunch pails for the two of you, so make sure to drive past to fetch those. You'll see the Polleys this morning and the Stricklands this evening. They're keeping you the night, so they'll only pay a dollar fifty. First thing in the morning, you'll see the Johnsons, and then you'll finish up at Edgar Larsen's place."
"Wait, wait—I'm staying over?" I asked, stopping her. "How will I get to the Johnsons'?"
Birdie patted my arm, briefly distracted as she watched Louella try to climb aboard the phaeton. Instead of pulling her up, Theo took her to pet Annabel Lee while he waited. Dragging her gaze back, Birdie blinked, then remembered my question. "Mr. de la Croix will drive you, of course. He'll be staying as well."
Stunned, I stared at her openly. "Have you gone mad?"
"Do pay me some credit, Zora. The Stricklands are an older couple and above reproach. As long as you behave, it's no matter at all."
Perhaps not to her, but my knees softened, as if good bone had suddenly become gelatin. Folding inwardly, I glanced at Theo again, then said, "Shouldn't I take Louella? You won't get very much done with her underfoot."
"I managed before you got here, and I'll manage when you're gone." Then Birdie's tone changed—she grew thoughtful and turned her back to the phaeton, as if we needed to press into an alcove for privacy. "If he asks you to marry him, Zora ... well, I can't make you say yes. But think long and hard, little girl. That is a good, honorable man, and you could do worlds worse."
It wasn't the intimation of a proposal that burned—for I knew after last night, no proposal would come. It was the way Birdie steeled herself to say it; the preciseness of her teeth, biting out each word. That she called me "little girl" instead of "duck," that her green eyes flashed away from mine—
I wanted to gather her up and stroke her hair; I wanted to plot with her and remind her she wasn't old, that all wasn't lost. I wanted to matchmake and grant wishes—if I could have, I would have given her my place.
But I could do none of that; all the magic I knew in the world lay dead or beneath the prairie and could do nothing to change the path of destiny. So instead, I pressed my brow against her temple and said, "I'll think on it, I swear."
The moment hung like a soap bubble, then burst. Birdie whipped around, all efficiency again. Striding away from me, she greeted Theo and swept Louella into her arms. Whatever words they exchanged were pleasant enough, for she smiled, and so did he.
I ruined it all by walking toward them, to take Theo's hand and a seat beside him in the phaeton.
The dawn of two long days had begun.
***
"Do you know what I've missed since coming here? Books. I do miss reading, don't you?"
Clutching at the hem of my apron, I offered the only thing I could think of, to begin a conversation. Though dawn crept over the prairie in a glorious blaze of crimson light, and the clouds stacked so high as to resemble mountains, the dry silence in the phaeton dulled it all.
Theo didn't answer straightaway, but he did answer. It would have been rude not to. "I brought several, actually."
With no small hint of desperation, I seized on that. "Did you? Which ones?"
"The Phantom 'Rickshaw," he said. A muscle ticked in his exquisite jaw, as if it took monumental effort to speak at all. "The Wanderings of Oisin."
"I was reading A Study in Scarlet before I came-—"
Theo cut me off. "I don't care for mysteries."
All right, then. Winding back to his books, I said, "Kipling's very good, though."
"I like
him well enough."
Having this terrible, stilted exchange with him only reminded me of how good he was at conversation when he wished to be. With a sigh, I folded and unfolded the edge of my apron and gazed at the lands spread before me.
There were flashes of jackrabbits, and an occasional butterfly, but mainly grass. Shades of green and of gold, tall and short, swaying in the wind, stretching to infinity. It felt like desolation, a world pulled away from my edges.
"Could I say something?" I asked suddenly.
At that, Theo did look at me. Smooth as granite, impassive as Roman marble, he said—not unkindly-—"I do wish you wouldn't. I've never seen the fascination with dwelling on unpleasantries."
My lips curved to say "But I met you in a graveyard!" but I forbade them. He had a right to his sore feelings, and I had no particular right to enjoy the drives to homesteads unknown. No one had what they wanted, and in a perverse way, that seemed fair.
To make the miles pass, and to keep myself from turning too inward, from thinking too hard on the past or my situation, I cast my gaze across the waving fields and reached for the water that fanned out beneath the crust.
Faint shimmers danced like sprites; a stream in the distance was a silver ribbon lacing the land and the sky. I caught my breath when a wide river opened up, so vivid I thought we would splash through it. The clear, sweet taste of it filled the air, the cool kiss of its mist settled on my skin. Perhaps it was imaginary, but it was vivid all the same.
I wondered if Amelia had ever toyed with her sight this way; if it felt native to her, like a coil of her own hair or the particular tilt of her eyes. As I let the magic drain away, back into me, or to its ephemeral place in the earth, I sighed.
Most likely she hadn't—I urged her, I delighted in her gift and made a show of it—I'd been quite comfortable in her magic, but had she? I'd never asked. And now I never could.
The phaeton stopped with a jolt. It shook me out of my thoughts, and I looked around, a bit confused. I had lost some time in my reverie, it seemed, for we had come out of the desolation to a little farm sprung up in the middle of the wild.
The Springsweet Page 13
